“Then not a night” He dropped down beside her, his knees making no impact with the floor. “An hour. An hour only and I can convince you.”
“No, not a night not an hour.” The miniature marshmallows were missing. “Not ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes would not be worth the effort. I have no interest in a quick and frenzied pawing.”
That drew Claire’s attention away from the imp trap. She turned to face the ghost, both brows lifted almost to her hairline.
“D’accord. I will take a quick and frenzied pawing if it is all I can get. But to be truly intimate with a woman requires a little more time. Give me that time, cherie, and you will be like plaster in my hands.”
“Putty.”
“Pardon?”
Even though she knew he’d take it the wrong way, Claire couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “Like putty in your hands.”
“Oui. Putty.” His accent softened the word, made it malleable. He leaned close again. “Are you afraid that if we become lovers, it will hold you here?”
“What will hold me here?”
“Passion. Pleasure. Complete…” The pause lingered on the edge of being too long, preparing the way for the presentation of each separate syllable. “…satisfaction.”
Claire blinked.
“Just give me a chance, cherie.”
“A chance to do what?”
Feeling as though she’d been caught by her father in a clinch on the rec-room couch, hoping her ears weren’t as red as they felt, Claire straightened and noticed for the first time that Jacques floated high enough off the floor so that he looked Dean—who was a good four inches taller—directly in the eye. “He wants me to give him flesh.”
Dean shrugged. “If it’ll help, there’s a leftover pork chop in the fridge.”
“Not that kind of flesh!” The ghost looked appalled.
“Beef? Chicken? Fish?”
The suggestions emerged too close together for Jacques to reply, but with each he grew more and more indignant.
“Sausage?”
His image began to flicker. “Mon Dieu! Are you so irritating on purpose?”
“Difficult to be that irritating by accident,” Claire murmured. The ridiculous list had banished embarrassment. Suddenly realizing that might have been his intent, she took a closer look at Dean and found his expression of solid helpfulness offset by a distinct twinkle behind the glasses.
“I thought you might want to know that Austin’s outside,” he said. “I opened the back door for him about five minutes ago.”
“Any response from Baby?”
“Not yet”
“So you thought she wanted to know, and now she is told.” Folding his arms, Jacques regained control of his definition. “You may go now, Anglais. The Keeper and I, we have a private conversation.”
“About giving you flesh?”
A finger, fully opaque in the artificial light of the lobby, jabbed at the air inches from Dean’s chest. “Do not start that again!”
Dean ignored him. When he turned to Claire, the twinkle was gone. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
“And why wouldn’t she?” Jacques asked matter-of-factly. “She is young, she is healthy, she has needs.”
“Jacques!” Her elbow went right through him.
“I only say that since there is no one else, I am here.” He turned on Dean, who was shaking his head. “What?”
“You’re dead!”
“And you cannot stand the thought of a dead man achieving that which you…”
This time Claire protested with power.
“OW!” Pulling himself together, the ghost turned to face her. “I have to say, cherie, I am not at this moment thrilled by your touch. Obviously, the mood has been broken. I will leave you now but, you have my word as a Labaet, I will keep my part of the bargain until we have a chance to speak again.”
“What did he mean,” Dean asked as Jacques vanished, “about keeping his part of the bargain?”
Claire shrugged, running her thumb along the edge of the counter. “Who knows what he thinks.”
A LIE! A LIE!
A PREVARICATION. WE CAN’T USE IT. SAYS WHO? THE RULES. DAMN THE RULES.
Heated air, redolent of sulfur and brimstone, gusted up into the furnace room. DON’T THINK WE HAVEN’T TRIED.
Before Dean could answer, Claire lifted her head and actually noticed what he was wearing. “Are you going out?”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded, leather football jacket. “Yeah. I meet some friends from back home every Saturday night.” He hesitated, then continued in a rush. “Do you want to come, then?”
For a moment, she thought it might be nice to spend an uncomplicated evening with Dean and his friends, going to another pub, listening to music, with Dean and his very young friends, in another dark, smoky, crowded, overpriced pub, listening to over-loud music not being sung by a vampire. “Thanks for asking, but no thanks.”
“My friends wouldn’t mind.”
A LIE!
IN KINDNESS.
BUT…
OH, GIVE IT UP.
Claire hid a smile. “It’s okay. I’ve got things to take care of.”
“I, uh, heard Ms. Moore’s van leave.”
He was far too nice to look as relieved by her refusal as she knew he felt. “It’s her last night at the pub.”
“The stalker?”
“I think he got scared off.”
He thought, as she’d intended him to, that she meant he’d been scared off when he’d been chased away from the vans. “Will you be okay alone?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“And what on earth do you think you could do if I wasn’t?” remained mostly silent.
Should I have insisted? Dean asked himself as he paused halfway down the front stairs to let his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. From what he understood of Claire’s life, it had to be a lonely existence, constantly on the move with few opportunities to make real friends.
A sudden vision of Claire sitting at the Portsmouth with the guys and Kathy, listening to them swap stupid mainlander stories, picking up her round of beer in turn, stopped him from going back into the lobby. They wouldn’t be rude. In fact, they’d be glad to see another woman in the group, but she wouldn’t fit in.
And she wouldn’t try to, he admitted. Maybe you
