As the cliff path leveled out she could just about make out the next village along the coast. Abernathy, was it? She seemed to recall that Abernathy was the neighboring village, from the signposts and her maps. It was a fair walk, but it would be possible to get there and back on foot. As she thought about it, she felt that tug at her back again, the same as she had when she’d gone to Dundee.
Twenty-four hours she’d been there, and she’d been drawn into the village and the forces at play in the cottage. The sure and sensible knowledge that she could simply get in her car and drive off leveled her. Deep down, she didn’t want to go. Go home to what? After last night’s sexy escapade with the biker-prof—not to mention today’s encounter with Crawford—the thought of walking away seemed ludicrous. She’d had more hot sex in two days than she’d had in the last twelve months. That was some m
ajor reason to stay, she had to admit. The men here might be delusional when it came to the subject of witches and magic, but they were damn good in the sex department. Perhaps she had yearned for this kind of an adventure, this little bit of sexy…magic, in her life.
She smiled as she thought about how much her mother would have loved this place. She’d be right there in the thick of it, with her crystals and her tarot cards. Zoë pictured her mother drinking cheap white wine while dancing barefoot by candlelight. She’d thought about her a lot since she’d got to Carbrey, and she knew that if her mother were here, she’d be communing with nature and trying to work out what was going on with the ghostly witch in the haunted house.
Ironically, that notion made Zoë feel closer to her mother than she had in a long, long time, and that realization took the stuffing right out of her. Slumping down onto the grass like a rag doll, she sat cross-legged and rested her head in her hands, her thoughts and instincts coming unraveled as long-buried emotions surfaced. Gina kept telling her she wasn’t facing up to it, wasn’t dealing with it, and she was right. It was hard. She resented the way their mother had died, crushed to death in her little Mini Cooper. No pagan hippie beliefs had helped her with that.
Absentmindedly plucking at tufts of grass, she let her mind wander back to happier times. Her mother had read every book on the subject of ghosts that she could get her hands on, and her life ambition had been to see a damn ghost. When Gina and Zoë were growing up, their mother used to book them into famous ghost haunts. Hotels, inns, B&Bs, all in the hope of seeing a ghost. Zoë recalled one particular trip to Cornwall when she was eleven years old. She’d lain awake half the night listening to the rustling sounds in the thatched roof above them, dreading the thought of the legendary ghost appearing, while Gina slept soundly and her mother snored the night away.
None of them had seen a ghost during their stay, but her mother had enjoyed the prospect of it. Their mother had always been ready to leap into the fray of some mystic cause. Whether it was helping out a Romany gypsy encampment, or volunteering to dig on some archeological site that had unearthed a medieval spoon—but couldn’t get a grant to dig for more artifacts—she’d be the first to get involved. Her mother had loved that sort of thing, and she would have loved this.
Am I being too dismissive about this? Should I be enjoying it more, too? She sighed, because Grayson had touched on this very subject that morning, but he hadn’t understood the real reason why his comments would get to her. She couldn’t push this away because other people believed in it, even if she didn’t. Knowing that her mom would have loved Carbrey and its curious inhabitants meant that she couldn’t dismiss it. One way or the other, she was being inexorably drawn into the mystery, into the hotbed of village politics, rivalry and folklore.
She took a deep breath, feeling more together than she had all day. Standing up, she also felt empowered. Stretching, she glanced back along the path toward Carbrey. She could see the rooftops of the houses nestled in the place where the cliffs dropped down into the harbor. And there, walking toward her, was Grayson Murdoch.
He strode easily along the cliff path, his hair so distinctive and his posture easily self-assured. The leather biker jacket he wore only emphasized his stature. His eyes were fixed intently on her and every part of her body quickened in response to the sight of him. I want him.
Guilt roved over her again as she thought about what she’d done with Crawford. She pushed it away, wishing it away. Walking slowly at first, she set out to meet him halfway, her pulse racing ever faster as they closed on one another.
The wind had lifted and she realized her face was wet, from rain or sea spray she wasn’t quite sure. She could taste salt on her lips and she smelt the sharp, fresh ozone in the atmosphere. She felt alive, truly alive, and the surroundings intoxicated her. Gulls soared in the sky overhead and her hair whipped up around her. They met where the cliff path was at its steepest, on the way back down into the village. They paused some three feet apart, cautiously greeting one another.
His expression was serious, and his gray-green eyes were searching her expression. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried about you.”
“It’s been a weird day, but I’m all right, thanks.” Why did she feel like an awkward teenager? Because she had to back down from the stand she had taken that morning?
“I’m sorry I was so pushy,” he said.
“I’m sorry I was so negative.” She smiled. “I shouldn’t have been that dismissive. After you left, I, um…I saw her.”
He stared at her, and then his eyebrows lifted, imperceptibly. “You saw her, the ghost?”
“Yes, I did. Well, it was a reflection in a mirror, but I’m pretty sure it was what you’d call a ghost.”
He nodded. It was understated. She was expecting him to be excited, eager to ask her for more details and get out his notebook and pen. He seemed unsurprised. Was he expecting that?
“I’ve been thinking,” she went on, “I’m not quite sure why, so don’t ask me to explain it, but I think I would like to help you with your research while I’m here.” Pushing her hands into her pockets, she shrugged. “Maybe it’s because I saw her,” she added.
Maybe it’s because I want to hang out with you, biker-prof.
There was a powerful physical attraction between them, and there was something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
He was like no other man she had met. Is that what doing research into witchcraft did to you? Did it make you a bit alternative, a bit of a law unto yourself? More to the point, wouldn’t it be fun to find out?
“Are you sure you want to commit to this?” He closed the space between them and put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing her gently.
A sense of security washed over her.
Then, moving closer still, until she was right up against him, she slipped one hand around the back of his neck. “Will it mean being involved, together, the way we were last night?”
His expression warmed. “It would probably be helpful.”
Her body was throbbing with longing. She wanted to be against him, naked, to feel his hard body pressed against hers, to have him take her, over and over.
“Our ghostly friend did seem to respond to the mood,” he added, and his eyes were growing dark as he considered her. With his hands moving in around her waist, he held her close against him.
Nodding, she smiled. She could feel his growing erection. The draw between them heightened with every passing moment. “I’d like to know more about Annabel,” she said.