He reached for his weapon, knocking his chair to the floor. Scrambling across the room, he got as far as he could get from that…thing.
Back pressed to the wall, his heart drummed against his sternum. What the hell was she?
She dripped brown droplets of smoky Russian Caravan onto the table and gasped for air with her gossamer hands clasped at her neck. Her brown eyes stretched wide in her heart-shaped face.
Had he completely lost his mind? “Fuck.”
The thing yelped, flying away and leaving a sprinkling of tea droplets in her wake. As they fell to the ground, she grew whiter, becoming the soft, shiny color of a perfect pearl.
A ghost. Holy hell.
All his skin rose up in goose bumps. Could you shoot a ghost? Or a hallucination? He was damn sure going to try. He took aim.
She coughed and coughed and coughed some more, making a horrible wet retching sound. Then she darted to a spot near the window, bending her spectral shape over to hack, as if she could clear her throat. Only it didn’t seem to be working.
Without thinking, he lowered his weapon. “Breathe, girl. Be calm.”
Slowly, she straightened, and her chest rose and fell in the rhythm of breath. The sun shone through her translucent form, highlighting a smoking hot set of curves under a long, wet nightgown. Large brown nipples poked through the ghostly, damp fabric, and a dark vee between her legs drew his gaze.
Hell.
This wet dream of a sexy, drowned ghost was proof he’d jumped into the deep end. Whether she was real or imagined, he should be scared to death. But instead, his hands jerked with the urge to pound on her back until she could draw a breath.
Her brown hair was the color of dark chocolate, falling in loose, damp waves. And her eyes were round saucers. Her lips formed a perfect cupid’s bow, and the bottom one trembled.
Perfect. He’d hallucinated a sexy, frightened ghost.
And, yeah, his body was reacting. But not with fear.
Chapter 2
Her lungs were on fire. Burning. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat constricted. Coughing, a gasp, more coughing.
So wet, so cold.
Panic swirled and churned inside her like the water overhead. If only she could get a mouthful of air, get the river water out of her lungs…
Cough.
Bright light shone around her. She blinked. It had been night. She’d been on the riverbank…running. Perhaps she’d died? Was this heaven?
Again, she was gripped by the urge to expel water from her lungs, but it was all in her head. Her body was…
Gone?
No. She could sense it, but it was different…less.
Peering down, she saw right through her bare feet, utterly transparent and floating over a tea service, onto which she dripped brown sludge.
How rude.
She raised her hands before her eyes—transparent.
She was a ghost. Had to be. She must have died in the river. But at that conclusion, her thoughts came to a jarring halt. No other memories volunteered themselves. Who was she, and what had happened?
A low voice rumbled. “Fuck.”
She squeaked at the crude word. The frightening man pointing a gun at her elicited another squeak. She had to get away, and with the mere thought, her ghostly body swished toward the wide, bright window, opening onto a street like no place she’d ever seen—strangely colored houses, bizarre automobiles in every shade imaginable, and a huge swath of sea. Was she in Odessa? She’d never been there before.
Her breath came fast, but now she could tell they weren’t really breaths, only the habit of inhaling. No air came in, and she didn’t need it. Panic, which used to grip her chest and turn her heart into a sewing machine at full speed, now only made her mind race and her thoughts tangle.
“Breathe, girl, be calm.” The big man lowered his weapon. His voice was gravel crunching under tires on a country road. The same habit of breathing forced the empty breaths to come slower. Her ghost chest rose and fell, but she couldn’t feel it, only see. Could see her breasts, fully outlined by her wet nightgown—a sheer bit of fabric that could never dry.
Oh, sweet Jesus, she would be indecently clad for eternity.
She squeaked again.
The man’s frosty blue eyes roamed over her, lingering on her breasts, her belly, then flicking to the spot between her legs. An unfamiliar feeling flitted through her, the remembered sensation of butterflies in her tummy, although she no longer had a tummy. She covered her private parts with one outspread palm and hid her breasts with her arm. Although it was no use—her limbs were as sheer as her nightgown.
Still, he must have taken her meaning, because he returned his hard gaze to her face. The man was big—no, hulking—his eyes almost level with hers, though she floated above the ground. His head was bare and evenly covered with black stubble. A scar marred one thick eyebrow, as if the flesh there had been split wide open and not properly tended. His nose would have been a fine, noble thing, were it not very slightly askew and too large across the bridge. The scarring would be from one bad break, or several minor ones.
He tucked his weapon into his waistband and crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “Are you real?”
The mouth that formed his words was exquisite—soft, full lips hinted at a hidden kindness. Once he voiced the question, he pressed them into oblivion, leaving no trace of the sensitivity they’d suggested.
She tried to twine a lock of hair around her finger but couldn’t grab hold of one. Combing her fingers through the mass, she pulled the curls forward. The brown waves held fast between her fingers, but they had no weight, no texture. “I don’t know.”
“How did you come to be in the teapot?” He flung his hand out, gesturing at the crockery.
Inside her mind, a shutter closed and then opened on a new scene. Her teapot, wrapped carefully in newspaper, and bundled into a blanket along with the family bible and photos. Anya had packed the matching teacups with her, in the little knapsack she’d carried to school. Where was Anya? Where were her parents?
Logical, orderly thoughts eluded her. Her ghost brain worked, but not the way it had before. Now, her mind only flashed images and recalled sensations—
Cold ground under her bare feet—
A bang, then her shoulder ripped open, exploding in pain.
Her ethereal fingers traced to the spot of remembered pain but felt nothing. There, a perfectly round hole pierced her nightgown, the circle rimmed with rusty-looking blood. Beneath it, her skin puckered with the scar of a bullet wound.
And then, like a monstrous ocean wave, the frigid river swallowed her up, black water under a blacker night sky. She thrashed, trying to stay afloat, but the cold sapped her strength and vital warmth poured out of her shoulder.
She was dead, drowned in the river. Someone had shot her and chased her into the river to die.
In this mysterious room, looking out over the sea, her ghost body came alive. Hot fury began at her toes, boiling up her legs and torso and finally reaching her throat, where it tore out of her with an anguished yell. She would find whoever had done this to her and rip him apart with her teeth and fingernails. No, first she would hold his head under icy water, depriving him of every last breath but one, only to resuscitate him and do it again. And again. When she tired of it, she would begin the ripping apart.
She gasped, frightened by the fierce need, an unfamiliar and wholly new emotion. She’d never wanted to hurt someone, other