Part 27 (2/2)

”And you're a ghost.” Dean wanted to be absolutely clear on that. Every community back home had at least one story of a local haunting, ghost husbands, ghost stags, ghost s.h.i.+ps, and if this annoying little man was the real thing, then the old stories could be real as well and there were a significant number of apologies owed. He'd have to make some phone calls when the rates went down.

”Oui. A ghost.” Jacques favored the younger, living man with a long, hard stare, then deliberately turned away from him. ”First, I haunt the room I die in. That was not so bad although, I tell you, this place is not so popular with the living. When that Augustus Smythe, that espece de mangeur de merde, he moves everything up to the attic, I must go as well and I am haunting this place ever since.”

”As a ghost.”

”Does he have to keep repeating?” Jacques demanded of Claire. Before she could answer, he spun around to face Dean. ”Would you feel better if I disappear? All of me?” He faded out. ”Bits of me?” His head reappeared.

”You've been dead seventy-two years,” Dean reminded him disdainfully. If the ghost had thought to frighten him with all the appearing and disappearing, he hadn't succeeded. The whole performance too closely resembled the Ches.h.i.+re cat in the Disney version of Alice in Wonderland. ”Seventy-two years, that's some time to be dead. You're used to it, I'm not.”

Jacques' body came back into focus as he stood, hands curled into fists and chin in the air. ”n.o.body asks you to be used to it, Newfie. You don't like it, then you can get out!”

Rising slowly and deliberately to his feet. Dean was significantly larger. ”I live here.”

”And I died here, enfant, long before you were born on that hunk of rock in water!”

”You know, you've got a real bad att.i.tude for a dead guy!”

”Say you?”

”Yeah.”

”This is why we have cats castrated,” Claire said to no one in particular. ”Sit down. Both of you. You're acting like idiots.” While she understood how males were hardwired to defend their territory, this was ridiculous.

”Only for your sake, ma pet.i.te sorciere,” Jacques muttered sulkily, throwing himself back down onto the bed, ”would I tolerate this lump of flesh.”

Dean moved toward the chair, then shook his head and remained standing. ”No. He called me a Newfie like it's an insult. I don't take that from anyone, living or dead.”

”You think I am to apologize?” Leaning back on one elbow, Jacques raised his free hand scornfully. ”I think not.”

”Okay.” Full lips pressed into a thin line. Dean turned on one heel and started toward the stairs. ”I'm sorry. Boss, but if you want me, I'll be in the kitchen.”

”Ha! Go on, run away! I scare off better men than you!” When Dean disappeared behind the stacked furniture, Jacques quieted and turned a speculative glance on Claire. ”You will not stop him?”

”How?”

”Ah, oui, you cannot wave the dreaded exorcism over him.” Then his expression softened, and he laced his fingers behind his head, the lopsided grin not so much suggestive as explicit. ”Or perhaps you want to be alone with me as I want to be alone with you. Yes?”

”No. Did you intend to drive him away?”

”Non. But I intend to take advantage of it.”

Claire rolled her eyes. ”I think not. Perhaps I should leave, too.”

”You would leave me alone?” Letting his head fall back against the mattress, Jacques sighed deeply. ”For still more long and weary years. Alone.” He paused for a moment then repeated, ”Alone.”

All the playacting, all the cheerful seduction, had disappeared. Although she knew she should maintain both a professional and personal distance, Claire couldn't help responding emotionally. Rising out of the armchair, she walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. It sagged under her weight. ”You don't have to stay here alone, Jacques; not any more. I can send you on.”

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