Free ENTANGLED by Jennifer Estep, Cynthia Eden, Allison Brennan, Dale Mayer, Lori Brighton, Liz Kreger, Michelle Miles, Misty Evans Edie Ramer, Nancy Haddock, Michelle Diener Page B
property is super rare for this area, but then my house—a Victorian with hints of Arts & Crafts styling—was built in 1917, and the land had been in the family long before that. Of course, being located behind the famed Alligator Farm, the air can be ripe when the wind blows just so, but the house is mine free and clear.
Except for those pesky taxes, insurance premiums and repairs.
At the back of the house, I squeezed my Accord into the detached three-car garage crammed with junk. Maybe a giant yard sale was in order to de-clutter and improve my cash flow.
I hopped out with my purse and briefcase, shut the garage door, and crossed the yard and the bricked patio to the back entrance. I had no more than touched the screen door handle when my great-grandfather flew to open it.
And when I say flew, I mean flew.
Da is a ghost.
“Colleen! High time you came home.”
I sighed at Da’s impatience. “I told you I’d be back about six,” I said, plopping my purse and briefcase on the catchall table in the mudroom.
“Yes, well, but we have a situation. Come now, someone is waiting for you.”
“Jaime?”
“No, child. A friend picked her up for work.”
“Then who exactly is waiting? You didn’t invite your ghost cronies for poker night, did you?”
Da snorted. “Bigger doings than poker, me girl, but brace yourself.”
Da pushed me through the kitchen I needed to clean and into the sprawling living room where I stopped short and blinked at the man in black who sat in my wing back chair by the fireplace.
Black jeans, black T-shirt, black nylon windbreaker jacket. Only the sneakers had a lick of color—gray and blue. As icy as the look in those blue eyes.
My heart pounded a painful few beats before I found my wits.
“Brick Frasier? What on earth are you doing in my house?”
Brickman A. Frasier, the hot ghost investigator of my dreams and nightmares, glowered at me. His tanned hands gripped the chair arms, and his ashen complexion slowly darkened to a brick red that almost matched his auburn hair. A muscle ticked in his square jaw before he took a breath that expanded his wide chest.
“Let. Me. Up.”
I shivered at the rawness in his sexy voice and took a step closer.
“I’ve been held captive in this chair for half a freaking hour, Colleen. I want out.”
I turned to my sneaky Black Irish great-grand ghost. “Da, what have you done?”
Da’s chest puffed. “Now, now, me wee Colleen, I only made the man comfortable.”
“He’s not comfortable. He’s terrified. Whatever you’re doing to keep him in that chair, stop it this instant.”
With a mighty humph and muttering under his ghost breath, Da flew toward Brick, circled him three times counter clockwise, then settled behind the chair, arms crossed.
An audible pop in the ethers made me jump. I don’t know if Brick heard the sound, too, but he shuddered and slowly levered himself out of the seat, as if bracing to be pushed back down.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “Da won’t bother you again.”
“And who,” Brick asked, “is Da?”
“My great-grandfather, the ghost. What exactly happened?”
“What happened?” Brick echoed with a snarl and paced closer to me. “I knocked on your door. It opened. I was jerked into your house by my shirtfront and shoved into that damned chair. I thought it was a stupid Halloween trick until I realized I was pinned there. Does your ghost do that to everyone?”
“Why did you want to see me at all? As I recall from our last encounter, you said it would snow on the beach before you so much as spoke to me again.”
“I—” He fell back a step, and then ran a hand over his near military-short hair cut, mumbled a curse, and sighed. “My ghost investigation team ran into a wall tonight.”
“And that should mean squat to me?”
“It means something to the
Except for those pesky taxes, insurance premiums and repairs.
At the back of the house, I squeezed my Accord into the detached three-car garage crammed with junk. Maybe a giant yard sale was in order to de-clutter and improve my cash flow.
I hopped out with my purse and briefcase, shut the garage door, and crossed the yard and the bricked patio to the back entrance. I had no more than touched the screen door handle when my great-grandfather flew to open it.
And when I say flew, I mean flew.
Da is a ghost.
“Colleen! High time you came home.”
I sighed at Da’s impatience. “I told you I’d be back about six,” I said, plopping my purse and briefcase on the catchall table in the mudroom.
“Yes, well, but we have a situation. Come now, someone is waiting for you.”
“Jaime?”
“No, child. A friend picked her up for work.”
“Then who exactly is waiting? You didn’t invite your ghost cronies for poker night, did you?”
Da snorted. “Bigger doings than poker, me girl, but brace yourself.”
Da pushed me through the kitchen I needed to clean and into the sprawling living room where I stopped short and blinked at the man in black who sat in my wing back chair by the fireplace.
Black jeans, black T-shirt, black nylon windbreaker jacket. Only the sneakers had a lick of color—gray and blue. As icy as the look in those blue eyes.
My heart pounded a painful few beats before I found my wits.
“Brick Frasier? What on earth are you doing in my house?”
Brickman A. Frasier, the hot ghost investigator of my dreams and nightmares, glowered at me. His tanned hands gripped the chair arms, and his ashen complexion slowly darkened to a brick red that almost matched his auburn hair. A muscle ticked in his square jaw before he took a breath that expanded his wide chest.
“Let. Me. Up.”
I shivered at the rawness in his sexy voice and took a step closer.
“I’ve been held captive in this chair for half a freaking hour, Colleen. I want out.”
I turned to my sneaky Black Irish great-grand ghost. “Da, what have you done?”
Da’s chest puffed. “Now, now, me wee Colleen, I only made the man comfortable.”
“He’s not comfortable. He’s terrified. Whatever you’re doing to keep him in that chair, stop it this instant.”
With a mighty humph and muttering under his ghost breath, Da flew toward Brick, circled him three times counter clockwise, then settled behind the chair, arms crossed.
An audible pop in the ethers made me jump. I don’t know if Brick heard the sound, too, but he shuddered and slowly levered himself out of the seat, as if bracing to be pushed back down.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “Da won’t bother you again.”
“And who,” Brick asked, “is Da?”
“My great-grandfather, the ghost. What exactly happened?”
“What happened?” Brick echoed with a snarl and paced closer to me. “I knocked on your door. It opened. I was jerked into your house by my shirtfront and shoved into that damned chair. I thought it was a stupid Halloween trick until I realized I was pinned there. Does your ghost do that to everyone?”
“Why did you want to see me at all? As I recall from our last encounter, you said it would snow on the beach before you so much as spoke to me again.”
“I—” He fell back a step, and then ran a hand over his near military-short hair cut, mumbled a curse, and sighed. “My ghost investigation team ran into a wall tonight.”
“And that should mean squat to me?”
“It means something to the
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