The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [110]
Bree blinked. “I don’t believe any of this.” She bent to retrieve her cell phone. “You’re an actor, and an insulting one at that. And since you’re intruding on my privacy, I’m ordering you to leave at once.”
His smile was wiped away in an instant. His voice lowered with passion. His distinctive burr thickened. “Nobody orders Jamie Kerr from his home. Nobody. Least of all a bloody, trembling female. Now leave, before I show you just how much power I possess.”
Bloody, trembling female indeed. She felt her temper flare, and with it, her courage. “In case you weren’t listening, my name is Brianna Kerr. I am the widow of Barclay Kerr, and the legal owner of this land and all the buildings on it. If anyone is going to leave, it’s you.” She pointed to the open bedroom door. “If you leave now, I won’t press charges. If you refuse, I’ll have no choice but to alert the authorities.”
“They won’t bother coming here. They know better. I’m surprised the old biddy in the main house didn’t warn you about me.”
“She told me there was a presence in the cottage that enjoyed tormenting guests who attempt to stay here. I told Mrs. Logan that I don’t believe in such things.”
“Then you’re a fool. And I’ll not tolerate fools in my presence.”
“Nor will I.” Taking a calculated risk, Bree snatched her jacket from the closet and turned her back on him to stride from the room. Over her shoulder she called, “I’m going to walk back to the main house and get a signal for this useless phone, and then I’m going to alert the authorities. I suggest that you leave as quickly as you came, or you’ll be spending your night in the local jail.”
When she stepped into the parlor, she was startled to see him standing in front of her.
“How did you . . . ?” Before she could finish her sentence, he vanished.
From the bedroom came the sound of breaking glass. She rushed back in time to see the man picking up an expensive antique vase, poised to toss it on the floor alongside the shattered remnants of another.
“Don’t you dare! That’s probably worth a fortune.” She raced across the room and snatched the vase from his hand.
He forcibly took it back. “And that’s all this means to you? The money ’twill fetch?”
“Since it obviously means nothing to you, I won’t have you smashing it to bits.”
“ ’Tis precious to me. I personally chose it on a journey to Edinburgh.” He glanced at the broken shards at his feet. “I brought the pair of them here to adorn my hearth. And if I now choose to break it, it’s nobody’s business but mine.”
Bree made another grab for it. When their fingers brushed, she experienced a sudden rush of heat followed by the sweet smell of heather, as though she’d stepped into a lovely Highland meadow on a warm spring morning.
She took a quick step back and wrapped her arms around the vase, hugging it to her chest.
At the look of astonishment on her face, he regarded her with interest. “So. You felt it, too. Interesting. Not all do. Most are immune to my touch. You must be more sensitive than others. Tell me again, Mistress Kerr.” At the mention of her name, his eyes narrowed slightly, as though the mere words annoyed him. “Did you say you don’t believe?”
“I . . .” She swallowed. “I don’t know who or what you are. A very good actor, or”—she forced herself to speak the word—“maybe you really are a ghost.”
He exploded with fury. “I despise that word.”
Before she could ask why, he held up his hand to silence her.
“I prefer the term restless spirit. I am here, as I’ve been since the year of our Lord 1611. And here I must stay, until I find my way out.”
“You . . . aren’t here by choice?”
He gave a sound that could have been a laugh or a sneer. “Do you think any sane man would choose to live alone for hundreds of years, forced to watch all that is familiar pass away, to be replaced by”—he gave a contemptuous glance at the light switch on the wall—“what your contemporaries call modern conveniences?”
At once the lights flickered