An Offer He Cant Refuse - By Christie Ridgway Page 0,15

10909.

In a blink it altered, blazing across his brain like the numbers on a digital watch. 1:09:09.

The world altered too.

Darkness.

Night.

The sharp snap of gunfire.

Pop.

Pop. Pop.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The past grabbed for him with its powerful claws.

Resisting with everything he had, Johnny gulped a breath, then spun around. He gripped the doorjamb to anchor himself in present reality before the tires could squeal in his head, before his heart could start jackhammering at his chest wall, before his senses were flooded by the stain and the smell of fresh blood.

The woman standing before him stared, and he stared back, cataloging every detail of her face to keep from falling into the flashback. He took in the smooth skin of her wide forehead, the exotic tilt of her eyes, the lock of hair that wiggled across one olive-toned cheek to catch in the corner of her full mouth. She hooked it away with her pinky and he counted out its three-second float to the join the rest of the wavy, vital mass.

God, she was gorgeous.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

No. His hands were icy and his breathing shallow and he realized that somewhere between his father's former house and here, ghosts had clambered aboard his back. Jesus. Jesus. Upon his arrival today at the El Deseo property, though he'd avoided entering the house itself, he'd made a quick tour of the grounds. He'd felt nothing there.

Now, though, now it was as if damp, dead breath was crawling down his neck.

He twitched his shoulders and focused on the contessa again. It wasn't a hardship. She looked so warm and so filled with energy in her wrinkled dress and with her mussed, wild hair that he had to dig his fingers into the jamb instead of digging them into the lush curves of her figure to remind himself he was still of this world.

He was almost grateful when his cock stirred. The response was inconvenient, but at least he knew that one part of him was alive, well, and apparently quite willing to function.

"Are you okay?" she asked again.

"Go out for a drink with me," he heard himself say.

She gave him a it's-a-full-moon-and-you-just-grew-fangs look. "What?"

"Go out for a drink with me." Okay, so he was as surprised as she was by his abrupt request, but right now he didn't want to be alone and he did want to be with her.

So he cleared his throat, forced his arms to drop to his sides, and tried to appear as slick and easy as he'd felt for all the years of his adult life until this last one. "We can talk."

"But I..."

He could tell she was searching for an excuse, but he wouldn't let her discomfort or his own guilt deter him this time. After this little episode in her doorway, it was clear once again that he had things to do. Demons to exorcise. "But what?" he pressed.

Her hands fluttered around her hips, in a gesture as uncertain as her obvious mood. "I... I'd need to change."

Letting out a silent breath, he took a step inside, crowding her backward. "No problem. I'll wait."

She went along with it. Redesigning the house must be that much of a prize, he figured, because his strange behavior during the past few minutes must have made it perfectly clear that he wasn't. She disappeared down a hallway and he heard a door close, lock.

Good for you, Contessa. Keep your guard up.

Minutes ticked by, and the ghosts riding his shoulders disappeared. His own guard relaxed. Remembering why he'd forced himself into her place to begin with, he ambled around Tea's living room, looking for more clues to her and her father's family. The only photo she displayed, however, was of three females. The oldest in it had to be Tea's mother, while beside her stood a twenty-something blonde, and then beside her was another brunette with an engaging grin.

He was still studying the picture when he heard Tea come into the room behind him. "Beautiful women," he offered as he turned, expecting to see another one.

But this... this lady, well, it wasn't that she wasn't beautiful. It was that she wasn't... well, she was Tea, but she wasn't the same wet and curvy contessa who'd barefooted it home.

He stared. She wore a neck-high, knee-length navy blue suit that would put even a born-again accountant to sleep. Matching pumps with medium heels were locked about her ankles with sturdy straps. Her natural plum lip color was muted to something barely there, and the lips