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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  2932 Ross Clark Circle, #384

  Dothan, AL 36301

  In the Spirit

  Copyright © 2006 by Shannon Stacey

  Cover by Scott Carpenter

  ISBN: 1-59998-386-9

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: December 2006

  In the Spirit

  Shannon Stacey

  Dedication

  For all the children in my life, because seeing the Christmas joy in your eyes helped me remember my own.

  And for my husband—you’re not the kind of guy who sends roses or spouts poetry, but you sure know how to spoil a girl on Christmas morning.

  Chapter One

  FOR RENT: Not in the Christmas spirit? Remote cabin in the White Mountains of NH. All amenities except TV and phone. Spend the holiday season far from the hustle and bustle. Available Dec 15-Dec 30.

  Jessica Newton killed the SUV's engine and let out the deep breath she'd been holding for the last quarter of a mile.

  It was perfect. One small cabin. One laptop. Lots of trees—none with stars on top. No Christmas wishes or fruitcakes. No commercials. No strings of twinkling lights. Here she'd be surrounded by nature instead of thousands of cell phones all chirping out tinny electronic versions of sappy Christmas carols.

  She was free. Free to despise the holidays without everybody and their favorite reindeer trying to fix her. She just couldn’t take it this year. One more Scrooge joke and she'd have been shoving tinsel down somebody's throat.

  Her boots crunched in the recently plowed snow as she made her way up the driveway to the rustic porch. It was probably too cold to enjoy the matching rocking chairs, but they looked homey and inviting, nonetheless. The key provided by the local real estate agent who handled the rental turned easily in the lock and she pushed the door open.

  At the same moment, the chair closest to her rocked.

  Jessica stepped back, her breath making quick, frozen puffs in the air. Okay, that was weird. It couldn't be cross-draft from opening the door. The chair had rocked hard enough that it was still going, and it gave the kind of old-fashioned creak that came from having weight in it.

  Old superstitions reared in her mind, and Jessica laughed out loud at herself. Though she made a very nice living keeping her readers afraid of the dark, she wasn't prone to her imagination going off on weird tangents when she wasn't writing. Whatever the logical explanation was, it didn’t involve ghosts making themselves at home.

  She shook it off and walked into her Christmas-free home away from home for two blissful weeks. The floor plan was a simple rectangle. The front three-quarters of the box had a center living room, with the kitchen and a half-bath to the right, and the bedroom with full bath to the left. The back of the rectangle was a wide hall, lined with windows overlooking a deck. The deck overlooked a frozen pond that would have been perfect for ice-skating if she knew how. A twin cot, a bookcase and a reading chair were gathered at one end of the hall, while a little breakfast nook had been built into the other.

  On a whim, Jessica knelt in front of the bookcase and cocked her head sideways to scan the spines. When she got to the second shelf, she smiled and pulled out a paperback. It was new enough to have not been pulled from a rummage sale box, but creased enough to have been read once or twice.

  She smiled and ran her fingertips over the embossed cover. New York Times Bestselling Author. The title superimposed over a dark, out of focus house of horrors. At the bottom her name—the one she used professionally. J. C. Newton.

  Jessica slid her most recent bestseller back into its slot. She tried not to focus on previous books while writing the current one. The pressure of being at the top of her genre and the top of the lists was enough without dwelling on books gone by.

  She stood and surveyed her temporary home with a sigh of satisfaction. The cabin would do nicely, she decided. It was simple, without all the bells, whistles and chrome of her Boston condo, but it was quiet.

  Very quiet. Jessica was a heart of the city girl, and being able to hear the wind rustling the bare branches of the trees beyond the windows was creepy. She pulled the sticky note the real estate agent had given her from her pocket, trying to decipher the scrawled directions on how to make a cell call. Drive .75 miles up dirt road. Bear left at fork and continue up hill. At top, park. Climb onto roof of vehicle. On clear day, cell reception is possible. She'd certainly need that if some demented mountain man decided to come after her with an axe.

  Hmm…Jessica considered it, then mentally discarded the kernel of plot. Done to death. She stuck the note to the fridge and went out to the SUV to carry in her bags. First the laptop, then her suitcases. Finally, what seemed now like a year's worth of groceries. It was only ten miles to the nearest grocery store, but she was going to avoid making that trip for anything short of an emergency caffeine shortage. Even supermarkets piped in the Christmas music and decked the halls.

  This year Jessica was having none of that.

  eee

  The bright blue numbers on the bedside clock read twelve-fifteen when she heard it.

  Jessica sat straight up. She knew she wasn't dreaming. She hadn't even fallen asleep yet. But there it was again. There was a man singing that tacky song about somebody's drunken grandmother being run down by reindeer.

  That damn real estate agent had assured her she wouldn't be able to hear her nearest neighbors no matter how enthusiastic their revelry. Most of the camps around the pond stood empty this time of year, she'd said. The snowmobilers had to stay home and do the Christmas thing with their families, and there were no ski areas nearby.

  Jessica slid out of the too-soft bed and crept through the moonlit cabin on bare feet. She peered through the wall of windows, but couldn't make out even a glimpse of Christmas lights through the trees.

  The singing stopped at the same instant Jessica became aware of the man. Not on the other side of the glass, but standing in front of her couch.

  She spun to face him, her mind racing. If she ran for the bedroom, he'd catch her and have the upper hand. If she made a break for the door, she’d not only have to get by him, but grab her keys from the end table on the way by. And if she ducked out the slider behind her, what then? The thought of running around in the dark, snowy woods was almost as scary as the intruder.

  He hadn't yet made a threatening move, though. Maybe there was a benign reason for his presence. An insomniac handyman who didn’t realize she’d arrived? A double-booking mistake by the real estate?

  She'd stand her ground for now. After a psychotic fan had tried forcing her to reenact chapter twelve of her second book, she'd learned a few things about defending herself.

  The man was a little taller than her, and lean, muscular and attractive. If they'd met anywhere but this cabin in the middle of the night, she'd probably consider him sexy as hell. In the moonlight his short hair was dark. She wished she could see what color his eyes were. Then she got distracted by the gleam of white when he grinned.

  And still the intruder said nothing. She wasn't about to stand around in the da
rk all night, so she drew in a steadying breath and made the first move. “Who are you?”

  The man clapped his hands and the overhead light came on. His eyes were brown—a warm, honey brown and his hair matched. He wore jeans and a blue flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up his forearms, both well-worn and soft looking. Battered brown boots covered his feet, and she noticed they were clean and dry. He couldn't have just come from outside.

  “Neat trick with the lights,” she muttered.

  “It's one of those Clapper devices,” he replied, and his voice sent shivers down her spine. It was deliciously deep and husky.

  “So now that I can see you, who are you?” Jessica smoothed her hand over her hair anxiously. If she could see him, he could see her. With her hair mussed and no mascara to emphasize her washed-out blue eyes, she probably didn't look her best.

  Like it matters. This was either a mistake and he'd be leaving soon, or he was a homicidal maniac who'd broken in and she'd have to hurt him soon. In either case, her appearance was totally irrelevant.

  “I'm the ghost,” the man said cheerfully. “I live here.”

  The ghost? The real estate agent had given her every emergency number in the county and directions on where to stand on the roof of her car to make a call, but she'd forgotten to mention the ghost?

  “Jacob Marley, I presume?” Jessica snapped, but then she laughed. “My agent sent you, right?”

  It had to have been Harry who set up this ridiculous practical joke. He was the only person who knew where she was, and only because he'd have called out the National Guard if his money tree went missing for two weeks.

  The man disappeared. Jessica blinked and—poof!—he was gone. Before she could even react, he reappeared next to her. Instinct kicked in and she struck out, but he was kind of blurry and the heel of her hand passed right through his nose. Then he poofed again and reappeared a few feet away.

  “That wasn't nice.”

  Neither were any of the words flying around in her mind, so she kept her mouth shut.

  “If I was Jacob Marley I'd be dragging chains around,” he pointed out, and Jessica was surprised she could even hear him over the hysterical screaming in her head. “I'm Zachary Roberts, but everybody calls me Zach. Or they did when I was alive, anyway.”

  “There’s too much fresh air up here,” she said, shaking her head. Sleepwalking and dreaming at the same time. She had to be. Despite being the queen of things that went bump in the night, Jessica didn't believe in ghosts. Sleeping in a strange bed without the crappy air quality and ambient sounds of the city was clearly taking its toll on her.

  “Aren't you going to ask me how I died?” Zach the ghost asked, jerking her away from her musings on her own mental state. "Everybody does."

  “No. I'm going back to bed.” Jessica spun and went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Zach watched his guest slam the bedroom door in his face and sighed. Being a ghost was hell on a man's ego.

  He let his physical body dissipate and hovered in the room like a horny little ball of energy. At least in this form he didn't have to deal with the hard-on from hell.

  It sucked being dead. Once he'd mastered the art of becoming solid, he'd found himself fully-functional in the libido department. He could even have an orgasm, though there were no bodily fluids involved. Hell, the whole situation gave new meaning to safe sex, if only potential sex partners could just get past his being a ghost.

  Sure, there had been a few open-minded ladies in the decade since the unfortunate incident with the roof, a string of lights and the inflatable Santa. But they invariably left him for guys who weren't dead. He didn't blame them, of course, but it made for a lonely eternal existence.

  Zach found this woman more attractive than all of the cabin's former tenants combined. She wasn't skinny and she didn't have crap painted all over her face to make her look and taste artificial. He shuddered, remembering the hideous waxy flavor of lipstick. This woman was nicely plump and curvy, with pretty blue eyes and tousled, shoulder-length blonde hair.

  He knew her name was Jessica. The real estate agent had been yapping to the cleaning service lady when they were getting the cabin ready. But that was all he knew.

  Well, that and the fact she wore no wedding ring and had no loved ones who cared if she was alone for the holidays. It was up to Zach to make her days merry and bright. And, if he was very lucky, he might get to make her nights jolly, as well.

  Chapter Two

  Christmas had vomited itself up all over the cabin during the night.

  Jessica blinked a few times, but the gaudy spectacle remained. She couldn't even take it all in. Tinsel. Garland. Twinkling lights strung everywhere. And, oh dear God, there was even a fully decked out tree.

  Zach the ghost materialized in front of it. “Ho ho ho!”

  She shrieked and staggered backwards, almost tripping over her own feet. Son of a bitch. She wasn’t dreaming or sleepwalking now, and here he was.

  She tugged the belt of her bathrobe tighter. She was fresh out of the shower, and she hadn't even given the invisible guy a second thought. Had he watched? “I want my money back.”

  He frowned. “Where's your Christmas spirit?”

  This was too much. Accepting the cabin was haunted was enough to digest all on its own. But haunted by a hot guy with the holiday glee of a five-year-old? She hadn't signed up for this.

  “I don't have any spirit before I've had coffee,” she snapped. “And I don't do Christmas.”

  The ghost slapped himself in the forehead. “I don't have a menorah.”

  “I don't do holidays period.”

  Jessica walked through the Christmas chaos and into the kitchen, which was just as festively decked out. Zach followed her, but she ignored him until she'd fixed an oversize mug of the coffee she'd preset to brew. She took a sip and sighed with pleasure as the warmth spread through her body.

  “I miss coffee,” Zach told her mournfully.

  “How long have you been dead?” In the next instant Jessica realized the question was not only something she'd never thought she'd ask a person, but probably a little too personal, as well.

  “On Christmas Eve, it'll be eleven years.”

  Jessica took her coffee to the breakfast nook and wasn't surprised when Zach took a seat opposite her. At least he didn't sink down through the chair or anything.

  “You died on Christmas Eve?” Even despising the holiday as she did, Jessica found that sad. “How old are you? Were you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  Ugh. “I'm five years older than you.”

  Zach leaned forward, grinning in a way that was purely sexual. Her body responded, and Jessica realized if he was solid enough to sit in a chair, he might be solid enough to do other things, as well.

  Getting all hot and bothered by a ghost hadn't been in her rental agreement, either. And yet there it was. Her neck grew hot and itchy, and she squirmed a little in her chair.

  “Technicalities aside,” Zach continued, “I should be forty, which would make me six years older than you.”

  “True,” she murmured, even as she tried to convince herself this was a ludicrous conversation. What difference did it make if he was five years younger or six years older? He was a ghost or she'd suffered a complete psychotic break. Either condition was not conducive to sex.

  The ghost slash possible hallucination shrugged. “But I didn't live to forty. Instead I'm stuck here forever in my sexual prime.”

  “I thought the sexual prime for guys was about eighteen.”

  “I was a late bloomer,” he said, then he winked. “Trust me, I’m in my prime…eternally.”

  When Jessica had to tamp down hard on the urge to crawl over the table and onto his lap, she knew she'd been wrong about conditions not being conducive to sex. There was nothing she wanted more at that second than to have him untie her bathrobe’s sash and unwrap her like a present on Christmas morning.

  And he knew it, too, t
he bastard. She could tell by the look on his face he knew she was practically squirming in her chair.

  She needed to focus on something besides her body's reaction to him before she did something really stupid like unwrap her own self and dive across the table at him.

  “Make the Christmas decorations go away,” she said, determined to talk about anything but his eternal sexual prime.

  “I can't just snap my fingers and make them disappear.”

  “Why not? Isn't that how they got there?”

  Zach gave her a wounded look. “I worked all night putting those up. I found them in the storage shed after I died, and I put them up every year.”

  “Well you can work all day putting them back.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table, and each thump reminded Jessica of just how solid he was. Solid and hard and stuck in his sexual prime.

  “Let's make a deal,” he offered. “Which one do you hate the most?”

  Jessica looked around the visual assault, considering. “The ceramic milk and cookies on the coffee table.” There was a childish, homemade look to them that tugged a little too hard on the heartstrings.

  “Kiss me and I'll put them away.”

  Her nipples started to ache and she was thankful her bathrobe hid the physical evidence. “Maybe I'll box it all back up myself.”

  Zach narrowed his eyes, grinning slightly at the challenge. “I'll keep putting it back and, unlike you, I don't have to sleep.”

  This was a challenge she didn't mind losing, but Jessica was determined to keep her dignity largely intact. “So I let you kiss me and the glass snacks go away?”

  He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “No. You kiss me and it goes back in the shed.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.” Jessica pushed her chair back and walked around the table.

  Zach didn't move. She stared down at him, waiting for him to at least uncross his arms. He didn't.