"It's her agent who should be shot. Better yet, I'd like to take him apart limb from limb. Personally. He's convinced her she's on the verge of selling. She's counting on it."

  "Want to bet he charged a reading fee?"

  Zach glared at his assistant. "I don't understand. The woman works for a newspaper. Who'd have thought she couldn't write her way out of a paper bag?"

  Kurt's expression turned gloomy. "This hasn't ended up like we expected, has it?"

  "Not even close." Zach thrust his fingers through his hair. "Dammit, Kurt! Rachel believes in her ghost, heart and soul. It comes through on every ill-written page of that manuscript."

  "We chose her in the first place because we thought she was pulling a scam. We thought she was greedy, using her ghost to line her own pockets. She's not, is she?"

  "No, she's not."

  "So whatta we do?"

  Zach's jaw muscles tightened. "We don't have any choice. We're committed. Which means, we play the hand."

  Kurt grimaced. "Bummer."

  * * *

  The next few weeks were the most painful of Rachel's life. She watched, helpless, while Zach and Kurt went over the Rancho with ruthless intensity, all their attention focused on discovering the truth about Francisca. They were determined to find a rational explanation for the ghostly phenomena. They were determined to find the equivalent of "noisy air ducts."

  Rachel made wish after fruitless wish.

  They played the videos repeatedly, debating and arguing every nuance to be gleaned from the recordings. They double, triple, quadruple checked their equipment and kept it in perfect running order. Kurt examined the wiring and the plumbing, the heating and the air conditioning, and called in independent contractors to confirm his opinion.

  Rachel made wish after fruitless wish.

  Despite their differences, her feelings for Zach continued to grow. She gained a new appreciation for his intelligence and integrity and sense of fair play. She struggled to keep their relationship on a professional footing, but quickly discovered it was pointless. She didn't seem to have Zach's willpower.

  Still, she made wish after fruitless wish. And still, nothing happened. Worst of all, Francisca remained ominously silent. It's a sign, Rachel decided in despair. A punishment for doubting. For somehow, someway, an insidious doubt had crept into her heart and gained a solid toehold. And nothing she could do or say seemed to root it out.

  "Enough's enough, Rachel," Zach announced one morning. "Have you seen yourself lately?"

  She tried to quell him with a frown. Not that it did any good. The man was unquellable. "Yes, I've seen myself lately. Just this morning, as a matter of fact, while I brushed my hair. Why?" As if she didn't know.

  "When I arrived you were tanned and brimming with energy. Now you're so pale it's frightening. I'm worried you'll blow away with the next Santa Ana wind."

  "Says you." Why did he have to be so right all the time? And who'd have thought compassion could be so darned irritating?

  "Yes. Says me. Take a few days off. Go to the beach. Relax. Read a good book. Anything. But get away from the Rancho for a while."

  Her eyes widened in alarm. "Forget it. I won't go. I have to stay here. What if Francisca shows?"

  "It's been three weeks and we haven't heard a single peep out of her. I don't think a few more days will make any difference."

  She caught at his arm. "You don't know that! She'll come. I know she will."

  "Rachel—"

  She cut him off without hesitation. "There's a wedding in two days. I can't miss it," she continued, desperate to convince him. "I thought maybe we could camp here overnight. Things happen the night before weddings."

  "Things?"

  "Right. Things. The bells ring. Lights flicker on and off. Things."

  "And you think they'll happen this time?"

  Her gaze dropped to the toe of her shoe. "Maybe."

  He raised her chin with a finger. "Rachel?"

  "I don't know," she admitted, determined to make a passing stab at honesty. She tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. "I'm acquainted with the bride, and..."

  His half smile appeared. "And?"

  She cleared her throat. "I think it's highly unlikely that Francisca will give her blessing to this particular union."

  Laughter lit his eyes and he pulled her closer, lacing her fingers in his. "Not a match made in heaven?"

  She sighed, relaxing against him, relishing his solid warmth. She missed this, missed touching him, and kissing him, and having him hold her. She knew they shouldn't, but it didn't change the desire that urged her to cross the lines he seemed determined to maintain.

  "Her first three marriages weren't, so the odds aren't too good for this one."

  He chuckled. "I guess not."

  "On the other hand," she continued with determination, "I hate to make any rash judgments. Francisca has surprised me before."

  "You'd like to camp out?"

  She leaned into him, pleading, "Yes. Please, Zach. I don't know how many more chances we'll have."

  He considered for a moment. "You're right. I can't stay much longer. A few weeks at most."

  "A few weeks!" Her fingers tightened in his. "You promised to give Francisca time. That's no time at all."

  "I'd like to give her all the time in the world. But I start work soon. I have to prepare my courses and get organized. Besides, Halloween is our deadline, remember?"

  She bit down on her lip and whispered, "Then, this is it." A shiver rippled through her and his arm tensed in response.

  "Damn it, Rachel."

  She heard the pain and frustration in his voice and stood on tiptoe, kissing him with a delicious tenderness. "It's all right," she soothed. "I understand."

  He shook his head. "It's not all right. I'm hurting you."

  She couldn't deny his claim. She didn't bother trying. "You have no choice. I know that. You have a job to do," she said instead, and rested her cheek on his chest.

  He didn't respond, only held her close. So close, that Rachel wondered if he could feel her heart break.

  * * *

  Zach stood in the middle of the graveyard and stared at the pile of clutter. "What is all this?" he asked Rachel.

  "Camping gear. A friend promised to drop it off." She wandered helplessly around the huge mound. How in the world would she ever sort it, let alone set it up? "Bonnie said she'd make sure I had everything I needed, but I never dreamed..."

  He rummaged through the stack. "Tent, sleeping bag, blankets. Blankets? It's ninety degrees."

  "This is the desert. October temperatures can get down there in the evenings."

  He lifted an eyebrow. "If you say so. Camp stove, lamp, mosquito netting. Mosquito netting?"

  "Bonnie does tend to err on the side of caution."

  "We won't starve," he said, upending a box of cans. He turned to look at her, his eyes narrowing. "Your friend was a Girl Scout, wasn't she? Be prepared and all that?"

  "We both were. Though," she admitted with brutal honesty, "Bonnie did seem to get the hang of it better than me."

  "She got the hang of it and then some." He continued sorting. "Matches, ground cover, more blankets, hammer, pegs."

  "Forget all that." Rachel burrowed through the heap. "Where's the important stuff?"

  "What important stuff?"

  "The flashlight and a copy of 'Tales to Curl Your Toenails and Other Horrible Stories'? Oops. Here they are. Never mind."

  He held up several typed pieces of paper. "These may come in handy."

  She slipped the book and flashlight beneath her sleeping bag and crossed to his side. "What is it?"

  "Directions." He read the first heading. "'How to Set up Camp.'"

  Rachel snatched the paper from his hand. "Thank goodness."

  He flipped through the remaining pages. "Here's an interesting one. 'After Dark Activities.'" His mouth curved in a smile. "How did you say your friend made her living?"

  "I didn't." She took the papers, peeking at the one he'd indicated. Her brows shot up. Bonnie was more imaginative than she'd realized.

  "Let's get started. What's first?"

  Bonnie's list firmly in hand, Rachel helped position the campsite in a grassy corner with an excellent view of Francisca's grave and the Rancho. If anything interesting happened, they'd be sure to see it.

  Within half an hour, they'd finished. Sitting together, their backs to a gravestone cushioned with one of their sleeping bag, they watched the sun set behind the hills, the quiet and solitude cocooning them in their own private world. After a few minutes, Zach turned to her.

  "We have to talk," he said.

  Rachel stared in alarm. "About what?"

  He tugged her into his arms, brushing wispy bangs from her eyes. "What are you going to do if I debunk Francisca? That bill collector your cat chased off mentioned a lawsuit. Which means your financial situation is serious. Just how serious is it?"

  "You won't debunk Francisca. You'll see—"

  "Stop it," he insisted roughly. "You have to consider all the possibilities. Tell me what happens to you and Beulah if I do."

  "Nana could lose her home," she admitted reluctantly.

  "Could or would?"

  "Would." The response came whisper-soft.

  He closed his eyes. "Damn."

  "Francisca will come through. She'll prove herself to your satisfaction. I'll sell my book and pay off our bills." She fought to convince him. She fought to convince herself. "It'll work out. It will."

  After a tense moment of silence, he said, "I'm sure you're right."

  Oh, Zach. "You don't believe it, though, do you?"

  "No. Even if I give you the benefit of the doubt about Francisca, that doesn't guarantee the sale of your manuscript."

  "But my agent said—"

  He fixed her with a cool, direct look. "Does he have an offer in writing from a publishing house?"

  "No," she admitted. "But—"

  "Then you can't count on selling. You need a backup plan, another option if all else fails." Mutely, she shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. He didn't relent. "You have to face facts," he insisted, his words brutally frank.

  She turned on him. "Which facts? Facts like selling the locket? Nana will never agree to that. Never."

  "Not even if the only alternative is losing her home?"

  "No! It won't happen."

  "Rachel—"

  "No more, Zach. I don't want to hear any more." Twisting away, she hunched her shoulders, impatiently wiping a stray tear. "Check the colors of that sky. They're unbelievable. And did you notice the hot air balloons over there? I see them all the time."

  He pulled her back into his arms. "Maybe someday we can go up in one," he said, seeming to accept her change of subject.

  "Maybe." She rolled onto her hip and traced a finger along the buttons of his shirt. "What happened to you after Marie died?" She'd wondered for a long time, but had never quite found the nerve to ask.

  "Foster care."

  She'd suspected as much. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. It was the best thing for me. The family who took me in were warm and generous. They forced me back to school—"

  "Forced you back?"

  "Yes. Back." He shrugged. "I'd dropped out because we needed the money. Marie used every dime she earned to pay the psychics. My money went for food and rent. I was a big kid. No one bothered to question my age."

  Rachel looked away, shocked. What a horrible existence. She could imagine the desperation he'd felt as a child, his helplessness to alter the course his grandmother had chosen. "You obviously caught up. That couldn't have been easy."

  "My foster parents arranged for tutors. Math and science were my favorites. I devoured them."

  "Because they were facts and figures and absolutes," she guessed shrewdly. "No hocus-pocus, right?"

  "The exact opposite of hocus-pocus," he confirmed. "And now I use my math and science skills to expose spiritualists and other charlatans. I guess you could call it my mission in life."

  A tightness gathered in the pit of her stomach. "How do you choose the ghosts you'll debunk?"

  "I investigate the ones I suspect are scams, that earn money for the Madam Zufalos of the world."

  Never before had he seemed so remote, nor had she been so keenly aware of all that separated them. "Why did you pick me?" she finally asked. "What horrible act did I commit that classified me as another Madam Zufalo, or placed me on the same level as the spiritualists who'd preyed on your grandmother?"

  At first, she didn't think he'd answer. Then he laughed, the sound hard and mocking, the bitter humor clearly directed at himself, not her. "I picked you because of that damned book. I'd convinced myself you were some sharp number intent on conning the public with your nonexistent ghost. The irony of it. If it weren't so tragic, it would be funny."

  She studied him uneasily, confused by his words. "Why is it tragic? You don't feel that way about the book any more, do you?"

  "No. I understand why you wrote it."

  "Then—"

  "Have you ever committed yourself to an act you no longer believe in?"

  Alarmed, Rachel reached for her locket. She hadn't lost faith. She hadn't! "I don't think so."

  "I hope you never do. It's an unpleasant predicament."

  As if saying the words aloud would make them true, she said, "I still have my locket wish. I still believe in that."

  He rubbed a hand across his closed eyes. "Tell me about it," he requested in a raspy voice. "I want to know. I want to understand. You have to be faithful and make a bunch of wishes, is that how it works?"

  She smiled in delight. "You remembered. To be exact, I must have faith and wish for that dearest to my heart." She sighed. "You'd think it would be easy. But it isn't. Maybe that's because..." She trailed off, hesitant to admit to so glaring a shortcoming.

  "Because what?"

  She raised herself onto an elbow and regarded him with an unhappy frown. "I think it's because I've been wishing for money. I have a feeling Francisca might consider that crass. What do you think?"

  He smiled. "Is money what's dearest to your heart?"

  "No," she admitted. "Not exactly. Taking care of Nana is dearest to my heart."

  And loving you is dearer still. She inhaled sharply, fighting the instinctive thought. No. She couldn't love him. Not after so short a time. Not when he worked so hard to put an end to all she held most dear.

  But the harder she fought, the more the certainty took hold. She loved Zach. She'd known for a while now, she just hadn't been ready to face the truth. And she wanted, with an unparalleled desperation, for him to love her, too.

  Now she couldn't help wondering how falling in love would affect her locket wish. What about Nana? If she wished for that dearest to her heart—for Zach to love her—what would become of Nana and the bills and the house?

  Rachel sat up and inched away.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I... I—"

  "Rachel?"

  "I haven't been wishing for what's dearest to my heart," she confessed, anguished. He cupped her shoulders, his fingers massaging her tense muscles. "No problem. Change your wish."

  And choose Zach over her grandmother? "No! It wouldn't be right. I have to think of Nana. I have to put her first."

  "Shh. Calm down. Maybe wishing for money isn't the only solution to your problem. If Beulah's wellbeing is your primary concern, make that your wish."

  She shook her head, stricken, unable to see a way clear. "I don't think I can. I don't think it'll work."

  He kissed her with a tender warmth, the passion there but muted. "It's late. We should eat something and turn in. Too bad Bonnie gave us two sleeping bags," he teased gently. "One would have been much more interesting."

  She allowed herself to be soothed, allowed herself a respite from her fears and concern. "We could still make it interesting," she suggested, her candor drawing a husky laugh from deep in his chest.

  His arms tightened around her, as if they were reluctant to let her go. "I wish I knew what to make of you. You're too good to be real."

  She shook her head. "Not if you have faith."

  A bitter smile twisted his mouth. "I lost that long ago."

  "Maybe I can help you find it," she dared to suggest.

  "And if you can't?"

  She snuggled into his arms. "I have more than enough for two. I'll share mine."

  "You're on," he said gruffly and kissed her.

  He held her in an embrace that promised to make a reality of the magic and enchantment he'd denied. It promised a fairy tale forever after and eternal springtimes. It promised a life of joy and love and laughter lay within their grasp. She clung to him, wishing with all her heart that dreams could come true, that Zach would come to love her and build a future with her and join his world with hers.

  For the little time they had, she'd allow herself to believe in the possibility of her dream.

  To her disappointment, he pulled back and eased her away from him. "We need to stop now," he said gently.

  "Please, Zach. Not yet."

  "If we don't stop now, I'm not sure I'll be able to. And I've hurt you enough."

  She looked at him, looked him dead in the eye and knew what she wanted. She wanted Zach. She wanted him to make love to her, to leave her with a memory she'd never forget. She didn't care if Francisca showed—although she wanted that, too. And though she'd do anything and everything in her power to help Nana, making love wouldn't change whether or not they were able to save her grandmother's home.

  "I want you to make love to me," she told him.

  Chapter 9

  Zach didn't move. Hell, he couldn't move even if he wanted to, not when every part of him had gone into total meltdown. Of course, every part of him also surged to life, burning with a need that nearly brought him to his knees.

  "The security guard," he rasped.

  "Hector called in sick. We won't be interrupted unless... Kurt?" She lifted an eyebrow.

  Zach shook his head. "Has the evening off. Drove up to L.A. to visit an old school friend."

  "Maybe you're afraid Francisca might see us?"

  "I'll chance it."

  It wasn't his brain speaking, not when his brain screamed at him to say, "No. No. And hell no." The "I'll chance it" crack came from parts of him which had jumped to attention at her sweetly seductive suggestion. And they weren't about to let him back out. Somehow they seized his brain and downloaded it to a place he couldn't access and uploaded a single imperative.

 

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