The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [158]
“He’s laughing?”
“Jerk,” she muttered.
Craig turned more completely toward her, eager to try something. “That last week while I was away he took my pristine, fully restored 1970 Chevelle LS6 454 big-block V8 hardtop Coupe out for a joyride. Where’d he put the damn keys?”
Backseat ashtray. Rider’s side.
“He says they’re in the ashtray in the backseat on the rider’s side.”
“Wait here.” He hurried from the room and returned the same way—stood in the doorway panting and held up a set of two shiny keys. “I told you what would happen if you took it again.”
“He says you’re too late.”
His body sagged with the weight of the truth. His steps were heavy as he crossed the room and stood looking down at her. He looked deep into her eyes, half-dreading what he might see in them. He smiled, seeing only Ivy.
“I’d forgotten how clever he was.” He sat back down beside her and took her hand. “He was good at worming himself into people’s heads. And if anyone could figure out how to do it from his grave, it would be him.”
“You believe me?”
He held up the keys. “You’re not crazy, Ivy. You’re possessed.”
“What? No.”
The look on her face must have been something—he laughed, but not in an unkind way. “It’s okay.”
“No. I don’t think it is. Last I heard it was not okay to be possessed. In fact, I think I’m leaving.” She started to get up, but he held tight to her hand.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. If I’m turning into Linda Blair, I want my mother to be there.” Standing, she muttered an afterthought. “I hope there’s a tea for this.”
“Please, Ivy, stay. We can talk about it. End it maybe, right here, right now.”
She studied the conviction in his face and had nothing better to refute it with. Looking up at the man and his Ginger Cookie in the portrait and down again at the keys in Craig’s hand, dream and reality swirled together as if her hard drive were frying. She felt herself begin to shut down, one system at a time—she needed to reboot. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, beyond confused mentally, and if what he was saying was true, her spirit was not entirely her own.
“We can talk. But does it have to be now? I’m . . . I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I need time to think this through. So much has happened. My head aches.”
No. Free me. Tell him.
“And I’m so . . . loud inside.” She spread her fingers and shook her hands, desperate and frustrated. “I need quiet. Peace. Real sleep. I need my head back . . . to be me again so I can sort this out.” She used her last ounce of energy on a deep sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. I want to help him—”
“No.” He stood quickly. “Don’t apologize. I can’t even imagine . . . You’re amazing. I’m sorry I didn’t see the toll this was taking on you. You can stay in the guest room. Sleep, whatever. Take all the time you need. We . . . What is it?”
“I’m going home. To the Rossinis’. I need to be alone. But more to the point, you’re more distracting than Oliver.”
He wanted to argue, to take care of her, to protect her, but he acquiesced with good nature. “That’s pretty great, right? For me? To be more distracting than a ghost.”
She smiled and used the hand he still held to squeeze his. “Actually, it’s pretty great for me, too.” On an impulse that was all her own, she went up on the balls of her feet to settle a quick good-bye kiss on his lips. “I’ll call you tomor—um!”
His mouth took hers with an urgent passion that was so hot and wild it sent waves of shock and excitement and . . . well, more and more excitement like ever-increasing volts of electricity shooting down through her body to her toes and back up, then down to her toes again and back.
Aw, gawd!
Ivy snorted a giggle and pulled away, but he didn’t let her get far. “What?”
“I think we grossed out Oliver.”
“Tough.” He tipped her chin up and kissed her again, soft and slow. “I’ve wanted to do that since that