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“And then what?”
“And then we cart you off on a gurney, and you don’t return until the mystery’s been solved.”
Matt shook his head. “Unacceptable. I want to be free to keep an eye on the house and grounds during the entire time.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Tina woman roll her eyes and throw up her hands. “I’m telling you, Meg, we’re in deep trouble.”
“Nonsense,” Meg said. “Just give me a minute to think.”
She strolled back to the desk and sat down, and he could practically see her wheels chugging along.
“Meg’s thinking?” Tina asked. “I’m out of here.” She practically sprinted from the room.
Suddenly Meg glanced up at him and said, “Okay, I have two possibilities. Tell me what you think of these.”
Oh, he couldn’t wait.
“One, we already have a chief inspector, so that’s out. But we could add you as his assistant. Of course, you’d have to be heavily disguised.”
Matt didn’t like that option for two reasons. He’d been in charge of his own company for so long that the thought of playing second fiddle and actually having to take orders really rankled. And second, although he wouldn’t object to wearing certain clothing to play a part, disguises conjured images of fake mustaches and Coke-bottle glasses. “What’s the other option?”
“You can come back as yourself.”
His brows drew together. “Wouldn’t that kind of ruin the mystery of who killed me?”
“Not if you come back as your spirit.”
“Spirit? You mean…a ghost?”
She beamed at him as if he were five and had just conquered the concept of the alphabet. “Exactly.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t believe in all that ghost or spirit nonsense.”
Her brows lifted and he once again noticed what a beautiful shade of gray her eyes were. And how huge, especially when she was looking at him as though he was an idiot. “You do realize the history of this mansion, don’t you?”
Matt bristled. “I bought the property, didn’t I?”
“Then you know it’s purported to be haunted.”
No, somehow he hadn’t heard that. “Bull.”
She nodded. “It’s the lore, and there have been documented cases from previous owners.”
“It’s an old house, they were just hearing the creaks and groans.”
She shrugged. “I’m sure that’s part of it. But a lot stranger stuff has happened around here.”
“Probably made up,” he interjected.
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “The story is that in the late 1800s, the house was bought by an ex-Confederate soldier named Jamie Foster, and it had been badly damaged in the war. He refurbished it, then brought his wife from Savannah to live here. Apparently Jamie was suffering from what today we’d call post-traumatic stress disorder, and became more and more irrational and abusive toward his wife. When he subjected her to a fairly bad beating while she was pregnant, she decided she wasn’t going to allow him to have any part in the raising of her child.”
She paused until Matt finally said, “And?”
“She poisoned his black-eyed peas.”
“Ouch.”
“So legend has it that he refused to leave the home he’d built, and still haunts it to this day.”
“Not that I believe any of this bull, but even if there’s a hint of truth, why would anyone pay to come here?”
“Are you kidding? We played up the haunted mansion part when advertising the weekend. It’s why we filled up so fast.”
Matt made an involuntary grunting sound. “Some people are so gullible.”
“I prefer to call them adventurous. With open minds.”
He had the feeling there was an implied insult in there, even though not a hint of it showed in her serene expression. “I don’t know. Playing a ghost? Would I have to wear a white sheet or anything?”
Meg laughed, a tinkling sound that was as soothing as soft music. If one liked soft music.
“Then what?”
She held up her hands as if framing him out behind a camera. “I see you in the same smoking jacket and silk pajama bottoms you’re found dead in. But the clothes would be much more tattered and still blood-spattered.”
“What about makeup?” he asked suspiciously.
“If anything, we’ll just make your face and hands a lot more pale. And the way we’d set it up is you’ll always show up in a dimly lit room, so you’ll look not from this world.”
“I don’t know,” he said, forcing skepticism into his voice he wasn’t exactly feeling. Oddly enough, it sounded like a challenge, and Matt thrived on challenge.
“Do you have anything better?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yes. You all relocate.”
“Not an option. Try again.”
Matt felt the same exhilaration he usually received haggling over a real estate deal, and it was befuddling—and different. After all, this was puff-ball stuff. And instead of wanting to break down his adversary, he sort of wanted to see her rise to the occasion. Not to win, of course. Losing wasn’t an option for him. But to give him some fun in the process.
Then again, he’d already lost one battle to her. But that wasn’t technically his mistake. His mistake was trusting the man he’d hired to oversee this property. That would be rectified shortly.
“How about if you cast me in another part that puts me in the middle of things the entire weekend, instead of the dead guy?”
He could swear her shoulders drooped just a little, and his heart kind of pinched.
“I could do that,” she said. “But all of the other roles have been cast.”
“So, recast.”
“I can’t ask them to learn a new role on this short notice. It’s just not fair. And I’m not sure of the rules, but they might charge me extra for it. Besides, that means you relinquish your bedroom.”
This woman might be a little crafty, but he still figured she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. “You don’t have a clue what you’re doing, do you?”
The shoulders straightened and stiffened, which kind of made him want to cheer.
“Listen, things were going just fine until you came along.”
“Right, your dead guy was basically DOA.”
“I could have found a way around that without you. You just seemed…convenient, in a really inconvenient kind of way. I’m trying to accommodate your desires while still pulling off this gig. And you’re really beginning to tick me off.” She paused for a breath, but before he could retort she chimed in some more. “I have the lease. As far as I can tell, you are the one trespassing. You could be a drifter or a squatter or something for all I know. So you can choose one of the options I’ve given you, or you can come up with one of your own which I’ll approve, or you can stick it and just leave. Work with me or you’re dead weight.”
Whoa! Smiling and grinning and beaming and cajoling, she was beautiful. Pissed off she was absolutely stunning. Her eyes turned a dark, firecracker silver, her cheeks turned into flaming spots. Even her hair seemed to get mad at him, tossing and shimmering like molten lava.
Deadly if messed with.
But still funny. “A hobo who drove up in a Mustang?”
“Could have been stolen.”
“In these clothes?”
“Stolen.”
He was suddenly in the position of having to prove himself, which felt a little ludicrous. How had she turned the tables on him? “Want to see my driver’s license?”
“Could have been forged.”
“Talk to my lawyer?”
“Could be your bookie.”
“Audit my taxes?”
“You mean you’ve actually filed?”
Okay, now cheeky had morphed into insulting. He was trying to prove himself to a squatter who in the last half hour had claimed she had the right to invade his home and evict him at the same time. This was reaching critical mass on his acceptable meter. She might be pretty, but she was taking the upper hand without him ever having figured out how, and that was unacceptable. But he wasn’t quite sure what the next step would be. He’d encountered crooks and shady dealers and wretched lawyers, but he’d never had to deal with an adversary who demanded with such conviction that she was within her rights while he was a possible fraud.
He squelched all of the possible courses of action he could take to ruin her uppity attitude and her weekend, swallowed his pride and said, “I’ll play the ghost.”
Her anger seemed to melt from her eyes. She smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry. I really almost never have a temper.”
Somehow he doubted that.
Once again she thrust out her hand. “I promise, you’ll receive industry wages.”
He almost choked. But he kept a straight face and said, “I should hope so. I don’t work for free. And since I’m pulling double duty…”
“You’ll get the same wage as everyone else. Scale. And be glad for it, seeing as I didn’t ask to hire you. Don’t push it.”
He wanted to grin so badly. “Well, technically you did hire me.”
“That was a choice of getting rid of you or putting your carcass to use.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “My carcass is at your disposal.”
“Don’t I wish,” she muttered, but then grinned. “Just teasing of course.”
He wasn’t so sure. Didn’t Ted Bundy have an engaging smile?
“All right,” she said, her voice going all practical again, “I’m going to have to do some rewrites tonight, before I can get you your script. How about if I have it delivered to your room by nine? That should give you time to memorize by—”
“Nine-fifteen.”
“Sure. Yes, well, let’s hope so.”
“I have a better idea,” Matt said, from out of nowhere that he could figure out. “How about if we meet for supper and go over the script together? I’d love to help shape my ghost character.”
Meg also looked gorgeous flustered. He wondered if she’d ever be able to play a corpse because she’d probably look too good then, too. No one would ever believe it.
“I don’t think—”
“I want a say in my ghost,” he said.
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, a dinner meeting. In here?”
“Let’s do it from the suite adjoined to my bedroom. I’d like to work out logistics.”
She stared at him, narrow-eyed.
Holding up his hands, Matt assured her. “Ms. Renshaw, I have no designs on you. But whatever I do, I want it to be done right. And if I’m dying up there and clues will be planted up there, I want to talk them through.” When she still continued to look skeptical, he said, “You’re welcome to bring a bodyguard. How about Tina?”
Meg stared at him and laughed. “It’s a deal, Mr….”
“De Wynter. Just call me Lionel De Wynter.”
VIOLIN STRINGS had nothing on Meg’s nerves. Her career depended on the success of this weekend, and so far everything was shaping up about as well as her wedding day to Mike.
A disaster in the making is what it was. Her dead guy was gone, and in his place she had an overbearing, angry homeowner who was trying to call his own shots on her project.
So she’d spent all day feverishly rewriting much of the script to incorporate the fact that the man didn’t look all that sinister. Sinfully sexy, maybe, but turning him into the twenty-first century Genghis Khan wasn’t going to be easy, given he wanted to play the part sans makeup.
And it was hard to conceive of anyone wanting to rid the world of this particular male specimen. Climb into bed with him, maybe. But shoot him in bed? No.
He wanted to talk over the script. He’d had to cancel the supper meeting—which gave her a vague sense of disappointment—because an important business call had come through. So she’d had to write one herself, fast. And she wasn’t a writer, she was a party planner for a travel agency.
