|Haunting Melody St Claire|
Ghosts were the least of my worries...
Hey, all. Welcome to the party! My name is Melody St. Claire, and I'm the new resident of a haunted house. I know what you're thinking. Ghosts aren't real. The spooks are all in our heads, but I'm telling you something strange is going on.
The front door slams shut. My lights blow out. And the old record player will come on at the strangest times. Then there was that slow dance to Conway Twitty. I could almost hear him speak while he swayed us back and forth.
Am I going crazy or is Travis Santiago real? What do you think I should do?
Melody St. Claire doesn't believe in ghosts. Until a fire destroys her whole world, forcing her into a beautiful haunted house and the territorial domain of one very real, incredibly mysterious resident spirit.
Sexy Travis Santiago haunts the walls of his family home. Resigned to being alone, he merely exists in a place between the living and the dead until the frustrating little brunette enters his life and his heart. He can give her what she needs, if she would just believe.
The passion he ignites threatens to consume her, heart and soul, but may not be enough to hold back the nightmares. And Melody can't possibly hope to spend forever with a man who is already dead.
A Romantica® paranormal erotic romance from Ellora's Cave
Melody climbed the stairs. When she reached the landing she turned her attention to the first step. No answering creak followed. Did that mean he wasn't coming with her?
Her fingers trailed up the banister and she ran all the options through her mind. "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my computer the most." She muttered the altered quote under her breath. Without the internet at her fingertips, she would have to do things a little old-school. Kassa had mentioned some photos and papers in the attic. Maybe there was something about Travis up there. The access panel was easy to spot and she dragged down the ancient ladder.
You danced with a ghost. This is nothing. Strangely enough, that thought actually calmed her while she climbed.
Dust swirled in the shards of light peeking through the attic windows. It was far roomier and cleaner than she'd imagined. She expected spiders and rats, not neat and orderly boxes and trunks. A pile of books, papers and photos caught her attention. It nestled on a window seat among a bank of well-worn pillows. Excitement and frustration made her nervous, but the idea of finding out about his ghost was too alluring to pass up. He could be a murderer for all she knew. She chuckled and put a halt to that train of thought before her imagination went wild.
Melody sat on the cushion and sorted through some of the photos. They didn't seem organized in any way. Faces she didn't recognize and places she'd never been. She grabbed a small pile and put it in her lap. The morning passed while she read articles and sifted through photos. Nothing popped out at her until she reached the bottom. Her attention snagged on an image of Travis wearing only jeans and nothing else. The expression on his face was semi-amused, but you could tell by the disheveled hair and sleepy grin he'd just rolled out of bed. Her stomach flipped. She tugged gently on her locket, drawing it back and forth along the chain. He seemed so...alive. She cleared the seat and stretched out. How did he die?
There was a folded newspaper article in the last stack of papers. It was yellow with age and smudged from being handled often. She held her breath in anticipation. She knew this was important and opened the clipping with trembling fingers. The unsmiling face of Travis Santiago caught her attention. So did the headline. Local Man Killed by Drunk Driver. The grainy image below was difficult to make out, but it was obviously a serious wreck. She read the date. January 17, 1983.
"Find anything interesting?"
Melody cried out. She jerked to her feet, scattering pictures and papers across the floor. Her heart pounded with something very close to terror. "Dammit, you frightened me!" She looked up and was captivated by a pair of pale-blue eyes. Her gaze traveled down across broad shoulders beneath a tight t-shirt. The stark white material was tucked into a pair of snug-fitting jeans that emphasized powerful thighs from a walking wet dream. Shock and some good old female appreciation registered. It was as though he'd walked straight out of the picture. "I can see you."
His slow smile was devastating. "I noticed."
She couldn't seem to make her mind work enough to form words.
"If you're looking for porn, I keep it in that trunk over there." He pointed to a spot behind her. She flushed in embarrassment and laughed to cover her nervousness.
Emotion flickered in the depths of his eyes. He knelt down and surveyed the scattered pile. Even in death, this man could fill out a pair of jeans. He was sin on a stick. His attention caught on the article she'd been reading. A strange sense of voyeuristic guilt built inside her and she nibbled on her lower lip.
"I had just had that car painted too." He grew quiet and the heat surrounding him seeped away. Sunlight bathed his skin and kissed his brown hair. Her fingers itched to touch him.
"You died in a car wreck over thirty years ago. Why are you still here?"
"Because I have to be." He looked up at her, and she was caught by an emotion she couldn't name.
"That's a long time to be alone." She flicked the corner of the article with her finger.
"It would be, but I'm not alone."
"I don't see anyone else."
"I have Kassa." He grinned. "And now I have you."
Something about the way he said the words put her off. "How is it that I can see you now?"
He shrugged. "You accepted it."
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