

### Jay Greenstein

All rights reserved

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

Copyright 2013 Jay Greenstein

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

An Abiding Evil

 As Falls an Angel

 Wizards

 Foreign Embassy

Modern Western

Posse

Romance

Sisterhood of the Ring – Six linked novels

 Water Dance

 Jennie's Song

 A Change Of Heart

 A Surfeit Of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

# Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Author's note

Other Novels by Jay Greenstein

Chapter 1

The woman was boring, boring, boring. Jennie leaned back on the pillow and studied her, wishing the agency would send someone else, now and then. Gail's eyes fronted a soul as deep as a rain-puddle on asphalt, and were set in a face reminiscent of a sock-puppet. Old, fat, and with opinions that mirrored the lowest of the television talk shows, she sat by the bed, moving her lips as she read.

I live in a bedroom prison, and my warden is fashioned from mud.

For the dozenth time Jennie shook her head and sighed, wishing it were over—wishing the journey toward death would finally end.

But if nothing else, Gail was attentive, and with her sigh the woman lowered her book.

"Would you like to get some fresh air, honey? It's nice today, and we could sit in the yard for a while."

Being carried down the stairs like a baby was too much a reminder of her condition, and Gail smelled of ripe armpit up close, so she shook her head.

"A movie then? I could—"

"No. I'm okay, Gail. I just want to rest for a while." She closed her eyes, shutting out the room and shutting out the present; removing the sight of emaciated hands—turkey-claws scrabbling on the quilt—moving backwards in time, to when she owned the world. It took only a flicker of days to move from the runways of fashion to the bedroom of her confinement. Paris to purgatory in little more than a year.

If only David would come home.

But David was somewhere in Florida, questing after treasure he would never find. For her, he claimed; always for her. But he lied. Gold would neither restore her to health nor delay death by more than moments. He was searching because that was _his_ dream.

Oh brother mine, where are you now? I need you so much.

A tear squeezed from between her lids and trailed down her cheek.

I can't even raise my hand to wipe away a tear. Thank God I can't see myself in the mirror.

A door closed somewhere below, followed by the sound of voices.

_Mom and dad?_ Too early by months. Too late in the day for the housekeeper. _David?_ Could it be David?

Oh yes...please, God, let it be him.

"Is somebody there?" Gail called, getting to her feet.

"It's David," was the response, and Jennie's spirit took wing.

"David? Oh my God. Is that really you?" She scrabbled for the bed control but her fingers refused to cooperate. _Damn!_ "Cassie, get me up, and hurry!" So like David to come without calling—without giving her the chance to bring back something of her past with makeup.

Damn him. But bless him, too.

Bless him for cutting no slack at all, and for behaving as he always had. With David the ravages of MS were as nothing, and if he had to carry her to a chair that was no different from passing a napkin when they ate. No pity, and no tears.

God, how I missed that.

But this wasn't the time for self pity, or tears, so she called, "You fink. You couldn't call and warn me? I hate you." She struggled to run fingers through her hair to neaten it a bit.

And there he stood, filling the doorway, grinning—his long brown hair bleached nearly blond by the sun, framed by the bedroom door and looking like a pirate king. And then he was on the bed, fiercely hugging her to him. And then it _was_ time for tears.

After a moment, he pulled back to grin down at her. She'd almost forgotten how handsome he was. Now, tanned by the Florida sun, he brought a breath of summer to the winter of her spirit.

He rubbed her nose with his, then kissed her forehead. "Miss me, kiddo?"

"A little."

"Me too. But just a little." His grin belied that, as did his grip on her hands. For a long moment he simply drank her in, then he turned to the doorway, and the woman standing there, saying, "Come in, Ann. You have to meet Jen."

He brought a woman?

David never brought women to the house—at least not since her death-sentence diagnosis. And this one, based on her tan, had apparently come home with him from Florida. Something serious?

The woman he'd called Ann had the stance of an athlete, though something about her said she was more than that. Intelligence lay behind those gray eyes. It showed in the way they flickered around the room, taking everything in.

Interesting.

Added to that was hair the color of a daffodil—natural, too, it seemed, because Ann had tanned to a shade only true blondes can achieve, a color she would sell her soul for.

But of most importance, David's expression, and the warmth in his voice when he called out to her, said something was up. Most curious. But let him have his surprises.

Ann smiled in greeting as she stepped into the room, and her smile seemed real, not a formal, "Charmed, I'm sure," kind of thing. Then, in response to David's, "Sit over there," she crossed to the window side of the bed, excusing herself as she and Gail did a little dance of avoidance to allow her passage.

Ann tried to make it look as though the view through the window had her attention as she crossed over, but there was nothing to see but the budded limbs of the maple that filled the back yard. Shadowed from the late afternoon sun by the house, the tree was hardly worth anyone's attention. David would have warned her, but nothing can truly prepare you for the sight of someone lying like a skeleton on the bed. Again, she cursed David for not at least some notice that he was on the way. Darling sweet foolish David. So like a man.

She studied Ann in the moment it took to compose herself and sit opposite David: tastefully dressed, yes, though her clothing was obviously from the rack, and her makeup sparse and unprofessionally applied. A sniff said she wore no scent. Still, impressive, and easy to see why David would be attracted.

Something about her seemed familiar, though the memory refused to come. But Ann was sitting on the edge of the bed and waiting to be acknowledged, so, time to begin acting like a hostess, not a patient.

She pasted on a smile and said, "I have so wanted to meet a woman dumb enough to put up with my brother." A test, to see how Ann reacted. David contrived to look hurt.

"And I've wanted to meet you. David has been telling me stories of his little sister all the way here."

"Lies. All lies." Ann's smile was still real, a point for her.

She took the time to throw a punch in the direction of David's leg before saying, "So tell me how you met and became friends. I—"

"More than friends, Jennie," David said, patting her cheek, a smile literally dancing on his lips.

"I'll be downstairs, if anybody needs me," Gail said, picking up the rest of her things and walking to the door.

Jennie nodded acknowledgement, then turned back to David, as she said, "What means more than friends, brother mine?"

David's voice was quiet, almost a whisper, as he said, "Ann and I were married on Thursday, Jennie." His eyes were locked on hers, awaiting a response.

"You were married on..." She glanced toward Ann, and there it was, a wedding band on her third finger.

_Married?_ Apparently so. But there'd been not even a hint that he was serious about a woman—no word that he was even dating. Just one cryptic note about a mermaid, and that, less than two weeks ago.

"You bastard!" She threw herself against him, pounding on his chest and shouting, "You stinking bastard! You got married, and you didn't bother to tell me? No letters? Not even a call? You didn't even let me know you were _thinking_ about it? You...you..."

She just stared at him, lips working but nothing coming out for a moment. But David was David, and always would be. In any case, how could she be angry at the one person in all the world who she adored?

That being the case she clasped him to her and saying, "I am _so_ happy for you. But, I hate your guts for not telling me. I _still_ hate your guts." His letters spoke of being busy, and that he was spending most of his time at sea, alone. There wasn't even a hint of his seeing anyone, other than his comment, recently, that he had some interesting tales to tell about a mermaid he'd fished from the sea.

"I love you, too." Over Jennie's shoulder he said, "She's a little emotional at times."

"I am not," she said, drawing back to lean against the raised bed, once more. "I'm pissed...and with good reason. Now get me a tissue and tell me all about this." She included Ann in the conversation with a glance, saying, "I want to know how you met, and what happened, and how your search went, and...and _everything_."

God, what a wonderful day! David is back, and I have a sister-in-law.

That last would take some getting used to, though.

David insisted on wiping her eyes, then used a tissue himself.

"Well," he started, tossing the tissues in the direction of the trash can and taking both her hands. "For starters, _you're_ now filthy rich. We're talking millions."

"You found it? The ship?" That was almost as unexpected as his being married.

"Ann found it. And found the treasure, too, so it's hers. That's why I married her. For the money."

"Don't believe him, Jennie."

"I never do, but..." She turned to face Ann, saying, "Maybe _you_ should tell the story. Maybe _somebody_ will start at the beginning?" Then, because of a strong feeling she already knew her in some way, said, "I've seen you before, Ann, and recently. Who do you model for? I—"

"She doesn't model, Jennie," David said, pride strong in his voice as he said, "Though she could. Her stage name is Arianna."

Her jaw dropped and she stared. She couldn't help it.

"The mermaid? You're...her? I..." Billed as the mistress of aquatic illusion, Arianna was the star of Sea Kingdom's aquatic show. According to the news, only a few weeks ago she appeared from nowhere, to achieve national stature and become the darling of the tabloids. Thus far, no one had been able to penetrate the illusion behind her portrayal of a mermaid, so realistically done that most people came away believing she actually could transform into an aquatic creature in an instant.

And her big brother was the man the mermaid chose to marry? So _that_ was what he meant when he said he rescued a mermaid. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.

"Oh my God. I can't believe this. Can you—"

Ann held up her hands, saying, "I was a mermaid, Jeannie, but I don't..." She shrugged. "I'm not her anymore."

"You don't..." She shook her head, wishing for enough control to wave her hands in frustration. Instead, she said, "Okay. Enough bullshit, and enough teasing." She looked at them, in turn, saying, "Please...won't _somebody_ tell me what happened?"

After a moment in which David and Ann exchanged glances, Ann nodded, went and closed the room's door, and then sat on the bed, again, to say, "For me it started the night my landlady evicted me. I was living in..."

The story Ann told was unbelievable...and absolutely fascinating. A stranger, who might or might not have been an angel, had given Ann a ring—had stopped her on the street and put it on her finger. The result of that gift was that Ann was able to transform into a mermaid, tail and all, simply by going into the water. Somehow, Ann had been magically transported from the waters of Puget Sound, on the verge of death by drowning, to the waters near David's boat, as a mermaid. And that was only the start of the adventure, which seemed to have involved performing at Sea Kingdom, falling in love with her brother, rescuing him from a shipwreck, and finding the treasure-ship he had been seeking.

"And it doesn't work anymore? The ring? Its power is gone?"

"Seems so. At least where I'm concerned."

"Then that means...if you take it off you won't find yourself back under the water?"

"I doubt it. The woman who gave it to me told me to pass it on to a woman who needs its help, and didn't disappear after she handed it to me. At least I don't think she did. David thinks it does what it does till the person wearing it has solved their most pressing problem. I thought mine was to find a job, but it turned out that learning to trust people, and finding someone to love was the real problem."

Jennie never took her eyes from the ring as she said, "God, I wish...I..." She closed her eyes and shook her head, rejecting such foolishness.

"Never mind," she said, forcing a smile. It had been a stupid thought. Even if Ann's story was true, she'd become a mermaid unable to swim...as she was now unable to walk. Hardly an improvement, and death would not be delayed by even an instant.

"You're the one," Ann whispered, wonder strong in her voice.

"What?"

Ann touched her cheek then, warm as sunlight, gentle as brush with a butterfly's wing, voice intense as she said, "Listen to me, Jennie. Listen carefully, because I have something important to tell you...something wonderful."

"You have—"

"Shh...wait and listen." She slipped the ring from her finger and looked down at it for a few seconds, lost in thought. Then, as though waking, took Jennie's hand and slid the ring onto her finger before she could object, saying, "Never take it off...tell no one about it...and pass it on to another woman as I did to you—another woman who needs its help."

"But..." She stared at Ann, but then, startled by movement, looked down at the ring. It had slipped on easily—far too big—but as she watched, the ring settled into place, shrinking, till it fit as though made expressly for her. She shivered, filled with both wonder and fear.

"Touch it," Ann urged, "Just touch it."

She looked up, meeting Ann's eyes, clamping down on the fear that the ring's behavior summoned up. Ann claimed the ring held no danger, true, but this was too sudden, and too frightening. Almost, she wished this had been a dream, that boring, frumpy, Gail still sat by the bed. But this wasn't a dream, and she was waiting for a response.

"Touch it? But what happens if I—"

"No answers, and no questions, Jennie. Just do it, and you'll— Wait." She held up a hand, in an order to wait, frowning as though seeking a memory. Finally, her expression cleared and she straightened as if satisfied, though with what was impossible to know. She pointed to the ring, saying, "Touch the ring Jennie."

For a moment she searched Ann's face, unsure of what she was seeking. There was reassurance there–and strength. And that was enough. She crossed mental fingers and reached for the ring.

But Ann hadn't finished, and before her finger made contact, she grinned and said, "Just be ready for wonder."

She touched the ring.

"Where do you suppose she went," David said, looking back into the room.

"Not the faintest idea. I hope it's _warm_ water, though."

He laughed, then turned toward the stairs, pulling the door closed as he said, "We had better tell the nurse she has the rest of the day off and get rid of her, because there is no way we can explain where Jennie went. No way in hell."

The door clicked closed, and the sound of Ann's laughter mingled with their footsteps on the creaky old stair. Then, silence.

She stared at the closed door, reviewing the situation. Shouts went unnoticed. And it seemed she couldn't have even the smallest effect on David—or on _anything_. Things were there, and could be touched, but not moved. All her strength could not so much as straighten a crease on his shirt. And though she tried to stop him from leaving, was shoved aside when he moved as though she didn't exist. Most odd. And small—even tiny—objects might as well have been glued in place and magically resistant to breakage. Very strange.

Ann and David obviously couldn't _see_ her, either. But forget that, because she could walk again, and move in a way that had been impossible for far too long. That freedom came in an instant, with the touch of a finger to the ring. What also came was an instant change to the world, which became a pale echo of itself, colorless and gray. But the world hadn't changed. She had. She sure as _hell_ wasn't a mermaid, though. She, Jennie Nan, was now a ghost.

_So there is an afterlife after all._ It didn't seem a very promising afterlife at the moment, but at least dying didn't hurt. The situation also didn't match what Ann had promised, though. Maybe when she got near water the change to mermaid would complete? Only time would tell.

She looked down at the ring and laughed, feeling better than she had since she'd been handed a death sentence. So now she _was_ dead. Or was she? Certainly, this didn't feel like death—though not having been dead before there was no way to know what it should feel like. But alive or dead, the future was something to be anticipated and experienced, now, not dreaded. And that was a miracle.

"Excuse me," a voice said, from behind her. "Do you know the way out of here?"

Jennie turned.
Chapter 2

"What?" The boy appeared to be about ten, and he wore only pajamas. His feet were bare.

"I asked if you know the way out of here. I'm stuck, and you know how to get in, so..." He made a shrug of the hands. Presumably, he meant the gray world they presently inhabited, not the room, itself. Though that, too, posed a problem, because David had closed the door on his way out.

"Who are you, and how did you get in my room?"

The boy took a step backward, before defiantly saying, "I followed the lady who was just in here. She was sort of glowing when she got off the airplane. Nobody else does, so I thought she maybe could see me." He spread his hands, his voice bleak as he added, "She didn't, though." He stared at the floor for a moment, but then brightened and met her eyes, as he said. "But you see me, and you're glowing, now, so—"

"I'm glowing? In what way."

"You're just...you know...it's like there's a light shining on you." The boy pointed. "Your hair, and your face, and...you just are. Are you an angel?"

"Me, an angel? Little chance of that." She checked her hands—still clawed and ugly, though seeming a bit improved—part way between what they had once been and their state just a few minutes before. An interesting development, and worth investigation, though later, after immediate issues were resolved. In any case they were definitely not glowing.

She checked as much of her body as she could see, before saying, "I can't see it if I am, but I think the ring I'm wearing might be doing it." She studied the ring for a moment, before deliberately reaching a finger toward it. Carved from a single circlet of green stone, and with carvings cut into it that she wanted to study, it provided a mystery to be pondered later. For now, what mattered was to understand the situation, and take control of it.

Maybe touch was the switch that turned it on and off? She touched a fingertip to the stone. Nothing happened. Rapping it against a solid surface helped not at all.

"Am I still glowing?" When he nodded she slipped the ring off, laid it on the dresser, and stepped back.

"Still glowing," he reported. "Maybe if you put it on backward?"

She tried a variety of things, but drew the line when he suggested putting the ring on a toe. Apparently it had done its work, and that was that. She slipped it back on for safekeeping, and said, "You never told me your name."

"Jimmy. I'm Jimmy Stemphill."

"Hi Jimmy, I'm Jennie Nan," she said as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed, now as unyielding as a park bench.

"So tell me, Jimmy, how did you become a—" She stopped. It might not be a good idea to tell him he was no longer among the living.

"A ghost? I dunno. I just woke up one day and I was dead, like you. That was a long time ago, though. More than a week, even...I kind of lost track." He looked down for a moment, before saying, "I miss my mom, but I couldn't stay around there. Nobody could see me, and two nights ago my mom, she let the baby sleep in my bed. I figured it was silly to just stay there and watch. But now, I can't even find my way back."

Before she could respond, the boy pointed and said, "So do you know how to open the door? I haven't figured out how to move things, yet."

She shook her head. "I'm afraid not. I'm a lot newer at this than you are, remember." Then a thought occurred. "So what have you been eating...and drinking?" Since the outside world seemed inaccessible, nourishment might be a real problem.

That brought a disgusted look, and a response of, "Ghosts don't eat, and they don't drink...don't poop, neither."

"But...I'm breathing. If I'm not alive I shouldn't need to breathe. Right?"

He only shrugged, and said, "So? You only have to breathe if you talk. You're dead, remember? Geeze, don't you know nothing?"

"I...I guess not." But what he said made no sense. She was moving. That meant metabolism generated the energy needed to drive her muscles. And metabolism meant life. It meant she should need fuel, in the form of food. She started to tell the boy that, but reached out to touch his arm, instead. His skin was flexible under her touch, but cool, with the warmth of a manikin's arm.

Experimentally, she blew against her hand. It produced a breeze, or at least it felt like one. Given that the real world was beyond her, except so far as hearing and vision, what was she breathing? And if, by blowing out her breath she made a breeze, could that moving air be felt by the living? Another thing to think about, and perhaps try.

On a hunch she stood and went to the night table, where she stuck her finger into the water glass. It gave not at all.

Air moved aside but water didn't? What in the _hell_ was going on? So far, none of this made sense, either by theology, myth, or common sense.

"You can't drink," the boy said, adding, "nor pee, neither."

"So what _can_ I do?"

"Not much that's fun, that's for sure. I can't scare anybody, like a real ghost, and I can't talk to nobody, or do any of the things ghosts do on television. I can just..." He sighed. "I can just look."

If he could be believed, existence would be a succession of boring days—maybe boring nights, too, if sleep was no longer a necessity. She was about to ask when the sound of footsteps on the stair said they were about to have a visitor.

"Get ready," Jimmy warned. "If we don't get out before he closes the door we're stuck here."

After a moment the door opened and David leaned into the room, eyes searching for something, but there wasn't enough room to get past.

"So where did you leave it?" David shouted, over his shoulder. "I don't see it."

"I hung it over the chair, out of the way," Ann called.

David straightened and headed toward the chair at the foot of the bed, reaching for Ann's sweater.

When he was clear of the door, she hurried through the doorway, accompanied by Jimmy's jubilant shout of, "All right! Now, we only have to wait till they open the outside door and we're out of here."

He beat her down the stairs.

Jennie studied her brother with some pride, as he prepared to close up the house and leave. Damn, he looked good. And he had done well for himself. Ann seemed quite a woman, and more than a match for him, intellectually. She wasn't the woman she would have chosen for him, perhaps, but still, he seemed to have made a wise choice.

Much of their conversation centered on their adventures, and the people involved, with little said about Ann's past. Apparently though, she had a degree in some technical field—that much was obvious—and showed interest in David's oceanographic profession. But that aside, they obviously adored each other, and at one point she all but dragged Jimmy from the room, when their passion threatened to turn to lovemaking. But, thankfully, before she had much to explain to the boy, David remembered that if they were to reach his apartment before dark, they needed to start at once.

"Run through as soon as the door opens," Jimmy ordered, as David put his hand on the door handle. "If you try to follow him you'll get squished by the door."

Being squished was something she did _not_ want to experience. Would she be killed if she were to be trapped between David and the door? Could someone dead...die, or even bleed? A sense of touch persisted, unchanged, so pain was, presumably, still something to avoid.

"Follow me," Jimmy called, darting through the opening door. She tried, but misjudged, and ran into her brother's arm as he extended it to Ann, in invitation. Her coordination was still a bit iffy, most likely a result of months in bed. Running into David's arm was like running into a steel bar, and pain definitely was something to avoid. Helplessly, she tumbled over his arm and through the doorway, ending up sprawled on the landing. But that placed her in exactly the right place to be stepped on. Ann's foot was already descending when she threw herself over the side and to the lawn. A good choice, she supposed, but dropping to what should have been soft grass was exactly like landing on a bed of spikes. Pain _definitely_ was permitted to ghosts, she decided as she pulled herself free of the grass that had penetrated skin.

Gingerly, she eased upright to inspect the wounds. Where she'd used her palms to break the fall the skin was pocked with drops of oozing blood, as were her knees. Another impossibility. Ghosts shouldn't have blood. If she lost any, and couldn't drink to make up the lost liquid wouldn't she eventually run dry. _And die?_ That brought another question. What about sweat? People lost moisture, even when it wasn't in response to exercise. And if it _was_ occurring she would soon dry up like a fallen leaf. Another worry. But as usual, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

She sighed.

My new mantra: how the hell should I know?

She turned her attention back on the world just in time to watch David and his new wife walk around the corner of the house, and presumably, to his car. They imagined her swimming happily in some warm sea, learning to be a mermaid. If they only knew. She absently rubbed what would probably be a bruise—one of many—where David's arm had smacked into her stomach. So far, life as a ghost hadn't been a much fun. But she was out of bed, and that, in itself, was wonderful. Whatever happened, now, it had to be better than lying in bed waiting to be claimed by the devil.

David was gone. So be it. Time to see what the ring had in store. Besides, the grass was digging into her bottom.
Chapter 3

"Jimmy?" No answer.

Where had he gone? He wasn't in sight, so she went around to the side of the house, then to the yard, walking gingerly. The grass was sharp and her feet were tender. If only she'd been wearing slippers when she put the ring on. It would make things a lot easier.

No sign of the boy. Curious.

A circuit of the house showed no trace of Jimmy, and more shouting seemed a waste of time. He'd been following David and Ann. Perhaps he'd slipped into their car, and had expected her to join him? That made sense, but if he had gone with them that was that. David's apartment was in Falmouth, a short way from Woods Hole Oceanographic institute.

With her address book inside the house and unobtainable, following them was impossible.

Okay, Jimmy's gone, David's gone, and I'm on my own. But I'm on my feet, so it's time to find some other ghosts to ask what the hell's going on.

To that end she followed the street for a block to where it intersected with Springfield, then climbed aboard a pickup truck at the corner stop sign, to protect her tender feet and maybe hitch a ride into the city.

Chance brought a glimpse of water, and on a whim, she left the truck at a traffic light, then walked to the river's edge. Given that water was now as solid to the touch as the sidewalk beneath her feet, she simply _had_ to take a stroll on the water.

Two hours after having received the ring Jennie stood on the surface of the Charles River, watching the scenery flow by as the river moved toward Boston.

An interesting way to travel, and a lot easier on the feet than walking.

"Hey, look, people, I can walk on water!" The couple strolling the shoreline seemed unimpressed. They should be, though. Getting onto the water was a simple matter of stepping aboard, like mounting one of the airport people conveyors. Staying on her feet, afterward, turned out to be a _lot_ harder than expected. The surface of the river might appear serene from the shore, but serenity was an illusion. The river flowed to the sea, of course. But there were endless swirls and eddies, placing the surface she stood on into constantly in motion—brought about by the wind, the shape of the riverbed below, and the whims of Mother Nature. The currents, combined with the ripples moving in random directions, made for a difficult walking, and even a standing surface.

It took some time, and a few falls, to gain skill in reacting to the shifts and predicting the direction her foot would go when she put weight on it.

She waved a goodbye to the couple, then focused on staying upright.

Wave walking...a popular event at the ghost Olympics.

That brought a laugh. A trip to England on foot was out of the question, it seemed, but surfing, of a sort, might be a possibility—if she could come up with a pair of roller-skates.

Steadily, the river swept closer to downtown, and Boston's harbor. And as it approached the city the river widened, and the surface began to dance to a wilder tune as it neared the sea, making it difficult to keep from falling. Definitely, time to return to the land, so she checked the shoreline for the best place to exit.

Cambridge, on the left, offered one option. Boston, on the right, another. Cambridge offered tree-lined streets and stately universities. The Boston side was less gracious, with tenement apartments and tall buildings visible beyond the river's bank. Cambridge seemed the better choice, but the currents had already swept her closer to Boston's shore, so for the moment she accepted their judgment and came ashore near the Longfellow Bridge, then headed into the city.

So here I am in Boston...wearing my nightgown, you lucky people.

That brought a laugh. Once, being on the street nearly nude might have been the subject of a truly bad dream. Now it was reality, and funny. She gave thought to lifting the gown and flashing the unseeing passers-by, but aside from serving no real purpose, inflicting her wasted, and now bruised, body on even unseeing eyes was less than appealing.

Crossing from the curb to the street she stepped on a pebble and winced. The bottoms of her feet were tender, bruised by the hours of walking, shoeless.

The twinge of pain from her feet brought back memory of having fallen, when she left the house. Those bruises should still hurt. But other then her feet, there was nothing.

Curious, she turned her hands over to check the puncture-wounds on her palms. Could such wounds become infected? And if so, with what? Ghost bacteria?

But her palms, even on close inspection, appeared to be unmarked. That made no sense. The marks where the grass-tips had broken skin were gone. True, dusk made it harder to see, but after the fall to the lawn a good deal of blood had oozed from the wounds. She should be able to make out the marks, even in the waning light. A thumb rubbed on the palm brought no pain, though.

Healed that quickly? Impossible.

She felt her side, where she'd bruised it on David's outstretched arm. No pain there, no swelling, either.

Well, I'll be damned. A surprise a minute in this place.

But her feet _had_ been reminding her to be careful where she walked since leaving the house. Given that her palms were healed, why did her feet hurt? She walked on, thinking about that. Maybe the question to ask wasn't why her feet still hurt, but, why don't they hurt a lot more than they did? For the past few hours she'd been walking barefoot over needle sharp grass, gravel paths, and rough sidewalk. "Ouch" was an often-used word. Given that, she should probably be leaving bloody footprints by this time. She tried to check the bottoms of her feet, but balance skills still left a lot to be desired, and when she nearly fell over, decided to leave that till another time.

New mantra: What is, is. Move on, girl, move on.

So she moved on. But where to go now? A restaurant? That would be a waste of time. A church? That was a no. Since the doctor's diagnosis of MS, she and God weren't on speaking terms.

A show, then? A movie—a big screen in a darkened theater instead of a television screen—might be interesting. If nothing else it would provide a place to sit and rest, so she changed course, headed back toward the theater, passed on the previous block.

Getting in turned out to be tricky. Most people stepped through the door too quickly to precede them, and there wasn't enough room to get through behind them. But after a few minutes a young man held the door for his lady, so she slipped into the lobby, calling a thank you as she did. And luckily, the pair headed for the same romantic comedy she planned on seeing, so she was able to perform the trick a second time.

The theater was only a third full, which was good. Unfortunately, that presented a problem she hadn't anticipated. The seats, with no one in them, flipped to a vertical position. Sitting on the raised seat would be possible, but uncomfortable. Fortunately, some of the seats were stuck in the down position, so she chose one at the nearly deserted rear of the theater. The cushion didn't give under her weight, of course, but it would do. Hard or not, it felt good to sit down and rest. Walking was back as an ability, but apparently stamina wasn't part of the gift.

Leaning back in the seat she began to laugh.

I damn well ought to be tired. This is my first day out of bed, after all.

Eventually, the lights dimmed and the coming attractions began. Moments later she was asleep. When she woke, the theater was dark and the doors were shut. She couldn't leave.

° ° ° °

Stupid. This is so damn stupid.

The only light came from the exit signs, but they provided enough to show that she was alone.

Ghosts don't sleep. Why would they have to sleep?

But she had, and that was hard to argue with, even if it did make no sense.

She glanced at her watch. Too dark to make it out so she went to stand directly under the exit sign. After three. Probably, three in the morning.

Then it hit her and she stared at the watch, mouth open.

My watch is running? On what, the ghost of a battery?

For a time she watched the second hand tick its way around the dial.

Okay...I'm not dead. I don't know exactly what I am, but unless transistors and batteries keep on working in the afterlife I'm not dead...yet.

A comforting thought. Though there was no way to prove it one-way or the other. But that was a problem for later. For now there was a problem that needed solving.

Okay then, let's find a way out of here, Jennie.

Shoving had no effect on the theater's door, so she turned and walked down the aisle to check behind the screen, looking for a doorway. There was a small space there, presumably a waiting place for someone who might need to appear on the tiny stage fronting the screen, but it led nowhere, and appeared to be filled with cleaning supplies. But there had to be a way, so she went back to the double doors at the rear of the theater. Placing her back against the doors she planted her feet and began to push. Nothing happened so she pushed harder. Still nothing.

Move dammit. Move!

Still nothing, so she came erect—or tried to. She was stuck. Somehow, the center of her back was stuck to the door. When she pulled it felt as though her skin had been pinched in the space between the two doors.

Now what?

Awkwardly, she moved her feet closer to the doors, squatting a bit, and prepared to pull free. Then she stopped, frowning.

It couldn't be. Just couldn't be.

But there seemed to be nothing that made sense in the world since the conversion to ghosthood, or whatever it was, so why shouldn't she be able to compress enough to fit between the doors? It even made a strange kind of sense. Traditionally, ghost can pass through tiny spaces, though nothing that came to mind suggested _this_ kind of thing.

With misgivings, she braced herself against the doors again, crossing her fingers as she pushed backward.

If it starts to hurt I'll stop...if I can.

Blowing out a sigh, she sat on the floor, focused on where her feet disappeared between the doors. She wiggled her toes. They were there, and felt a bit confined, but they moved. At least it felt as though they did. But so far as she could tell, her toes—all ten of them—were currently occupying a space about an eighth of an inch wide. She shivered, and resumed pulling. The sooner she was free from the door the better. Through much of the ordeal she kept her eyes closed, though, because she had no desire to see what the space between the doors looked like from that close.

Almost free. But free to do what?

° ° ° °

I need a bath dammit. I'm probably stinking up the whole city by now.

But a bath wasn't in the cards, unless she licked a corner of the hem and used that; so she settled for taking off the nightgown and shaking it out, before using it as a towel, of sorts. It changed nothing, because, in the end, she had to wear it again, but it did make her feel a little better. Now if she only had a comb or brush. Finger combing, while it took the tangles from the hair, wasn't terribly satisfying.

Dawn brightened the lobby doors, bringing light but no feeling of warmth, not even to her thoughts. It had been a long night. There are only so many times you can read the same movie posters and candy box labels before you begin to go a little stir-crazy.

She thought about taking the slide-through route, but in the end, having one's skull pass through a space that small was wrong on so many levels that it wasn't something to willingly experience. In any case, there was nowhere she wanted to reach in a hurry—not at dawn.

Seven o'clock finally arrived, along with an old woman who came shuffling up to key one of the lobby doors open and prop it that way before she started cleaning the place.

Jennie sighed as she walked from the theater. Ann said the ring solved the wearer's problems. But if this was how it was going to solve hers there was a lot of boredom coming. No one to talk to and nothing to do but wander through the world and watch?

No wonder Jimmy had been at the airport to see David and Ann arrive. At least there, something was happening.

Abruptly, the self-pity vanished. Was it a hint, that Jimmy had been at the airport—a message to go there, herself? Perhaps there was someone waiting, someone glowing as Ann had been? Perhaps there was some country or city she should be visiting? Africa, maybe, or someplace else she'd never been. In fact, a little travel might be an interesting way to pass the time.

That decided, she started toward the corner. First things first, and that was a ride to the airport. For that the city's transit system would do, nicely.

Frustrated, Jennie stood on the newspaper-box as the river of humanity spilled around her and onto the sidewalk, welling upward from the train stop, below. So much for going to the airport—at least until the morning's flow into the financial center eased. Hell, it might be an hour or more before she dared get down from the box she'd climbed, to avoid being caught between what were, to her, moving statues. Brilliant idea, to arrive just at the start of the morning rush.

Then, _he_ came up the stairs.

Wow!

The man was special. Sure, she knew and worked with more than a few handsome men. The beauty game was her profession, after all. But _he_ was positively breathtaking. He had a smile whose memory, alone, could keep her grinning in response for a week. And those eyes.... What would they be like to gaze into first thing in the morning? It would take damn little encouragement on his part to convince her to try it out.

He moved up the steps with the easy grace of a dancer, eyes probing, analyzing the world—obviously pleased with what he found. This was a man who loved life; who loved people. Someone totally comfortable within his own skin. He was beautiful, and desirable—but at the moment, unattainable. She spread her arms, palms upward in supplication, calling, "Hey, up there! He'll do nicely to solve my problems, thank you."

She wasn't surprised when there was no response.

It's just as well, I suppose. If he could see me as I am—a soda-straw on legs—he'd turn and run...or I would.

He stopped in front of the paper box, so she squatted to bring her head even with his, saying, "You're beautiful. I'm sure you already know that, but you really are." He looked directly into her eyes, in response, and she froze inside. There wasn't the slightest doubt that he could see her.

"Now what could you be doing downtown, today, Jennie?" He seemed only mildly surprised to find a nearly undressed woman squatting on top of the box where he was buying a paper.

"I— What?" She made a quick check to be sure her nightgown hadn't hiked up too far when she'd squatted. How could he possibly know her name?

"Good morning, Miles. I have an appointment with Ned," a voice said, from directly behind. "An order from his highness. He needs me to sign something."

Jennie almost fell to the sidewalk as she tried to both turn and stand at the same time. Overbalancing, she stumbled over her own feet and fell backwards, tail first, folding double to frantically grab at the far edge of the box in an attempt to save herself. That helped, at least to an extent. The fall was actually stopped when she contacted her new friend—quite painfully—by jamming her derriere against his forehead.

"I'll see you later, then," the man said, blissfully unaware of what had happened, his voice coming from.... Best not to think of where his voice was coming from. It didn't matter that he wasn't aware of it. His mouth did not belong _there_. The heat of embarrassment rose in her cheeks, as she struggled to get back on her feet, once again wishing she could somehow take a bath.

Rubbing her bruised bottom, she deliberately focused on the woman, to take her mind from subjects she'd rather not think about.

Obviously wealthy, she wore what was certainly a Fanelli outfit—an original—that had to cost several thousand dollars. She wore it poorly, though, and its beauty was wasted on her, although she would never know it, because she carried a Carmichael bag that clashed horribly with the dress. No taste at all. Probably one of those fools to whom the label meant more than the look.

The man's dismissal of the woman who seemed to carry her own name was surprising. Was his destination someplace other than hers, or did he prefer not to walk with her? Given a choice, the latter was a better choice, because the woman was less than a match for him...and because, had he gone with her, she would have been jealous.

She studied the man as he watched the woman walk away, trying to determine if he had been glad or unhappy to see her. Unhappy seemed more likely.

It's a pity, but I'll never know who you are, Sweetie, because I can't follow you. I want to, but I can't.

Maybe, if she could see where he went, she could search him out when the sidewalk became a less dangerous place? She squatted again, on a whim, and placed a quick kiss on his lips as he leaned toward the box to finally take his paper. Like kissing marble, and just as unsatisfying.

The man stood, putting the newspaper under his arm, still watching the woman. Her gait clearly said she was miffed at the rebuke. Would he pick up on that and know her state of mind? Most men wouldn't, but he might have. He seemed the type. Then, as he finally walked around the box and toward his destination, inspiration came. She might not be able to follow, but she _could_ go with him. So, before she had a chance to talk herself out of it, she stepped from the paper-box to his shoulders, squatting and grabbing the top of his head for balance.

"Ride 'em cowboy," she said, laughing as she slipped onto his shoulders to sit, as she'd ridden Dad as a child. An interesting way to travel, and useful as a way to navigate a crowded area.

She traced a ringlet of his hair, and, still laughing, leaned forward till her forehead pressed against the back of his head. Waving her hands over him in what she hoped was a magical gesture, she said, "My mind is your mind, Miles, and you must obey. You have always loved me, and you always will." Then reality intruded, and she sat up, sighing and primly tucking the nightgown between her thighs so the material lay between them. The nightgown had gathered in front and hiked up in the back when she'd climbed aboard. It wasn't uncomfortable, but was sort of early in their relationship for such familiarity.

Apparently, they didn't have far to go. A short time later he turned toward the entrance of a towering office building and pushed through a revolving door. She had to duck a bit to clear the opening, but in all, a surprisingly easy way to travel. She was congratulating herself when an elevator door opened next to them.

He had been moving toward another elevator, ten feet away, while she prepared to slip from his shoulders. But now, he abruptly turned, leaving her far out of balance, frantically trying to keep from toppling to the floor.

But toppling became the only option, because her face was about to be slammed into the wall above the elevator door. In desperation, she took the only course open and threw herself backward, locking her legs around his neck and praying she wasn't about to slip off and shatter her skull on the marble floor.

The ploy worked, so far as saving her from a collision with the wall above the elevator, but her legs lost their grip on his neck, which left her hanging behind him, knees hooked over his shoulders, like the bar of a trapeze. To make matters worse, there were people following them, so before she could recover he moved to stand at the rear of the car, leaving her facing the wall, nightgown sliding toward the floor and over her face, blinding her. Adding another level of difficulty, he stood close enough to the back of the car that she was hard-pressed against the rear wall, making it impossible to either climb to his shoulders or slide off. And as if that were not bad enough, every time he shifted away from the wall enough to ease her discomfort, the nightgown came a little closer to slipping up her arms and dropping to the floor. In desperation she clutched at the material. It might be nice to take the nightgown with, assuming she could keep her legs hooked over her shoulder until he left the elevator. No one could see her, but still, it gave a measure of comfort to be wearing _something,_ ugly though it might be.

_Stupid! This is so stupid. It's really hard to be dignified with your crotch waving in the breeze and your breasts mashed against the wall._ She didn't even let herself think about what her head was pressed against, other than to thank God that she was facing away from him.

We really have to get to know each other better before we do this again.

She had not the faintest idea of how long she hung that way, or of what floor he finally got off on. Of more importance, the pain of having been squashed against the wall of the car had her taking short hard breaths. What little attention she could spare was busily berating her for having gotten into such a stupid situation in the first place. Little things like reading the floor number were not high on the agenda as he left the car.

But they were finally out, and rather than trying to recover her perch she let herself slip to the floor, using extended arms to break the fall.

Another set of bruises.

Luckily, no one got off the elevator behind him so she wasn't trampled—a worry that only occurred after she let herself slip from his shoulders.

The nightgown was virtually free of her body by this time, so after a few unhappy minutes of waiting for the pain to fade, she stood and pulled it the rest of the way off, then turned it right side out and slipped it on, again. The thought came that if she tore it, or it wore out, she had a problem. But as usual, a problem for later. Later, when it finally arrived, was going to be one hell of a busy time.

Feeling foolish for having even started this stupidity, and trying to ignore the latest bruising—which seemed to be becoming a continuous state—she looked around. Apparently, this was the lobby of a business, one that filled the entire floor. Instead of the usual directory of occupants, signs directed the visitor to the various functions of a company, identified as Gamble Inc., a name she didn't recognize. Miles was nowhere in sight.
Chapter 4

"Screw you, Ned. I won't sign." The woman's voice was angry.

The voice was coming from an office in what appeared to be executive row. Expensive furniture and expensive secretaries said the company was successful at whatever it did.

"Think of the alternative, then," a smooth voice replied. "I'll talk Miles into suing you again, and back him with the firm's money. I'll bet we can get another weekend of visitation a month, a night each week to have dinner, and maybe even...well, I'll let you fill that part in."

Silence reigned for a time, finally broken with a sigh, and, "You're a real bastard. In fact, you're the only person in this world I hate more than Miles, and that's saying a lot."

"True." The man's voice said, still unperturbed. "But I'm the bastard who's been protecting your interests, Toni, and those of the kids. Now it's time to pay for services rendered. So give me your proxy...or give me your children. The choice is yours."

Jennie peered into the office. The gold nameplate on the door said Edward Carson, but with a single glance at the man she nicknamed him Nasty Ned. He had to be the one the woman had referred to when she talked about an appointment with "his highness." His appearance matched the tone of her words perfectly. Dressed in an expensive suit, the man had the look of the devil about him. Smooth, might fit, as would devious and unscrupulous. This man had eyes that could draw blood with a glance—cold eyes that could watch the execution of an innocent without a shred of pity. In contrast to the man she'd ridden into the office complex, in these eyes there was no joy, only an insect patience that brought a shiver. As motionless as a serpent stalking a mouse, he waited for the woman to respond.

"And if I give you my proxy, what will you do with it?" She was weakening, and looking for something to rationalize a surrender. That much was obvious.

The woman lacked sophistication. Mousy brown hair, indifferently cut—the result of a shop with a name like Shear Madness—framed a pretty, though less than memorable face. Her clothing came off the rack from Walmart.

"What do you think I'll do? I'll stop the trolls from taking over. With your proxy added to those I already have I can keep control, even if darling Jeanette sides with the bleeding hearts...which she may well do."

The woman leaned back in her seat, studying the man from beneath lowered lids. "I assume you include my dear husband Miles as one of the trolls?"

Husband? Adonis was married to the washerwoman?

"It's not impossible that he's their leader. You and I are on the same side in this, I would think. I've never understood why you hate me so, given all I've done for you."

She laughed, explosively. "All _you've_ done for me? What the hell have you ever done for me?"

Jennie came into the office and went to lean against the wall. This was like being on the set of a soap opera.

Nasty Ned extended a hand, expansively, saying, "For one thing I've stepped on Miles every time he's made noises about gaining full custody of Ben and Josh. He could, you know. In the end, it's about money and influence. He has more than enough of both to take the kids, so either give me your proxy now, or he gets mine in the matter of the boys." He pushed a paper across the desk, then laid a pen across it.

"You have no heart, that's why," the woman said, as she picked up the pen.

"What?"

"You have no heart. That's why I hate you. When you walk through the door the devil is damn close behind."

The man was silent until she signed, then picked up the paper and handed it to him. As he placed it into a folder he said, "Most people think I _am_ the devil, so I suppose I should be grateful."

The woman stood, saying, "Is that all?"

Ned came to his feet, too, then pointed. "Other than returning my pen, that's all."

She tossed the pen on the desk and left. Ned smiled then. A cold smile.

He watched the doorway for a time, as though reviewing the scene she'd just watched, then shrugged and slid the folder into a drawer. Closing that, he keyed an intercom and said, "Sally, see if you can find my sister. She's probably annoying Stephen, about now."

"Gotcha boss," the intercom returned.

Interested, she studied the man as he worked at his desk, focused on a document he pulled from his in-basket. His relationship to Miles was unmistakable. They were probably brothers. Remove the mustache; change his hair color to blond, from her own jet-black, and you had a clear resemblance. But more than that separated them. Far more. Miles loved his human brothers. That clearly showed in the way he moved, and in his smile. This man preyed on humanity. To him getting his way was a matter of bending people to his will by any means available, and to hell with what they wanted.

She shivered, and was about to leave when the woman Miles had called Jennie slouched through the doorway. Now that she was looking for it she, again, could see the family resemblance. More to Ned than to Miles, though. This woman had the same predatory look around the eyes. Without a word, she went to sit in the same chair Toni had been occupying. But where Toni's body had radiated fear, she projected disdain for the man behind the desk. She put the coffee cup she'd been carrying on the corner of the desk, then pointed a finger toward the portrait dominating the wall behind him, saying, "Daddy Dear needs dusting."

"You won't get him, you know."

'Who? The old man?"

"Him you can have, dust and all. It's Stephan you won't get."

The woman grinned. "Bet?"

The man took a long breath, before saying, "For bed or desk, Jeannette?"

"Either, if the stakes are worth it, but I really don't want to screw him, I want to screw you. He's just the way I'll do it."

Ned laughed. Because he found what she'd said amusing or because he thought the game interesting? Probably both. There was much about them both that was unknown, but still, their situation and the duel, was fascinating.

"So what was so important that you needed me down here today?" Jeannette asked.

"The trolls are restless, and someone may be trying to push me out again. There are games being played, and I may need your proxy."

She shrugged. "Why? You never did before."

"I know, but someone has been stirring up the little people. Spreading rumors among the minor stockholders that I'm about to be indicted. And funny things are happening on the street. It could make a difference."

"And are you? About to be indicted?"

"I need your proxy, Jeanette."

Interesting. Was he avoiding the question or did he think it beneath notice?

The woman busied herself with the coffee for a moment, finishing it and setting it aside before saying, "I've always voted with you before, Ned. Why would you think I'd change now?"

"Honestly?"

"Yes, honestly."

There was a long pause, while those insect eyes studied Jeanette, leaving Jennie wondering what was going on in that skull. Who would have guessed that the world of business would be so entertaining as a spectator sport?

Finally, he said, "You've become too successful in your own right. If Gamble crashes it means little to you, financially, but if you cast the vote that kills it you have your revenge on the old man for leaving you only a sixth of the business, while giving Miles and me each almost a third, each."

"You could have fixed that. Miles was agreeable."

"We've gone over that. There were reasons, then. Now it no longer matters."

"It matters." That was spoken almost under her breath. Louder, she said, "So you don't trust me."

"There's too much at stake."

"Stephen, then."

"What?"

"I want Stephen. I get him now, or you take your chances."

Ned blinked. She had apparently hit him with something unexpected.

"He doesn't want to change jobs," he essayed, mildly. "Your interest was fairly obvious, so I asked."

"He will. The work, itself, will change his mind, the money will help even more." She hesitated, then cocked her head a bit before adding, "I actually do need him. I fired Slackmeir a week ago."

There was a pursed-lip smile on his face, as he asked, "In anticipation?"

She grinned in return. "In anticipation. I hear the same rumors you do."

This is getting interesting.

Jennie moved to where she could see Jeanette's expression more clearly.

"From who? Prince Charming?"

"And others." Amusement colored his words. Did he mean Miles when he said Prince Charming? It appeared so.

The pen appeared, as did another sheet of paper. A proxy form, she assumed.

"Sign and he's yours... _if_ you can convince him to go."

"Your word is your bond." Jeanette said, grinning. She signed the paper, then blew him a kiss and left, leaving the coffee cup sitting on the desk.

She was barely clear of the door when he snatched up the phone and dialed, then spoke, hurriedly. "Stephen...she's on her way. Play the reluctant lover, and be sure to hold out for twenty percent, at the least." He listened for a few moments before saying, "Yes, she's a bitch, but she's good at what she does, so I think you'll like it there. Now hang up before she sees you using the phone. We'll talk later." When he put the phone down he was grinning.

_So it was all a game?_ But who was screwing and who was being screwed? And what was the prize? It seemed a complicated game.

But she was not here to watch a monster at work, so she headed toward the door, only to come skidding to a stop as a man appeared there, an angry man, by the look of him. Edward Carson seemed to have that effect on people. She stepped back, hurriedly, as four men came into the room, led by the one she'd nearly run into.

"I'm Zack Talbot, Mr. Carson. I'm with Wolston Manufacturing, and—"

"And you're too angry to wait for your appointment this afternoon. I know. I've been expecting you." He remained seated at his desk, seeming neither surprised nor intimidated by the man's anger. The other man, however, visibly wilted. This, obviously, wasn't going as he expected.

"There are chairs at the conference table, gentlemen, drag them over here while I have coffee brought in." Without waiting he keyed the intercom and said, "Coffee, Sally, please."

"Already on its way, Mr. Carson."

Impressive. The men would be intimidated by that efficiency, and the menial task of dragging the chairs from the table to his desk would defuse their anger.

"Now sit," he said, "And I'll tell you why I was expecting you." He pointed at the man who had introduced himself as Zack Talbot, not waiting till they were all seated. "You've been managing the electronics division, so this buyout can't possibly have come a surprise to you."

"Not a surprise," the man began. "I knew we weren't pulling our weight, lately, but—"

"But you've known Stu Knox for twenty years, and you think it stinks that I'm closing the Alabama plant and selling it off." He waved his hand, encompassing them all as he added, "You all feel I'm a heartless bastard who plans to dismantle the company and screw everyone in it...that I don't give a damn about anything but money. Right?"

Jennie sidled around to the side, to better see the men's faces, as well as his. Now, they looked uncomfortable, not wanting to come right out and call the man a bastard.

"Well you're right. I am a bastard," he said. "And that plant has been a drain on the company for years. They've been putting out products no one wanted—second rate products, at that." He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the desk, as he said, "And you should have seen that for yourselves."

He glared at them for the space of three breaths, then leaned back and looked them over, mouth twisted as if in disgust, before he said, "Money, gentleman. It's _all_ about money. A company that makes money survives. Yours has been losing money _because_ of your mismanagement."

The faces of the men had gone ashen. But he hadn't finished with them. In an icy voice, he said, "Your company grew, gentlemen, but _you_ didn't. And you have not the faintest idea of what went wrong." He let them think on that for the space of two more breaths, before he added, "The Alabama plant will cease operations at once. The rest of the company will undergo a twenty-percent reduction in force immediately, with another ten percent to go within the month." He leaned forward, once more, his voice like stone as he said, "But during the next year, gentleman, Wolston will begin to turn a profit. You can bet on that."

The men were staring, mouths open. After a moment their leader said, "But...but what about the people? You're destroying the lives of five thousand people in Alabama, alone. Some of them have worked for Wolston for over twenty years. Surely there's something..."

That was enough. Ned Carson might be absolutely right about the plant losing money. He might even be right about the need to close the plant to save the company, but to buy it, gut it, and toss people onto the street with such callous disregard was monstrous. At that moment the men facing him must have realized that they had not only wasted the trip, they were in exactly the same situation as the people in their Alabama plant, because fear was growing in their eyes.

She walked to the door, wishing she'd never come into the office. Before she left, however, she turned to the man at the desk, saying, "You really are the devil, Mr. Nasty Ned. But someone's going to best you one day. It's just a shame I won't be there to watch." A fragment of a folk song came to mind, and she sing-songed, "Oh the devil, he went to Market Town, and he found his match in Jennie Brown. She was sweet and..." The song spoke of the devil's comeuppance at the hands of the lady Brown. But she never got to that part, because the man was staring at her slack-jawed, mouth forming an "O" of surprise. This time there was no one standing behind her.

"Who are you?" he whispered, sounding shaken. "And what do you want with me?"

She met his stare for a long moment, stunned. Then, with a cry of, "Oh shit," she turned and ran.
Chapter 5

In the end there was no place to go, and no place to hide. Doors wouldn't open, and though she could probably squeeze through any opening, that would take time she didn't have.

Shit, shit, shit. Maybe he really is the devil.

She stopped by the elevators, poised to run, again, but after a moment, relaxed. There appeared to be no one following. The after-affects of the adrenalin burst that sent her scurrying out of the office left her with trembling hands.

"Why didn't you come with an operator's manual, dammit," she said to the ring. There must be _some_ rules to how the thing worked. There _had_ to be. But nothing made sense. Things just...happened.

After a few seconds, when no one showed up at the elevators, she cautiously walked back to the office area. The world was still a study in shades of gray—which seemed to indicate that for her, at least, nothing had changed. If everyone could see her, though.... But that was something she didn't want to even think about.

But there was no more reaction to her presence than there had been before.

_Maybe I only thought he saw me?_ That rated a head shake. He _had_ seen her, and _had_ spoken to her, directly, so his office, at least, was off-limits.

But no one else had been able to see her. Interesting. Why him? And why hadn't he noticed her until she'd called him the devil? Was it that she'd addressed him, specifically? Not likely, because she'd spoken directly to Miles, too, from even closer. Hell, she'd kissed the man. Maybe the rules were different above the tenth floor, or between the hours of eight and five? Something like that would be almost expected when dealing with the ring.

With little more to lose, she went to one of the secretaries, in an area away from Ned's office, and said, "Excuse me. I'm lost. Is the Warren Agency on this floor?" Hopefully the reference to a mythical modeling agency would at least partly justify showing up in a nightgown.

But the woman continued to ignore her. One problem solved, but a bigger one remained. The man wasn't going to stay in his office forever. If she stayed on the floor, there was a good chance they would meet, and how could she explain her presence? Certainly with nothing that made sense.

So, what next? Stand by the elevator and leave the offices the next time the doors opened? Stay and brazen it out? After all, he seemed to be the only one able to see her. And who would believe him when he claimed to be talking to a woman no one else could see? In fact, baiting him into looking like an idiot might be the poetic justice needed to punish him for treating people like toilet paper, to be used and discarded.

But in the end, going back to Ned's office was a bad idea. It would be asking for trouble, and in any case, she had no desire to, and intention of, having a conversation with the man.

Instead, she continued exploring. There was the small matter of finding Miles.

On the far side of the floor she found an office with the nameplate, Stephen Carr. The Stephen who had been under discussion in Carson's office? She peeked in and found a man in his middle thirties, with a medium shade of hair that was probably brown, because he didn't have the complexion of a redhead. Not being able to see color was becoming an annoyance.

"No, I don't understand it, either," the man was saying, into the phone. "Last week Mr. Carson was chewing me out for what happened on the Hammond project. It wasn't my fault, but I thought he was going to fire me then and there. This week he said his sister wanted to hire me away, and _told_ me to hold out for a raise when she talked to me. He even told me how much to ask for."

Apparently, there were wheels within wheels when it came to Ned's dealing with his family.

He listened, then nodded. "I know...and I will. But listen to this. His sister stopped me in the break room on Monday to tell me how much Mr. Carson liked my work. That was before he told me she wanted to steal me from him. And just a few minutes ago she came by my office and gave me a sales pitch for coming to work for her. I pretended to be unsure, and when I did, she offered me a twenty percent raise to go with her.... Yes, twenty percent. So of course I said yes, which is why we're celebrating by taking your parents and mine out to dinner tonight. Is that amazing, or what?"

She left, then, because Mr. Nasty Ned and his dirty tricks had her feeling unclean again. The meeting with his sister had been a setup from start to finish.

_What a miserable bastard._ She shuddered. That she had spent more than a single second in his office made her want to bathe so badly she began to itch. He had not only gotten the proxy he wanted, he had, apparently, suckered his own sister into demanding he give her Stephen, someone _he_ was on the verge of firing!

It took a few minutes, but she finally found Miles. His office lay in the opposite corner of the building from Ned's. Symbolic? Probably. But no matter the reason, he was worth the search. The man was every bit as handsome as she remembered. He had no secretary, though. His office was one of a string of offices lined up along the outside wall of the building. Slightly bigger than the rest, yes, but scarcely what would be expected for someone who owned nearly a third of the company. Nasty Ned's doing? Probably. The derision in his voice when he called Miles Prince Charming had been obvious.

But how did Miles feel about Ned? Perhaps if she hung around the offices for long enough she would find out. But learning more about Ned was only idle curiosity at work. The man she really wanted to know about was Miles. Was he the kind of person he seemed, or only an empty smile? The modeling business brought contact with too many of that type. There was nothing wrong with them, and they made good arm decoration when out on the town, but conversation with them tended to be somewhat limited.

As she took a seat on the edge of his desk, she found something else to like about the man. He had an excellent clothes sense. Nasty Ned dressed in an expensive but uninspired business suit. Miles wore a lightweight sweater-shirt that fit him perfectly, and lay against his skin in a way she wished she could. His hair appeared to be a dark shade of blonde, just short enough to be on the good side of shaggy. One lock of it had slipped onto his forehead in an enticing way, one that brought an urge to brush it back, just to watch it fall forward again.

But after ten minutes boredom set in. He was reading the paper he'd picked up outside the building. Did he not have anything that needed doing? Was he there only as a figurehead? Possible, yes, but figurehead made no sense. The man could have stayed home and collected the same salary. He owned the business, for God's sake—or at least some part of it.

For ten minutes more she waited. He interrupted his reading to make an appointment for later that afternoon, but hearing only his side of the phone conversation gave no idea of who he would meet, or even if the meeting was to take place outside the office.

But watching a man do nothing wasn't an entertaining way to spend the day. She tried reading the paper along with him, but he seemed to delve more deeply into the articles than did she, and he had differing interests. And in any case, the latest news held little interest. Before yesterday, her thoughts focused on nothing more than hating Gail and anyone else who was able to look forward and see life, rather than death. Now, of what interest was news of the world to someone who had no way to interact with reality?

She was sitting on the desk, deep into meditation, when a man stuck his head into the doorway and said, "Miles, Baby.... You got a minute or two for the old Tin-man?" He came to the desk, extending his hand, a grin creasing his face. Unfortunately, she was in the path of that hand, and as she toppled backward off the desk she decided that a little more forethought on where to sit would cut down on the bruise rate.

This time she had broken the fall with her head and shoulder. Thankfully, the floor was carpeted. Still, it hurt, and busy recovering from the pain she missed several seconds of the conversation.

"I wondered what had happened to you," Miles was saying when she struggled to her feet. He had come around the desk—the other way, thankfully, so he hadn't trampled her—and had the other man's hand enveloped in both of his. "How've you been, Jack? And how's Belle doing? It's too damn long since I've seen the pair of you. We have to get together soon." Obviously a good friend, though the man didn't seem the type Miles might choose for a buddy.

"I've been great, Miles, but I didn't know they moved you so I couldn't find your office. And the traffic today..." He shook his head, and took the seat that Miles motioned him toward. Definitely not the kind of person she'd choose for a friend. He had a ferret-like way of peering at Miles. But, maybe she was just being protective. Miles, certainly, seemed to approve of him.

"So sit, Jack," he said. "And tell me what's been happening." Miles moved to take his own seat, leaning toward the man in an attitude that said he truly was interested.

She dusted herself off, then gingerly probed the back of her head, where it had contacted the floor. It hurt but didn't seem serious. Hopefully, she didn't have a concussion. She had the beginnings of a headache, though.

So where the hell would I find a package of ghost aspirin?

Wincing, she took a seat on the credenza behind Miles, well away from both of them. No sense tempting fate a second time.

"Well," the man began. "I hardly know where to start. The family's fine, and Sue sends her love, but I really wanted to talk to you about the project." He spread his hands. "It's in trouble...again."

As they spoke she was forced to guess at the blanks, but it appeared that the man managed a program that refurbished abandoned housing, then granted interest free mortgages to people who normally couldn't have afforded their own housing. The idea seemed to be that if the person living in the house owned it, they would care for it and keep it in good condition. Apparently, construction costs had been higher than anticipated.

Eventually, the man left, with a promise that a check would be cut and a date to meet for dinner. That concluded, Miles reached for the phone.

As he arranged to have money transferred to some account or charity, she thought over what had happened in Ned's office. Though it made not the slightest sense, like everyone else, the man couldn't see or hear her until she sang that stupid song about the devil. Had that been the trigger? Having a scrap of a song penetrate the wall between her world and his almost made sense, given the crazy logic of the ghost world.

Certainly, something worth trying, so she stood and walked to the front of his desk, smoothing the gown, then her hair—wincing as she touched the bruise on the back of her head.

She waited until he completed the call, then took a deep breath and sang, "In the quiet morning, there was much despair..." Another folk song, another favorite. Best not to sing about the devil, this time, but still, no sense in changing the formula.

She got to, "That poor girl, tossed by the tides of misfortune," when it became obvious that he could see her. His eyes had become very large and his mouth dropped into an "O" of surprise. She stopped singing and waited, smiling. Damn, the man was cute, even like that.

He sagged back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her as he gathered himself together.

"Are you..." he stopped, then licked his lips before saying, "Are you here for me? I...am I to die?" He hesitated for a moment before adding, "Now?"

She laughed, tickled by the idea that he would mistake her for the angel of death.

She shook her head, saying. "I'm not that kind of ghost." Perhaps she should have chosen a happier song. Hearing the word despair from a ghost, one who materializes in your office, can't be terribly reassuring.

He stared for several seconds, before he echoed, "Not that kind of ghost." It must have been quite a relief because he closed his eyes, then bowed his head for a moment—saying a prayer of thanksgiving, she assumed—before looking up and saying, "Then why are you here? I—" He stopped, abruptly, frowning, before saying, "Where the hell?" He looked around, spinning a full circle, before rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes and saying, "My God, was that real?" He continued to search, as though he expected her to reappear on top of his bookcase, or behind him. Apparently, breaking eye-contact broke the spell. Good news because it meant Ned could no longer see her, but bad news so far as holding an easy conversation with Miles. With a shrug, she went on with the song. "Barely here to tell her tale...rode in on a sea of misfortune—"

_Whoops. Not the best song to sing if you want to reassure the man, Jennie._ On the other hand, the next line, "Rode out on a main-line rail," was what she hoped would happen to her, in the end. But no matter, he, obviously, could see her again.

"You disappeared," he said, accusingly.

"You can't look away or I have to sing myself back again."

"I can't...I— Wait, who are you?" He frowned, then amended it to, "I mean who _were_ you?"

"My name is Jennie Nan, and I _think_ I'm still alive...at least sort of."

"Sort of..." He cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as he said, "Am I looking at some sort of hologram? Are you in some, uhh, lab somewhere?" He stood, not taking his eyes from her as he did, and started around the desk. Obviously, he planned to verify, for himself, whether or not she was solid.

"Please," she said, taking a quick step backward, to stay out of reach. "I'm not a projection, and I really am here, but you might hurt me if you tried to touch me. You wouldn't feel anything, but...well, I would." She prepared herself to run. A touch would be no more than a push, but if he tried to grab her, even gently, that could be trouble.

But he stopped, and after a moment, sat on the edge of his desk, blinking in thought before saying, "How did you get in here?"

Apparently, blinking and looking away weren't the same so far as making her vanish. Interesting, but again, something to speculate on later.

What should she tell him as a reason for being there? That she thought him handsome, and had ridden into the office on his shoulders? A better opening line than "what's your sign?" but there _were_ limits.

"I'm exploring," she finally said. Not exactly a lie.

"Exploring..." He seemed to have the habit of echoing conversation. Or perhaps he was simply still in shock. Certainly he had reason to be upset. Only a moment ago he had also had reason to think he was being visited by Lady Death.

With a visible effort he gathered his resources and said, "I hope you know you're scaring the shit out of me." But his smile said he was at least partially recovered.

"I know, but it's not deliberate, if that helps any. I wanted to talk with you, and singing seems to make me visible. I don't know why."

He digested that for a time before saying, "You said you didn't think you were dead, but you also called yourself a ghost. Can you explain that part, at least?"

She shrugged. "No. This is kind of new to me. Yesterday, I was alive. Then I..." Should she mention the ring? Probably not. He wouldn't believe it, anyway. She still had trouble with the idea, and she'd been experiencing it. Instead, she said, "I somehow slipped into this state, body and all."

"Body and all? What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not a spirit, in the conventional sense. I can be hurt." The memory of pain made her rub her head again. Already, the ache there, and in her shoulder, was fading. The headache had vanished. "But I heal pretty quickly." She glanced at the hand that had touched her hair and found a thin smear of red. "I bleed, though," she added, showing him the blood.

That brought a new frown, and, "You bleed all the time? And always from the same spot?"

"No." She suppressed the urge to wipe the blood from her hand, mostly from a lack of something other then the nightgown as a place to use, then realized what he was getting at and added, "It's not that I was killed by a blow to the head, and then keep on bleeding forever. I...well, I fell off your desk and hit my head."

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"You fell off my desk..." He went back to sit behind the desk, inserting its bulk between them, before saying, "How did you..." He waved a hand, as though erasing his question and said, "Umm...you look as though you've been sick. Are you sure you didn't..."

"No, I didn't die without noticing it. I've had multiple sclerosis for some time. That's why I look this way. I was stuck in bed, but nowhere near dying."

He digested that for a time, before raising an eyebrow a trifle and saying, "Well, okay then. You didn't die, but you _did_ fall off my desk. Why were—"

"I was tired, and sat there to rest. When, umm...Jack came in I had to move out of the way and I sort of, well...I fell off the desk."

"And landed on your head."

"Sort of. I was sitting lotus and didn't have time to straighten my legs and move out of the way. I'm not usually that clumsy, but I've been sick."

A comb, I'd kill for a comb...and a brain.

He was grinning, and he had a beautiful grin, but he was grinning at _her_ stupidity.

Another raised eyebrow, a shake of the head, and, "I hope you know you're just blowing me away with this." He waved his hands, making small circles of confusion as he added, "The idea that I would talk to a ghost, living _or_ dead, today—or ever—is one I..." He dropped his hands to the desk. "Well I never expected to spend this morning actually doing it."

"I suppose, but I never expected to _be_ one, so we're even, I suppose."

"There is that...I suppose." His grin was positively beautiful, and she couldn't help but respond.

"So now what?" he said, leaning back in the chair. "Shall I have coffee and Danish sent in?" He was accepting this with remarkable aplomb.

"That would be nice, but I can't seem to effect anything in the normal world. I wouldn't even be able to sniff at it."

"A shame," he said, sounding sincere. "I've not really thought about it before, but eating can be as much a social interaction as satisfying a need."

"Exactly. But I don't seem to have to eat or drink. It makes no sense, but...well, that's how it is." She shook her head, ruefully, and drew a sympathetic smile with, "As silly as it sounds, I miss being hungry."

But he had asked what she expected next. All that came, though, was, "We could talk about you, if you like, so I know who I'm talking to."

"Talk about me?" He shrugged. "What do you want to know? I'm thirty-three, my name is Miles Grayhill-Carson, and my wicked stepfather built this business. His last name was Gamble, which is where the company name came from." He waved a hand to indicate the floor and the people around them.

"Wicked stepfather? The way you said it sounded practiced."

"It is, I suppose. But he was just that. He married my mom when I was fifteen, and she died two years later. To get away from him, I presume. He was a world-class bastard—a rich one—and she was his trophy wife...though she didn't know it when she married him. He could be charming when it suited him."

She digested that before asking, "And you?"

"I'm charming, too."

"No, I mean—"

His grin said he was teasing—something she should have realized. Apparently, falling on her head had scrambled her brains; or more likely, the situation did that. Either way, no time to speculate, because he was going on.

"I think I was a trophy kid. He put me on display, now and then, but aside from that I hardly saw him. Mostly, he sent me to boarding school to keep me from being underfoot." He hesitated a beat, then waved a hand at her, saying, "You?" Apparently, he didn't want to talk about his own upbringing.

She went to sit in the guest chair, to rest, and give a second or two to try to get her brain back in operating order. And when sitting, if she didn't lean back, the nightgown wouldn't lie against her body, so maybe she wouldn't look so cadaverous.

"Well, there's not much to tell," she finally said. "As I said, my name is Jennie Nan. I've lived just outside Boston for most of my life. I went to local schools, B.U. for college, and I did some modeling before..." She suppressed a sigh, and said, "When I got sick I was twenty-four."

He studied her for a moment before saying, "I don't remember seeing your face, what did you model."

"Women's sportswear, mostly. Not the kind of magazines you might be reading."

"You never know..." He raised an eyebrow for a moment, then laughed, as he said, "No, I suppose not. I would like to have seen you when you were healthy."

It wasn't much of a complement. Still, it had been a while since anyone had given her even that much. She thanked him, suppressing the urge to add, "I suppose." Then, she remembered something she'd been wondering about. She indicated the area around them and asked, "Exactly what does Gamble Inc. do? I've been looking around for a while and I haven't been able to tell. I know your brother is closing a plant in Alabama, but not how you come to own it."

He blew out his breath in a long sigh, then shook his head. The smile vanished as he leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk as he said, "I didn't call my stepfather wicked because of the way he treated me. I was pretty well ignored."

"Oh."

"Oh, is right. He was a pirate. Gamble Inc. was his pirate ship...still is. His hobby was murdering companies, just for fun. His avocation was selling the carcasses for more than they were worth. His motto was, 'I never met a man I couldn't cheat.' Shake hands with that bastard and you had better count your fingers, afterward, to see how many he'd stolen."

She thought back to the picture of the old man in Ned's office. His mouth was dour and his eyes, hard. Easy to see that man being what Miles claimed.

But one thing didn't make sense, so she leaned forward a bit, saying, "So why do _you_ stay? From what I can see, Ned's like the old man; but you're not."

He shook his head, and sat up. "You're wrong about that. Ned's driven, and he's focused...he's even evil, but he's not as evil as the old man, or in the same way. Only one other person I know could be. His talent is gardening, with a specialty in pruning. He buys up sick businesses, prunes away the dead wood, and makes them profitable for Gamble Inc." He shrugged, then, before adding, "I manage, The Gamble Trust. The old man set the trust up as a way to cheat the government out of their tax money." He smiled. "So the Bad Baronet rakes it in the front door and I shovel some of it out the back."

"Bad Baronette?" The reference seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place it.

He studied her for a second, before he said, "Have you ever seen Ruddigore? It's—"

"I remember; it's a Gilbert and Sullivan play, and the baronet is a central character, right?"

"Right."

"I know of it, but I haven't actually seen it."

He nodded, unsure if she'd just been given a plus for knowing who wrote the play or a minus for not having seen it. Perhaps both. But now wasn't the time to dwell on that, because he was saying, "In the play, the Baronet of Ruddigore is under a curse. He has to do one evil deed every day or die, horribly. His solution is to do the evil deed early in the morning and spend the rest of the day doing good, to offset it." Striking a melodramatic pose, and with a voice to match he said, "I get my crime over the first thing in the morning. And then, ha-ha! For the rest of the day I do good, I do good, I do good! Two days since, I stole a child and built an orphan asylum. Yesterday I robbed a bank and endowed a bishopric."

With a smile and spread hands, he shrugged and added, "In this case my curse is to do good deeds all day long to offset Ned's evil."

"Ahhh..."

He shrugged. "It doesn't balance, but I try."

For the next hour, they talked. Twice, they were interrupted, once by a phone call and another time by a woman, presumably a secretary from the foundation, who brought him a document to sign. Each time, she had to bring herself back to visibility with a song. In the end, though, with no excuse for taking him away from work, she left, promising to visit again, in the future.

She moved to look back into the office after she'd broken eye contact. Now and then he would stop and shake his head as if bemused. Finally, though, she stroked him on the cheek and left. He was sweet. Not exactly what she'd expected, but sweet, nonetheless.

On the way to the elevator she stopped, in response to a thought. Singing brought her to visibility. That was a given. Did the type of song matter? Was putting words to music enough? Would setting a nursery-rhyme tune to the words of a business report work?

Only one way to find out.

She retraced her steps, peering into the various departments till she found an area that had only a single person visible. Better that than a larger audience. A quick check showed no one in the two offices beyond the desk.

Perfect.

Biting her lip, she placed herself in front of the woman, probably a secretary, who appeared to be making a personal phone call. With a clothes-rack wardrobe, no idea of how to wear makeup, and a cheap dye job to cover the gray, the woman looked to be in her mid-forties.

From the sound of the conversation, she was talking with a lover. There were more than a few sour-voiced references to "my husband," mixed with breathless declarations of longing for whoever was on the other end of the line. The ideal subject for an experiment.

This time, maybe try a pop song in place of folk music? Certainly worth trying.

That decided, she planted her feet firmly and began the song, Jezebel, a standard from the past century. Certainly, the title seemed to fit the situation.

The results were most satisfactory...at least in the beginning. First, a full circle of white appeared around the pupils of the woman's eyes, followed immediately by a relaxation of the strings holding her jaw in place. The phone toppled from her fingers, to bounce unnoticed on the desk. Next, came what appeared to be a general tightening of every muscle of her body except for the aforementioned jaw-strings. That went well with the plan to play the role of an angel, and tell the woman to decide which man she wanted, then to stick with him. After all, if she was going to be a ghost, she might as well be one who delivered a message for the good guys.

Unfortunately, she never got that far, because the woman discovered her voice, and did her best to shatter windows all over the floor. Having the first word of the song, Jezebel, sung as a single drawn out word had certainly contributed. In retrospect, having an undressed woman appear out of nowhere, to call you a Jezebel— _while_ you were talking to your lover—might tend to be just a bit unnerving.

Both Ned and Miles reacted to singing, so she expected a _bit_ of fear from the woman, at least initially. But she certainly wasn't expected _this_ kind of reaction, and had not the faintest idea of what to do next. The woman solved the problem though, by pushing back from the desk so forcefully that the chair hit her credenza with a splintering crash. The lady wasn't in it by that time, though, and Jennie was treated to the sight of the woman sprinting around the corner, bound for destinations unknown.

_Maybe I overdid it just a bit_ , she decided, as she moved to a protected spot between two file cabinets. _It would probably be better if I hadn't been standing over her when I appeared, too. Could be that's too threatening._

It took several minutes for the crowd to disburse, and for the woman to reappear, looking shaken, reinforcing the resolve to be more gentle from then on.

Branding her, while knowing nothing of the situation, was a probably a mistake. After all, she didn't know the woman's story. While cheating wasn't something to condone, the woman's lack of respect for her husband might be justified. In any case, she owed her an apology—if she could manage to do it without frightening her again.

This time she stood out of the woman's line of sight. And this time she would see if conversation put to music would do, testing several concepts at once. Her position would determine if she had to be viewable to establish contact. It would also give the woman time to prepare for the idea that someone was there.

Far more gently than before, she sang, "I'm not here to hurt you, I truly want to help." Unfortunately, good intentions weren't enough, and with no more than a glance in her direction the woman disappeared around the corner at dead run.

I really should stop bothering her. She's not taking this well, at all.

Waiting for someone to call for an elevator car, she reviewed recent events.

Okay, it doesn't have to be a song, but since I used the word "you" at the end of both lines I haven't eliminated rhyming. And there's still the question of what happens if I sing to a group of people.

Fifteen minutes later she was on the street once more. She rode down with a policeman—there because of her, she supposed.
Chapter 6

So where do I go now?

Evening had finally arrived, but with no destination or something of interest to command attention the coming hours promised only boredom. Through the afternoon she verified several facets of her ability to communicate with the normal world, with mixed results. Most people assumed they simply hadn't noticed her before hearing the song. She also learned that it didn't matter if people could see her begin singing, only that she was in their line of vision before she stopped, if they were to go on seeing her. Questions remained, however. She'd yet to test for groups of people, or determine the limit to how quietly she could sing. Would people who were distant, yet within earshot be reached by singing loudly? Could the people in the church just ahead hear her, as a group? That led to an interesting line of thought.

For a time, she stood on the sidewalk in front of the church.

_Jennie, you wouldn't...God would send you straight to hell, for that._ She was obviously being tempted by the devil, because what came to mind was truly evil.

Walk away, Jennie. And get thee behind me, Satan.

But it was so tempting an idea. Maybe just watch for a while, and...pretend.

Ten minutes later she stood at the rear of the church shaking her head at the foolishness of humanity.

_How would they react if I suddenly appeared and told them they had to earn their favors, not whine for them?_ That thought, and the possibilities it created, brought a snort of amusement. If an angel told them to stop demanding a winning lottery ticket they'd probably shit themselves.

She listened to their whispered prayers with steadily growing disgust. A sad-faced woman sat in the front row praying for her brother to end his love affair with heroin. Other than that, their prayers were universally self-centered and venial. Maybe not the greatest congregation, perhaps. Still, that lack of piety made the decision for her.

As she climbed, she told herself she wouldn't actually do it. She would just stand there and give them hell, but without singing it. She know better, though, and the devil was in control as she came to her feet atop the lectern, near a statue of Mary. The thought occurred that she was acting more like her old self. Two years ago she wouldn't have hesitated for a second...which meant she was back in more ways than just being out of bed. It felt good to know that.

She waved a hand toward the statue, saying, "Forgive me for this, Mary."

Then, as she knew she would from the beginning, she turned to those in the pews and sang, "All your prayers are so much crap...doo-da...doo-da. Gonna give your face a slap, Oh do-da day." Holding her arms out to her new congregation, mimicking the statue to her right, she said, "Wake up, people. You have to do good work before you can ask for favors. Didn't your momma teach you that? God judges you on what you do, and he doesn't accept credit cards or bullshit promises!"

She certainly had their attention. She also had the attention of the priest who had been about to begin the service.

Satisfied, and without turning, she waved, and then jumped to the side and back, to land close to the wall, then slip behind the statue to break eye contact and regain invisibility.

Unfortunately, the nightgown billowed upward as she fell, gliding over a wall-mounted sconce, whose candlestick accepted the offering, sliding inside and pulling the nightgown upward as she continued to fall.

Roughly, the drop was arrested, as the gown bunched under her breasts and halted the fall. The material complained, but held, leaving her in an absurd—and highly embarrassing—position. Supported from behind, uncovered from toes to navel, she hung helplessly, bottom pressed against the wall, facing the congregation and fighting the urge to turn the air blue with curses. If this truly was taken for visit by the Virgin Mary, she was probably going to drive the entire congregation from membership in the church.

But what to do now? All that came to mind was to slip out of the nightgown and drop to the floor. And given that the only alternative was to wait till the people in the church arrived, stripping was the only choice.

But then, the pointed tip on the candle-bulb punched through the material of the nightgown, starting a tear that continued, from the neckline down to the hem, dropping her to the floor, to land on hands and knees. More pain. More bruises. More stupidity.

_Will I never get this ghost thing right?_ It certainly didn't look that way.

Hissing in pain she dragged herself behind the statue and out of sight. From the pews came only stunned silence, followed by the rising buzz of conversation. She might have found what they had to say interesting, but was far too busy rubbing away the pain of stupidity to notice more than that the voices were getting closer.

"There's no one here," a voice called, only inches from her ear. A glance upward showed a worried face visually searching the area. She pushed herself to the side as a tentative hand explored the space. Luckily, the man was nervous enough that he didn't move very quickly, so other than a few bruises, she managed to keep out of his way for the most part.

I absolutely have to start thinking things through before I do them.

Hurriedly, she levered herself to her feet and limped toward the exit, pulling ruins of the nightgown around her, though that seemed pretty stupid given that no one could see her. They were converging on the spot where she'd fallen.

She'd certainly made an impression. Unfortunately, not exactly the one she'd hoped for.

So much for being a godlike authority. Just as well, though, she didn't qualify on the virgin part of it, in any case.

At the door, she turned back to the statue. Mary seemed to be looking directly at her, accusingly. Imagination? Maybe not.

She sighed, then shook her head before saying, "I'm sorry, Mary. You're absolutely right. That was really stupid." Still, the people there would probably think twice before they asked for help on trivial matters again. And it had been fun—till she screwed it up.

_Ah well, you live and learn...even when you're not exactly alive_.
Chapter 7

Jennie stopped a few feet before the building's entrance, still unsure of why she'd come back. Last night was a time of reflection, but with the dawn she retraced her path downtown, cursing herself for a fool with every step. What could she do, have a love affair with Miles? Technically possible, she supposed, but not much fun for either of them. And in any case he hadn't seemed interested in her as a woman. Of course she _wasn't_ much of a woman at the moment. With a sigh, she looked down at her body. Some people, when confined to bed, go to fat. She went the other way, losing virtually all interest in food. Lush curves had been replaced with the lines and hollows of the anorexic. And now, without the ability to eat, nothing could be done to change that.

How could a man find me more than something to laugh at, now?

She tried to arrange the remnants of the nightgown to provide a covering, but that was impossible, and she was tired of trying. It hadn't just torn, it had virtually come apart. And in the time since she'd torn it, the job of turning an especially ugly nightgown to tattered scraps had been nearly completed. She tried tying it around her, to at least cover her hips, but when drawn tight enough to tie, it became more a belt than a modesty covering.

_Useless,_ she grumped, ripping it free and tossing it into a corner.

_So I'm not only a ghost, I'm a naked ghost. That should raise a few eyebrows._ That thought brought a humorless laugh, and, _Maybe even turn a few stomachs._

Modesty was a luxury not permitted to models, given the number of times she had to change outfits in front of a studio full of people, so being unclothed wasn't something to be upset over. Being seen her in her present state, though, hurt. But there wasn't a damn thing to be done about it.

Impatiently, she waited till nearly seven-thirty before someone she recognized from the previous day entered the building and pushed the button for an elevator. In seconds she was back where she started, in the offices of Gamble Inc. The woman she'd frightened the previous day wasn't yet at her desk. Still early, though. The workday probably didn't begin till eight, and the wall clock showed it to be a moment or two after seven-thirty.

Miles, too, was absent, but a check showed that Ned was already at his desk, working. She leaned against the doorway, saying, "Good morning, Mr. Pirate. Ready for another fun day of pillaging?"

"Good morning, Jennie," he said, not looking up. "I've been expecting you."

He could hear her? But there had been no music in that greeting, only contempt. Had sarcasm been added to the ways of becoming visible? This was getting crazier and crazier.

Lying his pen aside he looked up—and stared. "My God," he said, eyes widening. "You're absolutely breathtaking. I..." He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head but not taking his eyes from her. "Amazing...simply amazing."

She felt suddenly adrift. He could see her and yet thought her beautiful? It had been a long time since a man said that. Unable to come up with a reply she glanced downwards, and her own eyes opened in shock. Gone were the shrunken breasts and withered thighs that had tormented with their ugliness for the past year. She was back. All the way back. Deep coral nipples tipped breasts that proudly asserted their independence from her body. And she could _feel_ the change, as well—feel the energy coursing through her, leaving her balanced on legs that were ready to stride rather than just walk. And dance; she could dance again.

When she looked up he met her gaze, an eyebrow raised, obviously under control once again. "You've made progress since yesterday...and frankly, I like you a _lot_ better this way."

She looked downward for an instant, verifying that she hadn't been dreaming, then met his eyes as she smiled. "So do I, but...well, I didn't expect you to be able to see me, or I would have dressed more formally."

He extended a hand in her direction, still leaning back, obviously amused by the situation, now that the shock of her appearance had dissipated. "Don't make any changes on my account."

Eat your heart out, buster.

She turned to leave. Little to be gained in having a conversation with someone like him.

"We still have matters to discuss," he said, laughter gone from his voice. When she turned he was leaning forward, forearms resting on his desk.

"Oh?" She wouldn't ask.

"You've been fairly busy."

"Go on."

"I've been listening to the news. Unless Boston has suddenly become ghost-central you've been making guest appearances all around town." He waited. When she said nothing in reply he said, "There's a Catholic church on the north side that had a rather strange miracle to report. It seems the Virgin Mary has become a bit clumsy lately—and an exhibitionist, too. No one is quite sure of what that may mean, but the Vatican has been put on alert."

_Shit._ "And why does that give _us_ something to discuss?"

He relaxed a trifle, and took the time to frankly look her over before he said, "That? Nothing, except, I'd love to hear your side of it. What we have to talk about is what you did to Selma. That was both cruel and uncalled for."

"I..." Obviously, he was talking about the secretary she'd frightened yesterday. Sudden shame brought heat to her cheeks.

Funny. Yesterday, when no one could see me without permission it mattered a lot less that I was hurting someone. Now a man I call evil teaches me right from wrong. Ironic.

"Tell her I'm sorry," she finally said, wishing for another chance to live out the previous day. "I didn't mean to hurt her, though. I was thoughtless, and it was—" She sighed. "Never mind. Just tell her I'm sorry." Admitting that it had been a stupid idea, to a man whose transgressions made her own look positively angelic, was not going to happen.

"Tell her yourself. You owe her that, at the least."

"What?" Was he out of his mind? She searched his face for a sign that he was mocking her, but his gaze was empty of humor, ironic or otherwise. She couldn't help but wish he had taken some other path through his life. His face was strong, one that could command men. Instead, he ordered thousands into poverty because of a number on a balance sheet.

What a loss to humanity.

"I think it would be better if you told her yourself."

In spite of her resolve she moved into the office and sat on the edge of the guest seat, in front of the desk.

"In case you've forgotten, I terrified her when I appeared yesterday. If I do that again she'll...." She waved that away. "Besides, there's a good chance she won't be coming in today. If it had been me I'd probably _never_ come back."

He nodded. "Good. I'm glad you can see that. But in this case Selma will be here, because I called and told her I would explain what happened...and remove her fear. She's due any minute."

"You're going to tell her about me?"

"I would have, had you not shown up. But, since you're are here, you can do it. I'll just handle the introductions. I told you I've been expecting you, remember?"

"But how? How could you possibly know I'd be here today, and when, or that you'd be able to see me when I arrived?" And how had he known her name? She toyed with the idea that this man knew more than he let on. Had she somehow been directed to this building—to this office? Another thing to be added to the list of things to think about.

"Well there you have me," he said, with a tiny shrug. He took a sip from a coffee cup, before saying, "I thought you would still have to sing for me to see you. As for knowing you would be here, that was fairly easy. I knew you would be paying another visit to Prince Charming, probably early." He gave a shrug of the hands, as though the answer had been self-evident.

"Oh." Obviously, he had spoken with his brother. Was her interest that transparent? Apparently, she'd made a fool of herself in more ways than she realized. The knowing smile he now wore hurt, and brought the wish that she had something to wear. He wasn't staring, but the fact that he could see her this way made her feel unclean. He was right about one thing, though. She did owe the woman an apology, so staying for the few minutes it took for her to arrive made sense. After that she was done with him. Deliberately, she crossed her arms, blocking his view of her breasts. She crossed her legs, too, trying to make it look casual but afraid she was only looking more foolish. This man was too damn smart.

"I'd offer you a cup of coffee, but..." he spread his hands in inquiry, before adding, "So tell me what happened yesterday after you left Miles. And tell me why you call terrifying a woman you've never met thoughtless, instead of cruel."

She dropped her arms. This man didn't give a damn if she covered herself or not. As a woman he might appreciate her...even want her. But as a person, his opinion of her wasn't much better than hers of him.

"It might help if I started at the beginning."

"Which was?" he said, giving tacit acceptance of the suggestion.

"Well, you have to understand that only a few days ago my bedroom was a prison." She thought on that for a moment, before saying, "No, that's not right. The real prison was my body. I couldn't do even so simple a thing as taking a shower." She went on from there, telling him of her life, leading to the time Ann appeared, bearing the ring.

How long ago that seemed. And now, for no reason she could think of, she was telling this to him, of all people. Why?

For a time she chewed on that. Perhaps to get it straight in her own mind. Perhaps because he seemed the type to understand, and maybe even have the intelligence to make suggestions as to how to proceed. She had no idea of what to do next. Certainly, spending a lifetime as an onlooker at the feast of life was not what she was hoping for when she took the ring from Ann.

When she finished, he pointed to the ring. "And there's no way to get it off?"

She shook her head. "When I first put it on I tried, and it came off easily...though it didn't stop working. This morning I can't even turn it on my finger. I've tried everything I can think of, but it won't move."

"You've tried everything except for cutting it free of your finger." He had been an attentive listener, but obviously, not attentive enough.

"I can't effect the real world, remember? Even if I was able to locate a ring-cutter I couldn't use it."

"True." He leaned forward. "But I could."

This time her jaw did the dropping. He could see her, so he could do exactly as he proposed. If she put the ring between the scissor jaws of a ring-cutter it wouldn't be necessary to cut one side then bend it apart, or even cut it on either side of the finger. Its stone would shatter at the touch of steel. In fact, given the effect of real world objects on the things in her world, a cuticle scissors could well do the job just as easily.

"I'm not..." Could it really be that easy? Unlikely, based on the number of times in the past that the simple sounding answer had problems when applied to the real world.

"I'm not sure," she finally said, shaking her head and certain what he must have missed something. But still, it appeared that he hadn't, and this was so sudden it, literally, sent shock waves to the core of her being. If he was right, there might be a way to release her from a prison as confining as the one she had known till now. True, she'd been given freedom to move about, but in return, the joys of living had been taken from her. Food, companionship, even the simple joy of a soak in a warm tub was denied. But still, there were things to be taken into account, and discussed.

"You my be right that you could cut it free. But...what if you did and...well, what if I'm stuck here forever? Just like I am now? Or what if I go back to being what I was?"

He thought about that for a moment, leaning back and rubbing his lips together before saying, "Well, as I see it, your alternative is to wait about fifty years and then try it. Will you be sane enough to give a damn by then? As for your still being sick, you might want to wait till you get bored with your present life before taking the chance." He spread his hands in a shrug, adding, "But it is an option."

He had a point.

She nodded. "Okay. You may be right." She pointed toward the desk. "I suppose you have a ring cutter waiting in there?"

That brought a smile. He lifted the coffee cup, and took his time about answering. He watched her over the rim as he drank. Deliberately, she assumed. She checked her watch. Twenty after eight. They had been talking for nearly an hour. Where _was_ that woman?

Finally, he put the cup on the table and said, "You accord me skills I don't have, I'm afraid. I'm good at taking facts and stringing them together, but foretelling the future is not one of my gifts." When she frowned he added, "I didn't know about the ring because you didn't mention it to Miles...or at least he didn't mention it to me."

"Oh." She had to stop sounding so...so damn stupid. "Well when can you get one?" she said, wishing she didn't have to ask. A hasty decision wouldn't be smart, but having the means available should she decide to remove the ring would give some feeling of control, at least.

"Soon," he said, in a way that said there were about to be demands made. She'd heard that tone too often in her modeling career.

"Cut to the chase," she said. "What's your price?" The relaxed feeling their conversation had engendered dropped away.

He cocked his head, slightly and studied her, expression unreadable, before saying, "I need your help, Jennie. I was hoping to make a trade."

"Go on."

"I'm here, Mr. Carson," a woman's voice said. "When you have a minute." Selma seemed to have arrived.

"It's all right, Selma. Come in, I'm alone."

The woman of the previous day came into the office, saying, "I thought I heard you talking to someone, Mr. Carson. If you're on the phone I—"

"I was rehearsing a speech. Come in, Selma, I'm glad you could make it"

Oh yes, Mr. Nasty Ned you really are quite the manipulator.

The lie was told with a sincere smile and in a disarming tone, one that brought the woman into the office.

_Damn...that man's very good at what he does._ One thing was certain. With him it would be a mistake to your guard down for even an instant—or to believe a word he said.

She was scrambling to vacate the guest chair and make room for Selma when Ned pointed to his conference table and said, "Drag one of those chairs over, Selma, and use that. I'll explain why in a few moments."

Looking mystified, the woman complied, saying, "You said you could explain about what happened yesterday, Mr. Carson. I certainly hope so, because I didn't sleep for a second last night, even after I took three pills. And this morning it took me twenty minutes to get up the nerve to push the button on the elevator, downstairs." She looked to either side, as though afraid the mere mention of the spirit haunting her might make it reappear.

He tossed a quick look in Jennie's direction, obviously meant as a further rebuke.

That second time did it, I think. Why do I have to be such a damn slow learner?

But Ned was speaking. Self-flagellation was for later. Or more likely, he would be glad to do that for her. Damn him.

"Well, Selma," he began. "Let's look at the facts. You're pretty certain that what you saw yesterday was a ghost?" When the woman nodded, he said, "And you're pretty sure no one is going to believe you. Am I right?"

That brought a rueful laugh, and "Even I don't believe me, and I was there."

"Did you listen to the news last night?"

Selma had been studying the floor, but his remark brought her head up. "No, I spent most of last night in church."

Oh God, not that one. Please Lord. Not that one.

Ned was wearing a smile that said he had noticed her grimace, and he made momentary eye-contact before reaching into a drawer and pulling out a newspaper. Today's she assumed. He opened it and extracted the city news section, then passed it to Selma, saying, "Read that." He pointed.

Jennie leaned over and read the heading: "Miracle or Hoax?" Under that a smaller heading appeared: "Madonna appears to lecture churchgoers on prayer."

"And that one," he said, probably more for her benefit than Selma's. The second article described something she would rather he hadn't learned of.

The question of the range at which her songs would render her visible needed answering, so she walked into the Public Garden, intending to find a quiet spot in which to sleep. That led to a foray onto the pond where the Swan Boats made their rounds. Standing well out from shore she began to sing, continuing, as people noticed and tapped others, to make them turn and see her. As soon as she had an attentive audience she motioned passers-by to join her on the water's surface, calling them to come out and play as she twirled and danced on the surface. Their expressions were highly entertaining, especially when they would turn away to comment to someone nearby, then turn back to find no one there, while their neighbor swore they could still see her.

She'd been planning to dart into the open door of a storage shed to break visual contact and make good her escape, but unfortunately, before she could make that dash, a man came out of the shed and closed the door. She escaped, but only because desperation gave her feet the speed needed to outrun her pursuers to a spot where she could dive into a thicket and out of view. That little escapade completed the destruction of the nightgown when it caught on a branch.

Selma read the articles, then met his eyes, a trace of hope animating her face. "... You think this was the same...the same thing?"

"I know it is, because I happen to know the lady involved, and I've discussed it with her. She says she's sorry, by the way."

"She says she's...I don't understand." Selma held out a hand in question. "How can you possibly know a ghost?"

Ned said nothing for a moment, rubbing his lips together. It appeared to be a nervous habit. Finally, he said, "It's not easy to explain, Selma, so let's stick with the idea that she's a ghost. The problem is, she's new to the business of ghosting, and she's been making mistakes. You were one of those mistakes."

"I...I don't understand." The woman had the material of her dress clenched in her hands so tightly that it appeared she was trying to shred it. Tense seemed hardly strong enough a term to describe her state of mind.

"I know," he said, with what sounded like true concern in his voice. "Her mistake was in not thinking about you, and how you might react when she appeared. She was only trying to..." He hesitated for a moment before finishing with, "I know it sounds silly, but she was only trying to say hello."

Selma blinked at him for a moment, before shaking her head and saying, "A ghost climbs to the twenty-second floor of this building to say hello...to me? Why? Did she die here?" She appeared to be trying to decide what else to say, but finally subsided. Hope brightened her face, though.

Gently now, he said, "No, Selma, she didn't die here. She claims not to be dead at all." Selma's expression showed her opinion of that, but her hands were no longer clutching at the dress quite so violently. Ned, apparently, wasn't finished, and said, "As a matter of fact, I was talking with her as you came in."

"You were..." Selma suddenly looked to her left, directly at the chair Jennie was using, catching the meaning of his having her bring the second chair to the desk.

Very clever. By having her deduce that, she becomes a participant, and you break the shock gently.

By playing it as he had, the chair she sat in proved her existence, so far as the woman was concerned, with only a word or two on his part. The man was brilliant; truly brilliant. She had already been out of the chair when he asked for the second one. He could have permitted Selma to use the chair, and allow _her_ to find another spot, but he was planning for this moment, even then. Very sly, indeed.

"Right there. You can't see her yet, but she is there."

"How do you know?"

A shrug, and "I can see her. She's quite beautiful, but a little shy, because she seems to have lost her gown during the night. According to the article, she tore it during her...prayer meeting."

"Very funny. I'm not impressed with your sense of humor."

He threw her a wink, before saying, "I don't think she likes my calling it that, though. She was pretty sarcastic just then."

Selma seemed to be doing her best to see her, and sounded distracted as she said, "You can hear her, too?"

"You can see and hear her if you care to, Selma. Or you can continue to talk to her through me."

"How?" lots of distrust, but curiosity, too, in that single word.

Ned looked directly at Jennie, then, saying, "Do it." Again that cleverness. By stating it as an order he had prepared the woman, eliminated the time it might take to cajole her into saying yes, and of more importance, gave the impression of being in charge of the situation.

I control, the genie, so have no fear. The man's so damn smart it's getting scary.

But she wasn't his servant, to be ordered about, so she said, "Warn her about my having to sing myself into visibility." She'd thought about making him say please, or thumbing her nose and refusing to speak, to make him seem stupid. But the woman was owed an apology. He was right about that. And his way might well be the best way, given the situation. He honored her request, so she took a deep breath, and gently, but loud enough to insure that the woman heard, sang, "I'm sorry, for causing you pain," then sat, hands clasped in her lap. Selma's gasp said she could now see her, but Jennie was too busy to accord her the attention she deserved. With no warning, a wrenching of her entire being nearly overcame her—a feeling that was impossible to describe brought with it a sudden lethargy of mind and body. No need to look to know she was back as she had been, the wasting of her diet and the effects of the disease once more in control.

Lord, is this how I felt all the time? How soon I've forgotten.

And forgotten she had, because how she felt at that moment was exactly the way she had when she'd first entered Ned's office. But she pushed that aside as a worry for another time, because Selma was staring, and he was waiting for her to say something. He showed momentary surprise at the change in her appearance, but just a flicker, before his face went impassive once more.

"I'm sorry, Selma," she said, deciding to work on one problem at a time. "I wasn't trying to scare you. I'm sort of new to the ghost business, and just learning how to make people see me."

"You _are_ real." Wonder, but acceptance, too, filled her voice.

"I guess so. I feel real to me, at least."

Selma shook her head. "But why me? Why choose me?"

She shrugged. "Luck of the draw, I suppose. I needed someone alone, because I wasn't sure what might happen if there were two people there. I'm really sorry. Especially about doing it a second time. I...well, if it's of any consolation, I was really impressed with how fast you ran."

Selma had her hand pressed to her mouth, and appeared to be gnawing at one of her knuckles. She was shaking her head, and Jennie was beginning to worry that she would start running again, when she realized the woman was laughing. Reaction to the release of stress, she assumed.

That brought a smile, and "Really, _really_ fast." At that she lost control, and for the first time since the ring had been slipped on her finger truly laughed.

"Well, I hate to break this up," Ned said, interrupting the conclusion of Jennie's tale of her adventures after leaving the office. "But it's nearly nine, and I have a meeting to prepare for."

Selma, who had been hanging, fascinated, on every word, hurried to stand, saying, "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I'll get right to work."

"No," he said, smiling reassurance at her. "You two will find somewhere quiet, and private, in which to finish your talk. And then you'll take the rest of the day off." He pointed a finger at her, as he finished with, "And I don't have to tell you that this is not something that goes into the office rumor mill."

"Oh no, Mr. Carson. You can depend on me." Jennie had her own opinion as to the likelihood of that happening, but remained silent.

"And you," he said, turning his attention on Jennie. "I have no time free this morning, but I'll clear the noon to one slot and have lunch sent in. Meet me then and we'll talk more about the ring thing. Okay?"

She nodded approval, and he went to open the office door. Before he did, though, he added, "And wear your good suit."

"Very funny."

More gently, he said, "You're just as beautiful this way, but I like the other outfit just a bit better."

The secretary gave Selma a speculative look as they left. Her expression intent enough that Jennie couldn't help but speculate on how much eavesdropping had taken place over the course of their conversation. Without doubt, Selma would be having a very curious visitor when she came back to work.

Unfortunately, she didn't revert to her healthy persona when invisibility claimed her once more.
Chapter 8

Jennie leaned back in the chair, extending a hand in Selma's direction as she said, "Would you like my view of the situation?"

When Selma nodded a yes, she said. "You were terrified last night, yet you couldn't turn to either your husband or...?" When Selma supplied his name she said, "Either your husband or Fred. That's significant."

"Well..."

"Well nothing. When was the last time your husband told you he loves you, or showed it in some meaningful way?"

She took a breath and looked at nothing for a long time, before saying, "It's been a long time."

"Exactly. But on the other hand, how long has it been since he called you stupid, or useless? I'm betting on last night. Right?"

Her voice was a whisper as she said, "It was the night before last."

"And _that_ says it all."

The boyfriend was obviously the classic married man on the prowl, willing to promise anything he had to, in order to keep her dancing the horizontal samba. He could be discounted. Once Selma left her husband, and her orientation was one of seeking a companion, rather than a means of relieving stress, she would see him for what he was. What mattered was getting her to look at the situation with clear eyes, so she could make meaningful decisions.

"So, here's what I think you need to do..."

° ° ° °

Conversation with Selma finished, Jennie spent some time wandering the offices. Perhaps work was being done somewhere on the floor, but if so, only as an avocation. The topic of conversation was the strange happenings of the day before. Apparently, Ned wasn't the only one who connected the series of events the news reported and Selma's strange visitor. Some fairly wild speculation was in play, involving headless bodies found in an airshaft and speculation on an imminent ending of the world. It took only moments before the news that Selma had been closeted with Ned for almost a half-hour began to make the rounds, gaining lurid details as it passed from mouth to mouth. Ned had been wise in his decision to send Selma out of the building as soon as their conversation ended. At a guess, though the time off should have been a week, not a day. But that problem was his, not hers.

Now, she turned her steps toward the opposite side of the building, speculating, again, on how Ned had managed to cow Miles into accepting such a meager office space in a business in which he had as much ownership as did Ned.

Or did he?

Perhaps Miles was now a minor stockholder—or at least held less of an interest than did Ned. For one thing his ex-wife apparently held some stock. His? If so, that alone, would weaken his position.

They began with a bequest of third of the stock each, if Ned was to be believed. Aside from the question of his wife, and the stock she controlled, making any assumption that he still held the stock he had inherited was foolish. Given the ease with which Ned had manipulated his sister, it didn't take much to picture him cheating his brother, too. That might explain why Miles called his brother evil.

An interesting family.

She stood outside the office for some time, nerving herself to enter. Would Miles, too, be able to see her now that they had been introduced, so to speak? And if he could, what did that say about the people she'd met yesterday during her travels, should she run into them again? That could make things complicated, to say the least. Then there was the not insignificant problem of appearing, nude, in front of a man she wanted. A disaster if he saw her as she looked now, but good if that healing repeated. Would that happen with any male audience, or had that been a fluke—caused by the location of the office, the phase of the moon, or some other arcane happening? Perhaps it was a cosmic joke being played by the agency behind the damned ring. No way of knowing other than testing, and Miles had ended his telephone conversation, so the time for that test was now.

She stepped into the office, holding her breath. No reaction, even when she said, "Good morning, Miles." Frustrated, she tried duplicating her entrance to Ned's office. She leaned against the doorway and said, "Good morning, Mr. Pirate. Ready for another fun day of pillaging?" He didn't respond.

She looked skyward. "Not fair, guys. Not fair at all. You have the wrong damn brother." Was it that Ned had been the first to see her? Or was she simply being prodded for entertainment by someone with godlike powers and a warped sense of humor?

Unfortunately, nothing she did seemed to influence the power behind the ring, so she slipped into a chair in front of the desk, deliberately putting the lower half of her body out of his sight.

No sense in standing up waving my crotch in the man's face.

He was searching for something in his desk drawer, so she waited, enjoying the view. Pretty was the only word that described him. Were he and Ned the product of the same father? There was a strong resemblance, but while Ned was far from ugly, he would have spent his life coming out second to his brother in any comparison of looks. Had that factored into Ned's choosing a more solitary, and focused, life than had Miles? Possibly. Perhaps his cruelty came as compensation for being ignored as a child?

For a moment, she tried, unsuccessfully, to visualize Miles with a mustache, of the kind Ned had chosen. But that was wasting time, so she banished Nasty Ned from her mind and concentrated on more appealing subjects, like Miles. He'd chosen a sport-shirt today. Blue, it was, and it went well with the tan of his skin. Put a neckerchief around his throat and he was the picture of the leading man in an old movie, coming through a pair of terrace doors and saying, "Tennis, anyone?" That thought brought a grin, and for a time, she just sat there, enjoying the view as he made another call.

Finally, he finished, and didn't appear to be doing anything of any importance, so she sang, "Good morning, oh insignificant mortal, your goddess has arrived."

He glanced up and smiled. It was like seeing him again for the first time.

My God. The man has a positively breathtaking smile.

But there was no change in energy, and a quick glance showed same dreary toothpick-body she'd been wearing when she entered the office.

Damn! Memo to the wardrobe department, I need a new outfit, stat.

But neither clothing nor a decent body was in her future, it seemed.

Maybe I change for the first person of the day? Makes just as much sense as having to sing if I want to be seen.

Something to test tomorrow. But of importance now, he had obviously seen her. He reacted to her lack of clothing with a momentary raised eyebrow, before pointing to the folded newspaper resting on the corner of the desk and saying, "I've been reading about you. You've been a _very_ naughty girl, Jennie." His smile broadened. "I envy you. It sounds like you've been having a perfectly marvelous time." He gave her a pussycat sort of smile, then, and pointed in her direction as he added, "Kind of looks like it, too. Was there a Mr. Ghost involved?"

"Very funny. I've been working on my tan." He didn't seem to take that very seriously, so she said, "It didn't go exactly the way I'd expected, but yes, there were some interesting moments."

"I'll bet. I'm sorry I wasn't there to see when you said boo to that secretary, though."

"I think it was more fun for me than for her."

That brought a grin. "I'll bet. From what I heard, she peed herself the second time you did it, so on second thought, maybe it's good I wasn't there. I would have _loved_ being in that church, though. I suspect there may be a shrine to Our Lady of the Torn Nightie in your future. Did you really tell them God doesn't take credit cards?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Ned hadn't mentioned Selma's losing control of her bladder, and neither had Selma when they'd spoken after leaving Ned's office.

But he'd brought up the subject, so she said, "I talked to Selma today, and apologized."

"You talked to Selma...and she didn't crap herself when you appeared?" He crossed his arms and chewed on a knuckle before saying. "I'm impressed. How'd you manage that?" Before she could answer, he held up a hand to stop her, saying, "Don't tell me, let me guess. You stopped in to see Ned this morning, and he _ordered_ you to do it." When she nodded affirmative he said, "That would be like him. You frightened one of _his_ people. Only he's allowed to do that."

"You're right, it was his idea. But he helped me break it to her gently, so as not to frighten her."

"He would. He's very good at manipulating people. He'll manipulate you, too, if you're not careful. So watch out."

An astute observation. He'd already tried, and maybe even succeeded. She toyed with the idea of having Miles buy a ring cutter, and thus bypass Ned. But Ned claimed to need her, and that, in and of itself, was interesting. What could the man possibly want with the services of a ghost? Was there someone he wanted frightened? Did he expect her to eavesdrop on a conversation?

She gave him a smile.

"Ned's not going to be able to manipulate me, because he'd have to have something I want, something I can't get from someone else, cheaper."

"Don't underestimate Ned, Jennie. The man has more angles than a book on geometry. I'll give him that. He's smart too, so beware. There be pirates in these waters." But he was smiling when he said it, which set her to wishing she had her body of this morning back.

As if he had read her mind, he pointed in the direction of her torso, and said, "What happened to your gown?"

"Gone. It couldn't handle the stress so I've become a nudist."

"Mmm. Well, I don't mean to be insulting, but you're living proof of why clothing was invented. A little decoration, here and there, improves the human body. Not that I wouldn't prove the same thing, though."

One thing the man was not, was diplomatic. His brother, at least had been kind.

Ah well, no one's perfect...though he comes pretty damn close in some departments.

"So what are your plans for the day?" he asked. "Going to organize races among the secretarial ladies? I'll get a stopwatch, and you could start from some known point...say the ladies room door. Then—"

"I don't think so."

"Okay. Maybe you could do street sprints out front of the building. Have to time it just right, though, so the light was green when they hit the corner, though."

She leaned back in the chair and waved a hand in his direction. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a weird sense of humor?"

He grinned. "Now and then. But in this case I'm serious. We could make this into an Olympic event, or try for the Guinness Book Of Records." He raised an eyebrow, adding, "Being dead could end up as a lot more fun than being alive. Think of the possibilities of being the exhibit at some kid's show-and-tell. You might work up a theater act, and rake in millions." He held out his hands, as though introducing a performer, as he said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I present, Jennie Nan, appearing nightly in this theater." He had put special stress on the word, "appearing."

"Dressed as I am, I would guess the word appearing is appropriate," she said. "Given the current laws, though, the show would open and close the same night. Besides, what would I do?"

"Anything you cared to. Could they arrest you? No. So you could sing, or just walk through a forest of columns, appearing and disappearing like a cartoon character. You'd make a fortune."

"They would close the theater. And as for the money I'd be unable to spend a dime of it. So what good would it do me?"

He thought for a moment before saying, "There is that, but fame counts, and your actual needs are pretty small. And if you appeared in California no one would care if you were dressed or not. Besides, collecting money is what managers are for. You might not be able to handle your money, but others could both collect and spend it for you. You would have a nice house, servants...anything you wanted."

"And not be able to use any of it," she reminded him.

"How do I 'use' my apartment?" he said, getting out of the chair and pacing in the space behind the desk. Apparently, he took this more seriously than she did. "I sleep there, and according to what you've said, you sleep, too. You've mentioned that the floor makes an uncomfortable bed, so how would you like a custom fitted bed, instead? It might not be like sleeping in a real bed, but it would be yours, just like my bed is mine." He waved his hands in a shrug, as he added, "How different would it be from being alive, once you factor in the idea that you'd have to sing a lot if you wanted to have a long conversation?"

"How about when I need to use the phone?" She had to sing the question, because in his pacing he had turned away several times, and probably could no longer see her. Perhaps he was proving the truth of his last comment? Could be, but not worth asking about.

"How about using the phone? With what you'd earn, you'd be able to hire a houseman to relay conversations for you. Hell, you could even date."

"Date? I...how would I date?" As silly as it might sound, he'd made some valid points. She'd been thinking in terms of hiding and loneliness. Suppose she did go public with this thing? Certainly, she would be unique, and that could be turned to her advantage. Something to think about if she decided against taking off the ring.

"You behave the way you might have before," he said, responding to the question on dating. He had turned to face her, so she hummed as he spoke, to bring herself back.

He met her eyes, so apparently, the music not the words counted. Another limitation overcome. Humming softly as they conversed, it would be a normal conversation, no matter if the one she was talking with turned away now and then. In time, it might even become a habit, so for all practical purposes she'd be in the real world.

"And that is?"

He flipped a hand, as if the answer was obvious, as he said, "The man arrives, you drive or take a cab to the places you plan to visit, and then enjoy each other's company. You simply don't order any dinner, if that's on the agenda. Pretend you've already eaten, and are just keeping him company. You've probably done it a time or two, yourself."

She had, and he'd made another point, but a major problem remained,

"You don't think the man would object to people staring when he has a conversation with a woman who isn't there?"

That brought a laugh. He slipped back into his chair, as he said, "Are you kidding? After you start making appearances there will be people faking it and claiming, 'I'm with Jennie.' I can just see two men making the same claim and arguing over who really had you with them."

She laughed at the picture he brought to mind, then sighed, and said, "But in the end, it's lonely. What could I do, get serious and invite him to sleep over? Marry him?"

He nodded, slowly. "A point, I suppose. It would be more fun for you than for him, I'm afraid. Assuming he cooperates."

"You're gross."

Another grin, and, "Good of you to notice.... But seriously, given a few not so minor handicaps, you could have a pretty satisfying and busy life. Nuns do, remember. And a vibrator would work as well for you as for as living woman, except for having to have someone else turn it on and off—and hold it, I suppose. Think about it."

Before she could respond, the phone called for his attention. His ten-thirty appointment had arrived, so they had to cut short any further conversation. More foundation business, more requests for cash. More disasters. His handling of the woman, who apparently was making her first visit to the company, was impressive. He flattered and pleased her till she positively simpered over him, all but begging him to come and decorate her bed. The woman was in her fifties, for God's sake. But he was a gentleman, and she left the office not quite sure if she'd been turned down or just postponed. At least Jennie wasn't sure. The woman, she suspected, believed it was just a matter of catching him when he had time free. She would be back. That much was assured. Jennie suppressed the urge to sing her out of the offices with a suggestion she not come back.

Alone now, Miles made extensive notes on his guest's appearance, her behavior, and her likes and dislikes.

Interesting. She didn't know whether to be impressed that he thought enough to record it, or insulted because he made the notes so as to appear to have remembered every detail of their meeting. A shame she couldn't read through the rest of the book.

After that, he began a phone conversation so she left, to keep from disrupting his day further. The man did have business to attend to, after all. As she walked away she couldn't help but wonder if she was no more than a younger version of his last visitor, only one of many women chasing him. She had unique status because of who and what she was, of course, but other than that, what was there to attract him to her? Nothing. Not a blessed thing. Not her brains and certainly not her body.

Damn!

"Give me a minute, Jennie," Ned said, as she slipped into the chair in front of his desk. "I have to finish this review." Spread on his desk were a dozen sheets, filled with graphs and pie-charts. She would love to peer over his shoulder to see what they were about, but she was visible, so that was out. Reading upside-down from the guest chair showed that they had to do with performance and assets, but the company's name was unfamiliar. Of more importance, though, with his acknowledgement of her appearance she reverted to her healthy self. Of all the things that had happened since slipping on the ring this made the least sense. Miles was the one she wanted, and the one worth having. True, he wasn't as smart as Ned, but he was sweet, and funny, and he made sense when he suggested "taking the act public," so to speak.

If the force behind the ring was trying to nudge her in the Ned's direction, they were in for a disappointment. Sleeping with the devil held more attraction than bedding Ned, because he represented all she detested in a man. He was cruel, calculating, and devious. Miles called him evil, and warned her that he would try to coerce her into doing his bidding. And Miles was right, because he'd already attempted to do just that. She wanted to shout, "You've got the wrong brother, damn-it," but he could see and hear her, and would probably find it funny. With him she needed a way to _become_ invisible.

After a few minutes, any interest in paperwork she probably wouldn't understand evaporated, so she settled for waiting till he came back into the world.

So like a man.

As he worked, she studied him. Miles spoke little about his brother, and not at all about his sister, so it could be assumed there was little love lost between Miles and either of them. Certainly, the lack of affection Miles had shown his sister when they met outside the building the other morning tended to give that impression. That thought brought speculation on their upbringing. Given the resemblance between the three, it was almost certain, now, they were the offspring of the same mother, And their ages seemed close enough that the man on the wall wasn't likely to have fathered any of them, since Miles was already fifteen when he'd married their mother. What happened after that? And who was the older, Miles or Ned? Miles had been sent to boarding school. Had Ned? They were so different in character. Hard to believe they were even related, other than by appearance. Miles, obviously, was a people person. His way was the soft and fuzzy one that left people smiling and glad to help with whatever he wanted done. His treatment of her seemed somewhat different from how he treated the others, but in degree, not kind. Perhaps because he didn't see her as a person, and thus treated her with less humanity? But there was also the matter of his lack of empathy for what had happened with Selma. Was he charming only if you had something he wanted? She dismissed that, because it might well be that he and Selma had reason to be less than cordial. And in any case, it took only a single glance at him to know he liked people, truly liked them.

Ned, on the other hand, used people, then discarded them like wet tissues. Where Miles was a marshmallow, this man was a block of cobalt steel with razor edges. Yet he had done exactly the right thing to disarm Selma's fears. And he had forced her to apologize to her because that was the right thing to do. Because Selma was useful to him? Because of loyalty to his employees? Or because a spark of decency remained within? No way of knowing, but best to remember that the evil in the devil's words is hidden beneath the taste of honey.

"You have my undivided attention," Ned said, after his secretary delivered a covered plate, one that turned out to hold a chicken Caesar salad. Sparse food for such a man. Somehow she expected something more on the order of red meat, lightly seared and running with blood.

"You said you needed my help. Tell me why I should help you."

He took a mouthful of salad and chewed it before answering. "You like Miles, I assume."

"I'm attracted to him," she said, guardedly. Somehow, offering to intercede with Miles, and put in a good word was disappointing, as an inducement.

"So I gathered. You know you have to stand in line and wait your turn, I hope." He took a sip of water, watching as he did.

"So I gathered. I'm not a child, and I've been dealing with models all my adult life, so I know what to expect." She hesitated, then decided on the truth. It might take away some of his intended ammunition, and it might be interesting to see how he recovered, so she said, "So far, you're the only one I seem to appear to as my old self, so there's not much reason for him to be interested in me."

"Oh? Interesting. I wonder why."

"I assume that whoever's running this thing either likes you or dislikes me. Based on what's happened so far I suspect the latter."

He smiled, then reached for a roll, cutting it surgically and buttering it with precise strokes before saying, "Since I'm deriving benefit from that dislike, if that's what it is, I'm sympathetic, but not terribly unhappy." He pointed his knife in her direction before placing it back on his plate, saying, "You are without doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

"Thank you." There seemed little else to say, and she had no intention of encouraging that line of conversation.

Something of that thought must have shown on her face, because he took a long breath and said, "I didn't mean it as a come-on. I'm quite aware of your opinion of me. Most women hold it. Men, as well."

This was a surprise. He hadn't said it as a ploy for sympathy. It had been presented as a simple statement of fact.

"But why?"

"Why don't people like me, or why don't I change?"

"Start with the first one."

"No one likes the headsman." A flat statement, spoken in tones that said he'd used more than a few times. His eyes were sad, but there was no pain there. No resignation, either. Acceptance might be a more appropriate a term.

"Then why be a headsman?"

"It's a necessary profession, I'm afraid. Someone has to do it, Jennie."

"Agreed, but why you?"

For a long time he didn't answer, and concentrated on his lunch. While he did she looked around the office, trying to gain some sense of the man. In the end it wasn't possible to tell if she was seeing him or the hand of the decorator. Dark paneling gave the room an almost somber atmosphere, one that fit the man perfectly. His desk was expensive but tasteful—imposing, but not one of the huge things she'd run into in agents offices. He apparently had nothing to prove that way. There were no pictures on the desk. No computer, either. That was relegated to its own work stand, accessible by rolling his chair a few feet to one side. Behind the desk a credenza filled the wall, from side-to-side, mostly covered with files and workbooks. The exception was a single trophy, set to the side, the figure that of a runner. A high-school award, she assumed.

"Why not me?" he said, startling her. She'd almost forgotten having asked him why he should be the executioner.

"That's not an answer, it's a question."

"Agreed, but your question implies that I'm someone special...someone not to have such a job. If I'm not special you can ask your question of anyone who takes the job. Yet the job needs doing."

Clever man. When you don't like the question you change the terms or argue the necessity of asking.

But she'd met too many of his type to be diverted, so she repeated, "But why you?"

He grunted, before saying, "Do you do as well with a sword as with words?"

"Why you?" She would not be distracted.

He took a long breath, then let it out, explosively. "Because it's what I've trained for. Because it's a job that needs doing. Would you do it? Would you take my place?"

"No."

"And Miles isn't suited for it. Who's left?"

"Jeanette?"

"Too much like the old man, I'm afraid. Who's left?"

"Point taken. Shift to the second question, then. Why not change?"

"From what? To what?" He pushed the plate aside, seeming to have lost his appetite. Less than half the plate had been emptied.

"You see me as a pirate. You've called me the devil, too. People do, and I can understand your viewpoint. But a surgeon takes a knife to your body. He may remove your leg, or an eye. Do you hate him for it?"

"No." Her voice had been much smaller than she intended. For the first time, the man was showing real emotion.

"No. Well why, then, would you hate a man who takes a diseased company and heals it?"

His gaze locked with hers, his voice, gentle. She wanted to look away, but could not. Suddenly, the fact that she was sitting in a room, nude, with a man she disliked intensely faded to insignificance. He had asked a question, and was waiting for an answer. Not for a surface opinion—a casual response, like what she thought of today's weather. Based on the message of his gaze and his body attitude, her response was important. Perhaps the question came because no real interaction could occur between them. But whatever the cause, the answer mattered. There were depths to this man she'd yet to plumb.

"I don't think it's the task, Ned. I think...I think it's the man."

"He sagged just a bit, then nodded, repeating, "The man. It's me then, who repels you."

"It's the way you do it, I think. I—" She stopped herself, and said, "Forget what I just said. I'm making judgments on almost no data. I've scarcely known you for a day, and not under the best of circumstances."

He nodded. "But what does that 'no data,' _seem_ to say?" He wasn't willing to let the matter drop, it seemed.

She stood, and paced; an excuse to not meet his eyes, as she said, "I've seen you with Miles' ex-wife, with your sister, and with the men from the company whose plant you closed."

"... And?"

"And it was like watching a computer. You got exactly what you wanted each time, but—"

"But I didn't give a damn how they felt about it. Right? I'm a miserable, thoughtless bastard, who puts dollars above all human feelings."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't have to. Somehow, I thought you were smarter than that...because I wanted you to be I suppose." He took several breaths before saying, "You know what you do to a man, I'm certain, and I'm no different from other men in that respect. But you've talked to darling Miles, and you've reached your conclusions, so that's that."

He shook himself, then, seeming almost to wake, and said, "So the question was, why should you help me, as I remember."

Had she missed something? Or was he manipulating her in ways she couldn't fathom? That there was a great deal more to him than what she'd seen was obvious. Certainly, more passion buried there than she'd have guessed—loneliness as well.

But interesting though he might be, he was _not_ going to seduce her into playing the role of devil's consort, nor to forgive the damage he had done, even should he cry about it each night. Tomorrow he would gut yet another company. And tomorrow there would be mothers crying, unable to feed their babies, because of his "surgery."

If what he offered made sense it might be reasonable to help—perhaps because it would provide something to do. Perhaps because it might help Miles.

She nodded, to show understanding. "You seemed to be offering to help me, umm...get to know Miles better, and to remove the ring. At what price?"

He shook his head, and in his voice the passion was gone. "No. You don't need me for the ring. Now that you know it can be taken off there are hundreds of ways you could remove it, from catching the edge of the ring between two closing elevator doors to cutting off your finger. I'll do it, but I'm hoping you'll help simply because it's the right thing...or maybe because he'll be hurt if you don't."

So now she knew the kind of pressure the man intended to apply. It had nothing to do with the ring He was threatening Miles in hope of forcing her to do his bidding, which was intolerable.

"You bastard! If you think I had a low opinion of you before, that was _nothing_ to the way I feel now." She stalked to the door but it was a wasted gesture. She couldn't leave.

Fuming, she turned back to face him, saying, "Open this damn door. And so help me, Ned. If you do _anything_ to harm Miles...if you do the smallest thing, I will somehow—"

"Will you sit down and shut up so I can finish?" Anger hardened his voice, and the bark of command there left her feeling foolish, a child called on the carpet in front of daddy. But where had she gone wrong?

She would not sit to his command, but did close the distance between them. That much she was willing to do.

"I don't have the faintest idea of why you've decided I'm a monster, Jennie, but that's not what matters here. What does is that someone is trying to destroy the company. Should they be successful Miles _will_ be harmed. Since you seem to be smitten with him, I assumed you might want to help."

"Oh...I'm..." She took a breath, then went back to her chair, saying, "I'm sorry, Ned. How?"

Someday I'm going to learn to think before I act. Not soon, but someday.

"How else? I want you to go places I can't and spy on people for me. What I'm offering is the chance to help while having something interesting to do. You'll also, indirectly, be doing something nice for Miles. You will, of course, have to balance that against having also helped me. In return you will have my gratitude, and any help I may be able to give in solving your problem. Strictly an exchange of favors."

She thought that over, idly scratching an itch. She stopped when she realized she'd been scratching her breast, just under the nipple, and that he'd been watching. She dropped her hands to her lap and suppressed the urge to sit on them to keep them still.

_Damn!_ She was conscious of being naked again, and of his eyes on her.

To distract him, she said, "Tell me more."

"Later, at my place."

"At your.... Wait. You expect me to go to your house?" Hopefully, she'd misunderstood.

"To my apartment. And yes, I do, because this isn't the place to discuss the problem. For one thing I have a business to run. When I take time off, I have to schedule it well in advance. For another, it's not impossible that we're being overheard. At least so far as my end of the conversation. If so, they already know I'm talking about this, but not to whom, or how. And if we make our plans where they _can't_ hear, they will have no way of protecting themselves against you."

"So you expect me to go home with you? To sleep at your apartment?"

He leaned toward her, putting his elbows on the table as he said, "Jennie, you're a stunningly beautiful woman, and I won't for one second claim I don't care about that because I do. Were you real I would probably be moving heaven and earth to try to impress you. But you are not real, so far as I'm concerned, so I'm not likely to do more than have fantasies about you tonight...which I would have in any case."

"Oh."

I just have to stop sounding so damn stupid every time I open my mouth.

"What I _can_ do at home is to tell you everything you need to know, and to bring you up-to-date." The trace of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he added, "I'll even tell you bedtime stories about Prince Charming, if you like, so you can have some fantasies of your own. Okay?"

Maybe it was the lure of something useful to do, or his offer to tell her more about Miles, but she nodded and said, "We have a deal."
Chapter 9

"So how do we work this?" Jennie asked. "If you're going to take the train there's no way—"

"I have a car parked about a block away. If you'll get into the elevator ahead of me and stand in the corner I can block anyone trying to go there." He apparently remembered her mention of what would happen, should someone try to occupy the space where she was.

"That might not work. If the car's got people in it when it gets here, or if it fills up afterwards, there's not much you could do, because at the least, someone might try to move into the space they see as empty."

He held out his hands in question. "So, other than the obvious, that leaves?"

_What does it leave?_ Only riding him from the building as she'd ridden Miles on the way in. Aside from not wanting to get that close to him, Ned would _know_ she was doing it, and, she was nude. Riding to the street with her crotch pressing against the back of his neck was not going to happen.

"It leaves waiting until later. I won't ride you and that's that."

He sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk in response, then stood and went to a small closet, where he took out an overcoat.

"Come on, then," he said, folding the coat over his arm and heading toward the door.

"But..." Given a choice of follow or be left behind, she shut her mouth and followed. Apparently he'd had an idea. And being a man, he wouldn't bother to tell her about it, he simply expected her to follow two paces behind. As she hurried after him, she took a second to look back at the cluttered office. To give her something to do, he had a variety of documents spread about the room. There were sheets littering the conference table, the floor, and even taped to the walls. If his secretary thought something unusual was going on she'd said nothing, when her business brought her into the office.

Ned had closed the office door, so as to allow them to talk, between phone calls and his being out to take meetings—most of which had been moved to other venues, probably surprising the participants. But she now knew a lot more about the company. Of more importance she had an idea of who did what. He was convinced that the one causing the trouble worked within the company, because whoever it was had too much knowledge of company's day-to-day operations to be a stranger. Details of pending deals had been leaked to competitors, so they could outbid by just enough to gain control. Rumors had been spread that had just enough accuracy in them to add a veneer of truth to the lies.

"We'll take the stairs," he called over his shoulder. "I know you're fine, but I'm starting to get hungry, and I hate waiting. Let me know if you have trouble keeping up."

"I'll keep up." And she would, too. Her lungs would be on fire and her feet would be running blood before she'd admit to having a problem.

Damn him!

"I can't get to the gym today so I'm getting my exercise any way I can," Ned said in response to the startled look from his secretary, Sally, who was passing as he opened the door to the fire-stairs. "You should try it. Best stair-stepper I know of."

"I'll still beat you to the street, boss," she said, adding a "Have fun," as she moved toward the elevators.

"Sally's a good woman," he said, as they started down the stairs. "She's been with me for six years. Since before the old man died. In the months after, when I was floundering, and trying to keep the company together, she spent as many nights here as I did."

"You like your staff, then?"

"Most of them. I don't know them the way I'd like to, but we have a pretty good team. I tend to pick people who don't need much supervision." He turned to look over his shoulder, asking, "Have you watched Star Trek?"

"Now and then. I'm not a rabid fan."

Then you know what I mean when I say someone is more like Captain Kirk than Picard?"

"I think so. Kirk was a 'follow me, boys," kind of leader, while Picard was more of an administrator. I take it you think of yourself as Kirk, rather than Picard."

"Exactly. I don't know if you've ever realized it, but Kirk had a Pickard type as second in command, while Picard had a Kirk type as his number two."

"So Spock was Kirk's Picard?"

"Right. And Bart Gibson is my Picard...or Spock if you prefer." Before she could respond he said, "Have you noticed that my voice echoes here but yours doesn't?"

She hadn't but now that he mentioned it, he was right, which was odd. She told him so.

"More than odd. I can buy the idea that I hear your voice in some other way than through my ears. It would explain why others can't hear you. But how can you hear yourself speak? Telepathically?"

She was a bit winded, and didn't answer right away. Apparently, Jimmy had been wrong when he said she only had to breathe when she wanted to speak. Finally, though, she said, "Given that nothing about my situation makes sense I've stopped even thinking about it."

"Probably a good idea." He must have heard the shortness of breath in her voice because he slowed a bit and said, "You've been stuck in bed till recently, while I've been playing tennis. Why don't you take the lead for a while?"

Mention of running brought a thought. She'd been meaning to take a look at the trophy in his office, but for one reason or another had kept putting it off.

"Ned, the trophy on your credenza. What's it for?"

Silence was his response, for long enough that she glanced back to see if there was something wrong. Instead of worry, though, he wore a warm-memory kind of smile.

When her eyes met his he said, "That cup is my crowning achievement, Jennie. I ran track in high school and college, and earning that trophy was my ticket to the Olympics."

That brought her to a halt, as she turned to say, "You were in the Olympics?"

He looked at the floor for a moment, eyes hooded, as he sighed deep and long.

"I would have been, had I not broken my leg skiing." He waved her forward, and as they started again, said, "The doctors said I would never have a problem with it, once it healed, and they were right, but they also said the pounding it would take trying to get me back in shape in time for the games would probably break it again. So I went to the Olympics, but only to cheer my teammates on."

"That is so sad. You didn't try again, later?"

His voice was back to normal when he said, "By then I was working here and had other goals." They traveled two more floors before he quietly added, "But I damn near made it, Jennie. Damn near."

The sidewalk was still a river of humanity, one which would make walking dangerous. She looked over at Ned, who was carefully folding his overcoat. Finished, he showed how he had layered it, from neck to hem, saying, "Six degrees of separation, see?" With that he arranged it around his neck, so that it hung against his suit jacket on either side, covering his neck and the back of his hair in the rear.

"There's no other way." And he was right.

Reluctantly, she nodded, adding, "Bend one knee and hold out your hand for a moment." He did, and she climbed the ladder he'd made, quickly, and settled into a seat on his shoulders.

"Amazing," he said, shaking his head. "I watched you climb, but I feel absolutely nothing. Does gravity feel normal to you?"

"Seems so."

"Amazing. Watch your head, now." He was heading into the revolving door, crouching a bit as he did.

"Stop worrying, I can lean down far enough, so just walk normally."

He straightened. "That would probably be a lot easier if your hands weren't covering my eyes."

"Sorry."

° ° ° °

"Very nice," she said, as she looked around the apartment. Piracy generated a nice lifestyle, it appeared.

"The job pays well, Jennie. That helps me sleep better." A trace of sarcasm colored his words and said their conversation on the morality of his job had not been concluded.

"Look around while I put something in the microwave. The chairs might not be as comfortable as they should be, I'm afraid, given that for you the pillows are made of stone. Would you like a fire?"

"I think I might." The ride to his apartment, a condo on the fifteenth floor of a tower overlooking the Charles River, felt almost as though they were on a date, with conversation focused on nothing in particular. Had his comment about the upholstery not deflecting under her weight not served as a reminder of her status, she might almost have forgotten.

The apartment wasn't furnished as she might have done it. It didn't seem to show the heavy hand of a man, though, so she assumed that either his sister had decorated it, or he hired a decorator. Perhaps he had a more pronounced feminine side, but that seemed doubtful, based on the way he reacted to her.

"So where does the smoke go," she asked, frowning.

"What do you mean, where does the smoke go? Up the chimney."

"Be a hell of a chimney to clean."

"Oh...I see what you mean. I suppose there's a common chimney servicing the apartments above and below me." He had been staring into the flames as he sipped his coffee. Now he turned to face her as he said, "Can you feel the heat?"

She shook her head. "No. It looks like a normal fire, except for the flames being only shades of gray." Interested she went to the fireplace. The glass door in front of the firebox was open, so she cautiously extended a hand to the fire. No heat, even when she reached a finger directly into the flame. "I can't feel the flames, either as heat or something touchable. I thought I would."

"It makes sense that you can't," he said, thoughtfully. "The fire is really only superheated air. To me the strange part is that you can touch, but not move, solids and liquids, but gasses have no effects on you."

"Everything about this is strange. Lately, my mantra has become, move on."

That brought a chuckle. But the comment must have triggered a memory because he put his cup aside and went to close the fireplace glass, saying, "As must we. Sit over on the couch where I was sitting and we'll get on with this. I think I've dented it sufficiently so that you'll be more comfortable."

He was right, though over the next few minutes she slowly rose as the pillow returned to nearly its original shape. But she was almost too busy to notice, as he brought her up-to-date on the company, and its inner workings.

"You'll sleep here," Ned told her, pointing towards an upholstered chair in his bedroom.

"You expect me to sleep in here with you?"

"Why not? I don't snore. At least that's what I've been told. I'd carry it into another room, but I'm afraid it's too awkward a package for one man to lift...and you'd not be much help."

"I can sleep in the den. The fire's not dead, and I'll enjoy watching it as I go to sleep." More diplomatic to state it that way, rather than saying she didn't want to sleep in the same room with him. He had demonstrated remarkable sensitivity for one with his penchants and profession, but perhaps even murderers could show kindness to those they found useful.

He snapped his fingers. "You couldn't know, and I forgot to tell you. Sorry. It's a recliner. Go sit in it for a minute and try it out. You may well change your mind. Besides, if you don't sleep here how can I tell you the bedtime stories I promised?"

"I'll try it," she said, guardedly. "No promises, though." Cautiously, she sat, leaning back and waiting. He pressed a control and the front of the chair raised, while the seatback lowered, until she was cradled in pure comfort. Hard or not, the chair was wonderful. But he had mousetrapped her again. How could she tell him it was the first truly comfortable thing she'd sat in, then say she preferred to sleep on the den's couch? And how could she justify it on grounds of not trusting him? It wasn't as if he could take advantage of her sleeping in the same room, and he was realist enough to know that.

Damn him! Damn the man!

She struggled to sit up, awkward to do with the chair in its lowered position. The bedside clock said it was just after three. Had there been a noise? Probably not. He still slept peacefully on the bed. As advertised, he didn't snore.

With difficulty she worked her way out of the chair's embrace and went to sit on the edge of the bed furthest from him. After a moment she turned to sit tailor fashion, facing him, to better study his face in repose, unexpectedly strong, not cruel—at least when he slept. What drove this man? He was so dedicated, so full of inner fire—yet so controlled, too. He was passionate about the subjects that interested him. Add in well educated, with a mind that could see in twenty directions at once. She would never best this man in a duel of wits, yet she didn't fear him, or feel he would try to harm her. He would use her, as he used everyone he came into contact with. To him people were tools, to be used as needed, and discarded when their value was gone. Just as he was using her to protect his company. How much he could accomplish were his goals just a little different? Suppose he had been focused on building rather than destruction? Certainly, he claimed to perform surgery on wounded companies, but that was a conceit on his part. No more. The company might survive, but a bird with a wing removed would never fly again, no matter how healthy it might be. Today he'd calmly discussed the steps he would take to gut a company that wasn't performing up to expectations. This part would be sold to so-and-so, while the other would be disbanded and its assets sold off. But those were people he was disbanding, not machines. The hardware might have value, but that value would not come to the people who suddenly found themselves out of a job.

_What a waste of talent. You could be so much more than you are, Mr. Buccaneer. So much more._ The thought brought a long sigh, a shaking of the head, and, _Why can't I find someone like you who builds rather than destroys?_

That brought a laugh. She was being an idiot. Before being diagnosed she hadn't been looking. Afterward, there had been no sense thinking along those lines, which would explain, nicely, why she was still single.

She moved to lean back against the headboard, to think of the might-have-beens of her life. Had she not gone to the modeling agency on a dare, she would have stayed in school and might now be a nurse, with a husband and family. Had she made a wrong choice? Had the excitement been worth the price? She studied the man on the bed. Might she have someone like him sleeping next to her? Or would she be living in a tiny flat wondering where food money was to come from, the victim of someone like him.

She sighed, and closed her eyes, preferring to fantasize about more pleasant things.

Ned lay warm beside her, breathing quietly, his arm under her head, pillowing it. Soft light flooded through the open blinds. She stretched, feeling warm and comforted.

Warm?

_Jesus!_ She was in his bed, and lying next to him. Of more importance, his arm was soft beneath her and the bed was comfortable.

Oh my God, I'm back!

She sat up, glorying in the feel of the mattress moving under her weight. But he was awake, now, and watching, so with a suppressed curse she hurried to the edge of the bed and swung her legs over. The where of being back had to be corrected before he decided to take advantage of the situation.

"Jennie, stop," he said, his voice edged with command. "Whatever you do _don't_ touch the floor."

"What?" She turned, while edging still closer to the edge of the bed. She waited for him to explain, pulling the foot that had been inches from the floor back onto the bed.

"If you touch the floor you'll be back in the ghost world. I'm certain of that."

"But...why?"

"Why are you in the bed rather than the chair?"

"Why? I..." She looked around the room, seeking some clue to why he had ordered her not leave the bed. "I woke up in the middle of the night and..."

And what? Could she tell him she'd been watching him sleep, and that she had fantasized the life he might have had, had he been what she wanted him to be, rather than what he was? He would see that as encouragement. Definitely not the thing to do, given that she was in his bed, real, _and_ naked, so she said, "I was wandering around the apartment, and when I came back here I sat for a minute before I climbed into the chair, then fell asleep. Why?"

He stared for a moment, looking as if he wanted to discuss the subject further, but finally shook his head, as though dismissing the idea. In the end, he said, "Remember you told me that whoever, or whatever was behind the ring wanted you to be with me? Or seemed to?"

"You think this is part of that?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense."

"But why here, and with you? I..." she hesitated, then with a rush, said, "I don't want to insult you, Ned, but it's not you I want, it's your brother."

His smile lacked humor as he said, "I know. But maybe whoever is behind it is nearsighted, and picked the wrong twin."

Twin? Oh my God, that explains so much.

He studied her for a long time, before saying, "So now you know why I wear a mustache. Most people don't pick up on the twin business because we're so different personality-wise. We also tend to move very differently. The difference in hair color helps, too, I think."

Then you dye your...oh shit!"

He grinned. "Now you know why I call him Prince Charming." He continued to grin at her, obviously enjoying her discomfit. Finally, he spread his hands and said, "Everyone needs an evil twin, right?"

Then, without waiting for a reply he got out of bed, saying, "Sit there, we have things to do, but you do them from right where you are."

She was too stunned to even begin to reply. She could only watch as he hurried from dresser to closet, tossing things in her direction. Clothing rained on her till the bed looked like a staging area for someone moving out of town.

"Now," he said, clearing a space for himself and sitting on the edge of the bed. "How do you like this?" He held up a colorfully patterned silk shirt.

"For you? You want my advi—"

"No, you dummy, _for you!_ " His words weren't meant to cut, though. Their tone clearly said that, and he was smiling.

"For me? I— Oh my God, you're right...hold it up again."

Quickly, they picked a wardrobe. His jeans would be too large for her, but with the cuffs rolled, and a necktie as a belt—pulled tight and tied—they were usable. The waist was far too big but the hips were a good fit. Two more shirts completed the set.

"Put this in your pocket," he said, tossing a comb. A moment later he'd dug out a nail clipper and a folding scissor set, then tossed a set of shower shoes. They would be a godsend.

"Suggestions? Think fast because we may not have a lot of time. They may decide it's taking too much time for us to do the deed and switch you back to ghost mode."

She shook her head. "The only suggestion I can think of is to run in a hose from the bathroom so I can shower. I feel pretty grubby."

"Done."

"What?"

"For a wash-down, you'll have to get undressed, and I think our unknown friends will hold off zipping you back to ghosthood if you do, so let's get you cleaned up."

"Cleaned up? I don't—"

He held up a finger in a wait gesture. "Wait and I'll show you. Get undressed and put your stuff at the head of the bed, while I get your bath ready. I'll be right back." Then he headed toward the bathroom.

Mystified, she began to undress. At his insistence, she wore the shirts one atop the other, on the theory that since the nightgown came into the ghost world so would whatever she was wearing. Things carried might or might not come along.

In a few minutes he was back, carrying a bath towel in one hand and a bucket in the other. As he came into the bedroom he stopped, closing his eyes for a second, as though the sight of her was too intense to bear. He opened them again, shaking his head as he said, "I _really_ like you much better this way. Truly I do.... Now stand up and turn around. I'll do your back."

She stood, and looked over her shoulder as he removed a washcloth from the water and wrung it out. He rubbed it with a bar of soap he had been carrying, then applied it briskly to her back and legs, before rinsing the washcloth and removing the soap from her skin. It felt wonderful. Then, he dried her. Finally, ordering her to turn around, he handed her the soap, saying, "You do the front. I couldn't keep my mind on the job, so I'll just watch." But he was grinning as he said it, which took any threat from his words. For the evil twin he was remarkably kind.

"I'll be right back," he said, after a moment. "I can't watch, either...not and stay sane." With that he was gone, bringing speculation on what he had planned next. The man thought at a lightening rate. Though it gave satisfaction to know she could still disrupt the male thinking processes simply by taking a deep breath. That had been fun...and deliberate.

She was just finishing up, and feeling absolutely marvelous when he returned, carrying a large basin, which he put on the dresser. He then supplied a step-stool, which he set up next to the bed, moving the basin to sit on the top.

"On your back, Lady." But she was already moving to place her head over the basin, as he left once again, this time returning with a plastic cup for rinsing and a container of shampoo.

He sat on the edge of the bed, next to her, hands resting on his lap, meeting her eyes for a moment, his gaze intense. Gently, he reached a fingertip to stroke the course of an eyebrow, shaking his head gently as he did so. His eyes traveled down her body just for an instant before meeting hers once more. For a long moment, he said nothing. Finally, he took a deep breath, before saying, "The gods may be nearsighted, but I wish..." He looked down at her for a moment more, before getting up and getting a bridge chair, which he placed where he could sit while working on her hair.

He was silent, then, concentrating on working up a lather. His hands were gentle, but there was strength there. Amazing strength. How she knew that she had no idea. But it was true. Of that she was certain. And what he was doing felt absolutely luxurious.

He was toweling her head before he finally spoke, saying, "If this is what you looked like before you got sick I have no idea of why they didn't lock you up each night as a national treasure."

Before she could react he pushed her upward, toward a sitting position, his voice back to the neutrality of the previous day, as he said, "I'll give you a list of addresses and directions, plus paper and pen. Your being able to carry them with you makes it a lot easier. Do you think you can be to the places I've mentioned by the times we've discussed?"

She shrugged. "No telling. I'll listen in on the people at the office first, because till the morning rush eases off I can't use public transportation. But I'll give it my best shot. That's all I can do. If you can call wherever I am—and be near enough to see—I could come to a window and wave when I'm in place, if that helps."

"Not a bad idea, since you don't have to sing to me anymore, but for all we know I can't see you at a distance. In any case, I can't get out of at least two meetings I've got scheduled today. The best I can do is call the people on the list with you around and see whether we can trigger them into some action that will tell us who's doing this. Let's go with what we have and see what happens. There are only three on today's list, and they're within walking distance, once you get to the first one."

"Jennie Nan, secret operative, that's me."

"Does Jennie Nan, secret operative want some breakfast in bed?"

"Why not? I haven't eaten in days."

"Okay, you're ready? It's after seven, so we need to get started."

"I'm ready." She came to her knees and moved to the edge of the bed, ready resume a ghostly existence, should he be right about changing as soon as she left the bed. He probably was, because a twist to the ring showed it still couldn't be removed, which seemed to say it wasn't finished with her. Just before she stepped to the floor, though, he frowned, and said, "Wait. There's something important you need to do, first."

"Something important? What?" What could she have missed? She wore the shirts, one atop the other, rubber shower flip-flops on her feet, his pants on her body, and the small notebook lay in a back pocket. She even had a pen clipped to the shirt pocket.

He came to sit on the edge of the bed and motioned her to a spot near him, saying, "This is important, but we have almost no time, so hurry. Kiss me."

She sank to the bed near him, where he had indicated. "Kiss you? Why should I—"

"No time to explain...just do it."

She blinked at him for a moment, then shrugged and planted a quick peck on his cheek. Apparently, it wasn't what he wanted, because exasperation colored his voice as he said, "Not like that. Kiss me. Put your arms around me and do it right."

"But why?"

"Jennie...do you trust me?"

"I suppose so."

"Then trust me now and just do it, okay?"

"... Okay." She cautiously wrapped her arms around him, as he returned the favor, urging her closer, but allowing her to control what was happening. She stopped, looking into his eyes for a moment before closing her eyes and seeking his lips.

_Wow!_ The man could kiss. In fact, he had a positive talent for it. Gently, not invading, and not forcing her, he made her feel as though she were floating in his arms, weightless. Softly, his hands moved on her back, stroking, touching, holding her close. Without thought, her lips parted and she molded herself to him.

But then came a flash of sanity, and, _What the hell are you doing, Jennie? Ten more seconds of this and you'll be out of your clothes again_.

She pulled back, and he released her enough to allow her to look into his face, to find his eyes seeking hers. Brown eyes, he had. Deep brown, with little flecks of gold outlining the iris. She didn't pull away...couldn't, his embrace was gentle, he would release her if she wanted that, but for right then it was like being encased in iron.

After a moment she reached up to trace the line of his eyebrow, as he had traced hers.

So much passion there. If only things could be different.

But then reason returned and she moved away. He was what he was, and she would _not_ be the devils consort, no matter how attractive the package.

"Thank you," he said, as he stood and went toward the door.

"But...what was that for? Why was my kissing you so important?"

He turned, grinning. "Why? That's easy. You're likely to be the single most desirable woman I'll _ever_ have in my arms, and I'd be crazy to pass up a chance like that. Right?"

He crossed his arms and grinned at the expression of shock that crept past her control. _Damn him._

Just before he left he spread his hands in her direction, saying, "I am the evil twin, remember." And then he was gone, leaving her sitting on the bed and feeling stupid...again.

Shaking her head she put her feet on the floor and stood. As expected, the room became a vision in shades of gray. He had been right again. She rubbed the back of a hand across her lips, wiping away the taste of him.

Damn him. Damn him to hell!
Chapter 10

"Are you ready?"

Jennie nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose. How long should I wait after you call? I mean, suppose the man _is_ the one you're looking for, but he only contacts his outside source from home, or on a special schedule?"

"That's possible, but it's a chance we'll have to take. For today a half-hour should be enough. If nothing shows by the time we reach the end of the list, we'll just have to go deeper, and watch longer."

"I suppose." The idea of spending months following people around wasn't an attractive one.

"Remember, Jennie, I also have a backup plan. I'm giving different figures to each of them, so I may be able to tell who it is, simply by looking at the bidding numbers when they announce high bidder for the stock. I deliberately waited till the last minute on this one, to add some pressure. That might force them to break their schedule, if there is one."

He pointed toward her face, saying, "I like you this way too. You're still devastatingly beautiful."

Nice of him to say so, though she knew better. Apparently, yesterday had been a unique occurrence, because when she changed back into ghost mode she'd also reverted to being a poster girl for a feed-the-hungry campaign, though perhaps not quite as severe as before. Was she, in some sense, healing? Only time would tell. Certainly she felt a lot better.

"Allow me a few minutes," she said, before heading toward Donald Farnum's desk.

The clock said it was after eleven, and time to go. Four times she invaded the office of a suspect from Ned's list. They were, he claimed, the only ones within the organization who had access to bidding information. In each case, though, they received his call, made notes as a result of it, and returned to what they had been doing. None of the men seemed especially interested in what they heard, as more than information to be used as part of their normal tasks. A bit disappointing, but not unexpected.

After each visit, she went back to Ned's office to coordinate their next move. She would have to be more careful the next time, though, because Sally, his secretary seemed to be becoming increasingly concerned over her boss' behavior—and from her viewpoint, with good reason. Yesterday he had closeted himself in his office through a good part of the afternoon, with the door tightly shut and papers strewn around that were not only unrelated to what he normally did, they were so basic in nature he probably could have recited the data from memory, if asked. Yet with all that, he would have appeared to be continuing with a normal workday, ignoring the papers. She overheard Sally mentioning it, in whispered conversation, over the phone.

Today, for no reason the woman would be able to explain, Ned would get up and close his door for a few minutes. Then he would open it and sit tapping his fingers on his desk, doing nothing for a time, before making a phone call to the man Jennie was currently watching. She had to be worried. She certainly would be, were she in the woman's place. Adding to the woman's confusion would be the fact that he neither appeared drunk nor under the influence of a drug.

She would have to warn him when next she saw him. At present, he was in a meeting that would probably last till noon, according to his schedule book.

_Did he leave the book here, and open, deliberately...for me?_ He probably had. The man was like a computer.

At loose ends, she wandered the company offices, listening to gossip. She thought of visiting Selma, to see if she'd reached a decision on leaving her husband, but better to do what she had been thinking of doing since she'd come into the office, and visit Miles.

As she walked she reached for the comb and tried to arrange her hair a bit more attractively—difficult with no image in a mirror, no hair care products, and a dreadfully dull haircut. Style wasn't a word that could be applied, because Gail—the social worker who cared for her, and cut her hair—had not the slightest sense of either fashion or style.

Without a mirror, the scissors Ned had included with the clothing did little more than even it a bit. But beautiful or ugly, it was what it was, so wasting time grumping about it accomplished nothing.

The area surrounding Miles' office was apparently not currently needed, because the three other offices in the area were empty. So why didn't his staff didn't occupy the same corner of the floor? The man who had visited him the other day mentioned not being able to find him. Maybe he had recently been moved?

She stopped outside his door and listened. If, as she hoped, he could see her, and their being together had the same effect on her appearance Ned had caused the previous day, she wanted him alone when she entered.

Silence.

Taking a deep breath she stepped into the office. Empty.

Damn. So much for that idea.

She checked his desk, looking for something that might tell her where he had gone. Nothing.

Ah well. It sounded like a good idea at the time, officer.

With a sigh she headed for the door, and nearly ran into Miles, coming the other way. This time she only bumped her shoulder as she threw herself against a filing cabinet to avoid him. No real pain, and she did manage to miss being trampled, which would have been far worse.

"Are you all right, Jennie? I didn't see you."

"I'm okay," she said, getting to her feet. "I'm getting used to bouncing off the walls. Apparently, it's an acquired skill." The good news was that he could see her without the necessity of music, so maybe...

Before she could check, he said, "You're looking well today. I..." He stopped, and stared. It appeared she was back.

Thank you, makeup department. You've got it right this time. I'll take it from here.

She was wearing only one of Ned's shirts—a patterned silk close to something she might choose for herself. To the good, because her arms were shorter than Ned's, the sleeves bloused a bit. It also had a fly-front that hid the buttons, and the throat was designed to lay open, naturally, allowing her a bit of cleavage without looking like a slut. Not high fashion, but it would do.

Obviously he was impressed, so she struck a pose, which brought a quiet, "Oh my God."

He grinned as he said, "You seem to have healed rather quickly. I'm impressed."

"Thank you sir." She sketched a curtsey.

"Clothing, too?"

She shrugged. "Special delivery from the ghostly wardrobe department." Best not to explain how that came about, and apparently he hadn't realized she wore men's clothing.

"Sit," he said, heading toward his own chair and waving toward the one in front of the desk. "Tell me what's been going on."

She thought about what to tell him. Probably everything except where she slept, and with whom.

"Well, for starters, I seem to be employed."

"Oh?"

"I'm working for your brother."

He laughed. "Tell me something that might surprise me. I warned you about him, remember."

"I remember, but he offered me something that sounded like more fun than hanging around and bothering you." His eyes kept straying to her breasts, though he, obviously, was trying not to make a fool of himself. She sat up straighter and took a deep breath, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she struck a bit of a pose. Whatever he had been about to say was postponed for several seconds.

"You're doing that on purpose," he finally said, meeting her eyes. She only arched her eyebrow a bit in return, then leaned an elbow on one armrest, waiting.

"Well, you can keep on doing, it, thank you very much, and you are _not_ bothering me, at least not in the way you meant." Then, turning more serious, he asked, "So what has my evil twin got you doing?"

Has he talked to Ned? Or does he use the term the way Ned uses Prince Charming for him?

Something else to ask about later, though it did seem likely. For now, she said, "Has Ned told you of any problems he's been having lately?"

"What kind of problems?" He leaned forward, putting his forearms on the desk.

"Information leaks." His frown brought the thought that maybe it was something she shouldn't have said. But then, he was as much an owner as Ned, so seemed reasonable that he should know. Certainly, he wasn't a suspect.

Abruptly, he relaxed.

"Oh that. I know about it, but it's so much bullshit."

"Oh?"

"Ned's just pissed because he's been outbid a couple of times, lately. It happens. He's just a sore loser, and he blames everyone but himself when it happens. He reamed Steve Carr out, royally, the other day over nothing, and Steve's about the sharpest numbers-man he has."

She frowned. "Do you mean Stephen Carr?"

"That's him. No one calls him Stephen except for Neddie. He always did have a stick up his ass."

She shook her head. "So you're saying Stephen...I mean Steve Carr, is one of the best men here?" If true it changed things quite a bit.

"One of the best anywhere, to hear Ned talk. But just the same, I thought he was going to fire him. He claimed Steve had been talking too much where people could listen."

So he hadn't been foisting a drone on his sister. He had actually been trading the man for his sister's proxy vote. Yet he _had_ manipulated her into it, because he had talked to Carr about it before the fact, and had obviously planted the bug in her ear in the first place. Had the raise he had conned her into giving the man been a reward for Carr, or had he been screwing his sister? The man still played a devious game. And Miles was right. He had more angles than a geometry book.

But Miles had no intention of discussing his brother because he said, "So Ned has you trying to spy out his invisible enemies. That should be long term employment, given there aren't any—or maybe because there are so many, depending on how you look at it. What are you doing after work?"

"What?"

"I want to take you to dinner. Are you free?"

She laughed. "Free I am, but there is a teeny problem. I haven't yet become famous enough for you to take me out to dinner without people staring. And if you say, 'I'm having dinner with Jennie,' and point to my chair, they are going to put you in a small room without windows."

He shook his head, laughing. "But there's no fun there. The fun is when you sing to them, then say, "What's the problem, officer?" They will positively crap in their pants...and I want to be there to watch it happen. Besides, you're too damn beautiful for me not to make a play for, so you have to at least give me the chance."

"To take me to dinner."

"To ply you with wine and conversation. To impress you with intelligence and wit. To seduce you with style and—"

"A seduction might be a wee bit difficult. And as you once said, a lot more fun for me than for you."

"A sacrifice I'm willing to make if it will bring you to a state of true bliss."

"You're cute. Why do you dye your hair?" Now that she knew what to look for it was easy to see traces of black at the roots of his hair and eyebrows.

"You're beautiful...and I do it so I will never be mistaken for my evil twin."

"Seriously? You hate him that much?" She hadn't meant to start the conversation down this path, and was at a loss to explain why she'd asked about his hair. But the subject had been broached, so maybe she could get some answers.

He lost his smile. Obviously, she'd touched on a subject that bothered him a great deal.

"I don't hate Neddie. At least most of the time. We once were a lot alike. We thought alike, and we did the stupid things all twins do. Then mom married the monster. Me, he showed off then put back in the picture frame. Ned, he twisted into a replica of himself. He did the same to Jeanette, with even more success, but she's a special case, and you asked about Neddie."

"You call him that? Neddie?"

"To his face?" he smiled. "Not any more. I used to. He used to call me Millie when he was angry and dumbass when he was pissed. I won't tell you what I called him."

"For which I thank you, I suppose."

"So will you have dinner with me? I'll tell you everything you want to know about the pirate king then...at least until you make me think you're more interested in him than me."

She threw up her hands. "Why not?"

"Why not indeed." He stood, saying, "And now, I need to run, because I have to make a lunch meeting and I'm late now. I'll meet you here at five?"

"At five, then. Assuming I'm off duty by then."

"Deal," he said as he left the office.

Life was becoming more and more interesting, it seemed.

° ° ° °

"There's been a change in our plans," Ned said as Jennie came into the office. He got up and closed the door.

"Before that I have something important to report."

"Oh?" Someone see you again?

"No. It's about Sally. She thinks you've gone insane."

He took a seat at the conference table, motioning her to one a quarter of the way around the table, rather than on the opposite side. "Sally has always thought I'm crazy."

"This time she's sure of it. Either that or you've become a closet drinker, given the way you've been behaving since I showed up."

He grunted. "A reasonable assumption, I suppose. It also explains why she's been hanging over me every chance she got, today. She's probably trying to smell my breath." He nodded. "Okay, taken care of...or it will be. Let's talk about you, and this afternoon. There's been a change of plan. Neither Zukerman nor Haddonfield will be in the office, so for this round I'll go with plan A. And if I lose the bid I'll see by how much, and maybe learn something. I—"

A knock brought him to a stop, and at his call to come in, Sally brought his lunch, half a pizza and a cola. When she left he restarted the conversation with, "I want you to check out someone for me. Just visit his office and nose around a bit, okay?"

"I suppose, but where, and who?"

Ned grimaced. "The who is easy, but the where is a problem...or may be. That's part of why I need you."

This was starting to be interesting, so she motioned for him to go on.

"Have you heard Miles mention the name Jack Tinman?"

"I think so, but I'm not sure." The name sounded familiar.

"He's the CEO at a charity called Dignity For All. They rehab homes for the poor, and Miles—"

"Yes. He stopped in the other day, when I was visiting."

"Would you recognize him again?" He was busy breaking strings of cheese connecting the slice he had pulled free to the rest of the pizza.

"Probably, why?"

"Because I want you to follow him, if you can, and look around his office. I can tell you the address, but I have no idea of where in the building, if at all, he spends his time."

"You suspect a problem?" She rubbed her lip to show him where he had a bit of sauce clinging to his.

"Thanks," he said, dabbing with a paper napkin. "I suspect everyone. In this case it's just a feeling. Their books are sloppy, and there are little mistakes, as though who ever is keeping their accounts isn't terribly good at math. No cheating, they're probably honest mistakes, but still..." He sipped at his soda before saying, "So will you do it? If and when we ever solve this ghost business I'll pay you for your time. I'd put you on the payroll now, but it would be hard to explain to the accounting department."

About to reach out to pat his hand, but brought that to a quick stop. Instead, she said, "Of course I'll help. What else do I have to do? But you have to answer a few questions first."

He put down the pizza and frowned. "About?"

"Stephen Carr. Do you like him?" It was interesting to note that he ate outer crusts. She favored putting them aside. But then, he didn't have to watch his weight as closely as a model did.

"Stephen? Of course I like him. Why? Is something I should know?"

"Nothing wrong, but...well, why did you trick your sister into taking him for twenty percent more money than he was making here?"

He relaxed. "I see. I assume you heard I disliked him, and was getting rid of him while screwing Jeannette at the same time. From whom?"

She couldn't meet his eyes, as she said, "No one. It just seemed that way at the time."

A long silence, before he took a breath and said, "I see. Well, Stephen Carr is one of the sharpest men I have ever known. I did something stupid the other week. We missed an important bid by a few pennies. That was the first time the leak came into operation, I think, but it looked as though Stephen had screwed up, in a way so unlike him it could only be..." He took a deep breath, before saying, "Let's just say I did something stupid. I often do. But going back to what you want to know, I did it for several reasons. First is that I owed him an apology more real than just a few words and a pat on the back. Second is that my sister has...or had, a fool doing Stephen's job. And finally, Stephen was limited here, because while I said he was _one_ of the sharpest men I know, _the_ sharpest man works for me too, so Stephen is in a dead end job, so far as his ever moving up the ladder. At Jeannette's though, he _starts_ in the top slot, and deserves the extra money he'll be getting."

"Oh." Every time she spent time with this man that same word seemed to become her favorite.

He cocked his head a bit, the pizza motionless a few inches from his mouth. "You thought I was screwing them both?" Without waiting for a reply, he said, "I am a bastard, Jennie. Make no mistake there. I'm just not _that_ kind of bastard."

No, you're not...and if I was wrong there, what else did I get wrong?"

But there wasn't time to think on that because he had finished chewing his bite of pizza and was going on.

"I don't want you to get yourself in trouble, this afternoon, or take any chances. I just want you to form an opinion as to Jack Tinman being substantially honest, okay?"

She smiled. "Only substantially?"

"That's all. People steal. It's a fact of life. Make it easy and they steal a lot. I'm worried that Miles is making it too easy. He's more trusting than I am."

But no more trustworthy.

A surprising, and unexpected, thought, one she would have to think on. Maybe ask Miles about it. Or someone.
Chapter 11

Jennie stood and stretched, maintaining watch on the front of the building from the dumpster lid as she did. According to Ned, Jack Tinman would be having lunch with Miles downstairs in Mesa Grande, a Mexican themed restaurant on the ground floor. If true, it was a long lunch, because she'd been waiting for nearly an hour.

She was nearly ready to give up when the man came out of the building.

_About time._ Belatedly, it occurred that since Ned had given her the man's probable destination she could have waited there, avoiding the possibility of losing him. But Ned wasn't entirely sure he was going there, first, or at all, so trying it his way did make sense.

She wormed her way off the dumpster—a safe perch, but too high to jump from. Unfortunately, sliding off feet first while lying on her stomach was awkward and slow—and to make matters worse Ned's flip-flops fell off as she did. They'd been a good idea on his part because they made walking more comfortable, but they were too big and often got in the way, so now, she tucked one into each rear pocket. Maybe they would be of help the next time she fell.

Luckily, the man wasn't a fast walker, so she caught him before he reached the end of the block, headed for a parking garage. The problem of getting into a car without being crushed was something she hadn't taken into account.

She gave it some thought as they walked, and by the time he reached his car, a very nice BMW, was ready. When he opened the car door she would be standing close in front of him. There should be room for her to cram herself between him and the car because he had to stand out of the way of the door or he couldn't open it. And no one leans against the car when they open the door.

In practice, it went exactly as expected, a nice change from the way things had been going. The good news was that the jeans provided a bit of knee protection as she scuttled across the seat. Yesterday the maneuver would have cost some skin.

She settled into the seat as he got in, wishing there was a way to fasten the seat-belt. With no give, the seats tended to be a bit slick, forcing her to hold on tightly when they turned or stopped.

The man had monumentally bad taste in music.

Their first stop was in a perfectly dreadful neighborhood, making her thankful that no one could see her, because on that street someone without battle scars was an obvious tourist.

On the way out of the car she snuggled up to the man and followed him, as closely as a shadow, gaining skill in the ghost business, at last.

Outside, the building was a wreck, part of a row of time-worn brick buildings, joined one to another for support. They looked to need it. Bricks were crumbling, and stained with both age and the ugly scrawl of graffiti. Porches sagged, tiredly. More than a few of the houses had boarded up windows, and there were buildings gone from the row, like missing teeth, their exposed cellars filled with rubble strewn dirt, the ugliness bringing a shiver. Depressing to look at, what must it be like to live there?

Inside it was worse. Stacked wallboard filled a good part of what had probably been the living room. Bare rafters showed here and there, and the walls looked as if a madman had wandered the room, randomly whacking the plaster with a hammer. The floors were gouged and ugly, and littered with debris, causing her to dig out the sandals and slip them on. In one corner a man was doing incomprehensible things to an outlet box.

Tinman studied the electrician, sourly, for a moment, then turned away without a greeting. Before he left the room, however, he turned back, then went back to squat and read the label on a box lying near the man.

"This is twelve-two wire," he said, accusingly.

The electrician shrugged. "So? The code says it has to be number twelve wire." He never looked up.

"The God-damned code calls out twelve for _new_ work. Does this shithole look like it's new work?"

The man never raised his head as he said, "Fuck you. I rip out old wires. I put in new wires. That's new work Take it up with Danny if you don't like it. I just follow the electrical code."

Tinman only grunted, but he dug out a phone and dialed.

"Danny," he snarled, not bothering to identify himself. "Your guy is using number twelve wire. I'm not paying for twelve." He listened for a minute, then said, "So put twelve in where they can see it. I don't give a shit about that, just use the cheap shit in the walls, where they can't. It's better than the crap they had in here when the place was built." The electrician had stopped his work when Tinman started dialing, and listened as they spoke. Before there were more than a few words spoken he shook his head and took a pliers of some kind from his belt pouch. He clipped the cable where it went into the wall, and started tucking the end back inside the carton, muttering to himself. By the time Tinman closed his phone the electrician was on his way out the door, presumably getting the lighter wire. From the doorway he said, "One of these days you bastards are going to cost me my license...not that you give a shit." Tinman was already on his way upstairs, and his response was impossible to understand, but it was easy to guess what he said. Ned had been right. People stole if you let them. She recorded the conversation in the notebook—those parts that mattered. No sense following Tinman upstairs, though. What he was looking for was obvious.

His office turned out to be only a few blocks away. Slipping through the front door along with Tinman, she found herself in a cluttered office. A frightfully ugly black woman sat at a desk, working. She waved a hand but didn't look up as Tinman came in.

"You got half a dozen calls, Jack. They're on your pad." Her voice was surprisingly pleasant.

For the next half hour nothing of interest happened. Phones rang and were answered, people dropped by and left, just like any other office. There were two other men in the place, which had a single main room, a stock-room at the rear, and a bathroom with a steadily dripping faucet. Based on observation, they did exactly what they said they did. They rehabbed houses and chiseled where they could, probably to line their own pockets.

Leaving with the next person to pass through the door made sense. Unfortunately, the mailman, who was in and out in seconds, wore a bulky mailbag, which prevented her from following. A lucky break, though, because a few minutes later Tinman handed the woman a letter he'd just opened, saying, "This invoice is wrong, Belle." He pointed. "The total is shown as twelve thousand dollars. It should say thirty-one. You want to fix it while I cut the check?"

The woman grinned, then turned to her computer. A few minutes later she produced a virtually identical invoice, alike in everything but the amount billed. As she took it from the printer Tinman snatched it from her fingers, saying, "Thank you very much, Belle, my love. I'll take that, now, if you don't mind. One must have accurate records, you know." The woman laughed, and swatted Tinman playfully on the backside as he walked away. When Tinman had visited Miles, on the day she first arrived, he'd asked him about Belle. Was the man married to her? She shivered, but then gave a shrug. Maybe she had charms that weren't obvious. Maybe she was the reason he had turned to a life of crime.

Tinman took the phony invoice to a copy machine, along with the check he had written. He copied the check and stapled it to the invoice, putting both into the same folder in a file cabinet.

You cheating bastard. Now, you'll tear up that phony check and send one for the original invoice price. You pay twelve thousand dollars for the supplies, but charge Miles thirty-one.

Ned's right, Miles is way too trusting.

Ironic that the same qualities in Miles that she most admired—his love of people, and willingness to give them the benefit of the doubt—were the very qualities that made him vulnerable to slime like Tinman. She almost hated to tell him, it would disappoint him so.

Would it better to tell Ned? Probably not. Miles needed to know, first, because if he didn't, he would come off badly in his brother's eyes. Better to tell Miles, and give him a chance to start his own crackdown, to make it appear she'd learned only what Miles had already discovered for himself.
Chapter 12

"You got a few minutes, Boss?"

"Mmm?" Ned looked up to find Sally standing in the doorway.

"We need to talk. You busy?"

"I'm standing in the middle of the floor doing nothing in particular, at the moment, Sally. Of course I have time to talk. And for you, anytime is good. What's up?"

She came fully into the office, small furrows lining her forehead. "What's up is the question I need to ask. You're standing in the middle of the floor, doing nothing. Why?"

"Why? Well..." He trailed off, and the thought came that he was responding as though he'd been caught playing truant. Of more importance he had no answer to the question because he had been pacing, aimlessly, for nearly an hour, unable to concentrate; unable to even understand why he was pacing.

"What do you have on your mind, Sally?" Maybe formality would give a more meaningful direction.

But Sally was having none of that. She crossed her arms, saying, "Don't try to shit me, kid. I paddled your bottom when you were little and I can do it now, just as easily."

"But—"

"No buts. And _don't_ try to intimidate me with that, 'what do you have in mind,' crap, because I don't intimidate. Now what the hell's going on?"

He stared at the woman for a moment, frowning, before he laughed and went to hug her, saying, "I never could fool you, Aunt Sally. Not for one single second." And that was true. He could never to get by her defenses. Nor, since becoming and adult, did he want to. She was, in all the world, the only one who loved him unconditionally, and the only one he would trust with his life without having to do an analysis of the situation—and the person—first.

She pulled him to her, fiercely, for a second, before barking a sigh, then pushing him away and pointing toward the conference table, saying, "Now sit, and tell me what's going on."

"With what?" he asked, as he seated himself, still reluctant to put into speech the things that were bothering him.

"With what?" she mocked. "How about we start with your door swinging open and shut all day with no one but you in the office. You suddenly shy? Whacking off into the trash can?"

"No, I was just—"

"And how about we talk about you plastering the office with papers, yesterday, half of which you wrote. You can't turn pages anymore? Your memory's failing?"

"Sally, I—"

"And how about we talk about your having long conversations with yourself, and acting as though someone was responding."

"You listened."

"Of _course_ I listened, you idiot...or tried to. I worry about you. It's my job to worry. I hired on when your mom got sick. I promised I would take care of you, and by God that's what I'm going to do." She all but said, "humph," and stared him down, daring him to argue.

My God, I love you, Sally. Only you.

But simply thinking it was stupid, so he told her how he felt, and there was more hugging—hugging that left him feeling warm and glad to be in the same world as this lady. Sally, his mother's only sister, was as much a mom to him as had his own mother, for as long as he could remember.

"Now," she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "Selma says the ghost she saw is your girlfriend. Is that true? Because I'll tell you, I'd much rather it's that than something like drugs or booze."

He leaned back in his chair, waving a hand in inquiry. "When did Selma tell you this?"

"Right after I threatened to ventilate her eyeballs with an ice pick. I can be very convincing."

"I'll bet. I'll also bet you didn't have to threaten very hard."

"You're avoiding the question. But for your information, I did. You may not realize it, but your people are extremely loyal. And since she doesn't know I'm your dear aunty, she was afraid I would think you had gone crazy, so I had to nearly pry it out of her. You'll find that the bottle of scotch you keep in your desk drawer is nearly empty."

Ned crossed his arms. "You're awful."

"No, devious. Why don't we drink to that?"

"With you? Sorry, I need every advantage I can get."

"You're changing the subject. Yes or no."

His smile faded. "The answer is yes, but she's not my girlfriend. She belongs to Miles...or wants to."

Sally snorted. "Then she doesn't deserve you, because she's stupid."

"No...she's far from stupid. But he's Prince Charming. He works at it. I work at..." He took a deep breath, before saying, "They often call me The Butcher behind my back, Sally. I know that, and I accept it. But no woman dreams of growing up to marry an executioner—at least not one I might be interested in." Depression was back, a weight on the shoulders. Helpless to prevent it he put a hand over his face and tried to rub away the pain.

"I try, Sally. I really do. The old man taught me every rotten trick in the world, so I know what not to do. And I know how to fight against the kind of shit he used to pull. Last week, alone, I saved the jobs of ten thousand people, and made sure they would still be employed next year, and the year after. But all anyone _ever_ sees is fifteen hundred people out of work, today, because of me."

"So hire a PR man."

"What?"

"Hire someone to get the message out and be a hero like Miles for a change."

His voice was bleak, reflecting his mood, as he said, "I can't. As stupid as it sounds, the reputation helps make everything else possible. I encourage it. I have to."

"You know...I sometimes think it was you who was deprived of oxygen during birth, not Miles. You love what you do, and you always have. You see yourself as a masked avenger, righting all the bad the old man did, then riding off into the sunset, the mysterious Captain Blood. So why all the self-pity all of a sudden?"

He peeled his fingers away from his eyes enough to see his aunt, clearly. "I never could fool you." He sat up, feeling a little better. "But it does hurt, especially now. And Miles was not deprived of oxygen at birth, he only acts like it sometimes because he's too damn trusting."

"Not what I heard," Sally said, looking defiance into his eyes. "And there's no way in hell he would have married Toni the vampire if all his brain cells were in operation. But that's another story, so how about you start at the beginning and let me be the judge."

"You won't believe me."

"I never believe you. Try me."

He stared at her for a long time, before saying, "Okay, then. Let's start with the Wolston meeting the other day..."

Sally leaned back in her seat and stared for a long time, before saying, "You're in love with her, then."

"Yes...no..." he stood, and began to pace. "I have no idea. Yes, I want her. She's beautiful." He stopped and faced his aunt, saying, "But she's more than beautiful. I can't put it into words, but when I look at her I see a...and this sounds silly even to me...I see a rightness about her, as though the world has—or had—an empty place, one she fits into, perfectly. It's more than just wanting her as a woman, it's feeling as though she...she _belongs_ here, with me."

"Have you told her?"

"Yeah, right. I know the woman for two days. Two whole days. And I should, what...tell her she's the perfect wife for me?"

Sally didn't respond for a long moment, punctuated only by their breathing, before she asked, "Is there anything else? Is she smart? Dumb? What?"

"Smart. She's over her head in a situation she can't control. She should be terrified, but she's in there trying to figure out the rules so she can keep on fighting, and make use of the cards she's been dealt."

"And?"

"And?"

And how does she feel about you, Ned?"

"She tolerates me because I've given her something interesting to do. Other than that she hates me. Calls me a pirate."

"Ouch. Maybe she should talk to me."

"I don't think so." He came to sit on the edge of his chair.

"Jeannette, then."

"Jeannette's a clone of the old man. What good would that do?"

She reached out and covered his hand, where it lay on the table. Her touch was warm, and comforting.

"She'd find out what a real pirate is like."

He sat back in the chair. "You know, Sally, for the first time in my entire life I have no idea of where I'm going. And for the first time in my life I don't like me very much."

"Why?"

"Because tonight she's going to sleep in his bed. And when he wakes up in the morning she's going to be there, and be real. And I don't know what I did wrong."
Chapter 13

When Jennie reached the street she had no idea of where she was in relation to center city, but she had to reach the office by five to meet Miles, which meant finding a bus that was headed downtown was the immediate problem. But how? Asking wasn't an option. Or was it?

Certainly, the clothing problem—or lack of it—no longer applied. True, she was wearing Ned's jeans, held up with a necktie threaded through the belt loops, but she had been creative there, and had taken a second tie just in case, knotting the two together, with ten inches or more of the ties dangling from the knot. The result was a colorful and functional belt, with tassels dangling on either side. His comment was that it looked good enough to start a fashion trend. She changed out of the silk shirt before leaving the office—that was reserved for tonight—and wore a simple blue shirt, open a bit in front and tied at the waist. All in all, she looked pretty good, other than for a lack of makeup—and decent hair, of course. Being combed and neat might be thought of as a virtue, but was all it had going for it.

A pixie cut. I'd sell my soul for a decent pixie cut.

But mooning over a hairdo wasn't getting her back to the office. The question was, who to ask? Someone alone, obviously. Someone who looked intelligent enough to know where the busses ran. Someone who would not look at a woman alone as an opportunity for personal entertainment.

The street was empty of anyone she wanted to sing to. A grubby old man dozed against the wall of an apartment building, and Tinman's car was being eyed by some local youths. Definitely not her type, so she walked toward the corner, where a young mother wheeled a baby stroller, with a grocery bag tucked into a pouch behind the baby. Someone safe, she assumed, so she allowed the woman to pass, then followed, humming quietly. As she hoped, the woman turned, to see who was there.

"Hi," she said, as the woman turned. "Can you tell me the best way to get downtown from here?"

The woman frowned, probably wondering where she'd come from. But there were doorways nearby, and she might just have used one of those and come up from behind.

"Why you all lit up?" the woman asked, frowning.

_Lit up?_ That was a surprise. Although Jimmy had claimed to see a glow about her, no one else mentioned it. Had it been there all the time, seen as an expected part of her ghost persona and therefore not worth remarking on? Was it an effect of the cloudy day on her condition? Or was this some new quirk of the ring's? No way to tell, and she certainly couldn't ask the woman, so she said, "It's something new. Next year every woman in town will be wearing it." She hesitated for a beat, then added, "I'm a little lost. Can you tell me the fastest way downtown?"

The woman took a step away, pushing her baby to safety She glanced at the carriage, probably to assure herself that the child was unharmed, then turned back toward Jennie.

"Yowpahh!"

Jennie had never heard a human being make a noise quite like that. It started as a yell, but ended up with her inhaling, while making an almost indescribable sound. That was followed by, "Gone. She be gone. Jesus help me it's that ghost lady." There followed a lengthy and hurried prayer, in which Jesus was named quite often.

Frightening the woman certainly hadn't been her intention. But it had happened, and she _was_ in a hurry, so perhaps taking advantage of the situation might get the answer she sought. She sang herself into visibility, and with hands on hips said, "Leave my kid out of this, if you don't mind." Perhaps it was cruel, but on the other hand it might calm the woman down a lot faster than trying to explain who and what she actually was.

Calm turned out to be a relative term. The woman apparently caught the reference to "my kid," and stopped imploring Jesus, but there still seemed to be some question as to her either running away or throwing herself prostate on the pavement. Swallowing her own tongue didn't seem out of the question, either, so Jennie pointed toward the stroller, saying, "You have a good looking son."

"Umm..." Hardly an improvement over yowpahh as a means of communication.

"Look," she finally said. "I'm in a hurry, so I'll tell you what. I'll bless the kid if you tell me how to get downtown from here. Okay?"

Open-mouthed silence lasted long enough that she was about to give up and walk away when the woman pointed and said, "Mass Avenue be that way. Four block." She said it fast, as though trying to get the words out before they burned her mouth.

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" she said, walking around the woman to bend and kiss the child on the forehead. The woman's eyes were on her the whole time.

"And a blessing for you, too," she added, leaning toward the woman, who closed her eyes. She was trembling.

I wonder what I've just done to her child's life. He's marked forever as someone special...at least in her eyes. And so is she. I might laugh over this, but she never will.

Have I just done something wonderful or have I done terrible harm?

But there was no way to tell. The woman's eyes were open again, searching for her, so she hummed a few bars of a hymn, to bring herself back, and said, "Be at peace, daughter," before turning toward Massachusetts avenue and a way downtown. Maybe the old, "It's all in fun" Jennie wasn't such a good idea after all.

As she walked, she thought about Jimmy. Where was the boy now? There seemed to be no others of her kind around, so it was probable that the boy hadn't found anyone, either. But given that, what were the odds of him just happening to be at the airport, only a week after his own conversion to ghosthood, at precisely the right time, and terminal, so see David and Ann get off the plane?

Had he been a guide, as she suspected before—someone to start her running and kick off the fun? Impossible to know, but if so, fun for whom? That was the central question, followed, as always, by: why?

° ° ° °

"So you told her you were the Virgin Mary? Oh my Lord why couldn't I have been there? Will you do it again, for me?"

Jennie laughed. As she slid into the cab she said, "Okay, I'm the Virgin Mary...boo!" Getting downtown turned out to be fairly easy, other than having gotten on a bus going out of town, rather than being inbound. But that only cost a bit of time, as she rode the bus to the end of the line and back into town. The hard part was walking five blocks when no one got off near her stop, then riding the elevator when she reached the office building, dodging contact with the other passengers until the doors finally opened on the proper floor. She'd screwed up by not having him meet her in the lobby, and had the bruises, acquired in the elevator, to prove it. But they didn't show, and she was wearing the silk blouse again. Ned wasn't in his office.

"Seriously, will you?" He followed her and pulled the door shut, turning to the driver and saying, "Anthony's Hawthorn, please."

The driver looked pleased, and she didn't blame him. Anthony's was a fair distance away, which prompted, "Why not Anthony's Pier Four? It's ten minutes from here."

"Hawthorn is far more romantic. So will you?"

"Play Mary? I don't think so. I hate to think of what I've done to that woman's life."

"What?" The cab driver had swiveled in his seat and was staring at Miles.

"Nothing," Miles said, with a smile. "I'm running lines for a play. Just ignore me."

The man turned back to his driving, but his eyes were on his rearview mirror as often as on the road, from then on.

But talking about the incident brought back a memory, so she asked, "Miles, do I seem to glow? I mean, when you look at me, do I—"

"You used to."

"Used to?"

"When you were, umm...thinner."

"Oh? Was I in color? Am I now?"

"So many questions. But since it's you...then, you glowed in black and white. Now you're in Technicolor, but any glow is only from your beauty. Okay?"

"... Okay, I suppose." Did that mean she was closer to reality with him? That seemed to make sense, given she'd crossed into the real world while in Ned's bed. Was that a possibility tonight? Did she _want_ it to happen? His bed would not be as platonic as Ned's had been. Definitely not platonic.

Well this is what you've been asking for, isn't it?

Delaying a decision she said, "I didn't tell you what else happened this afternoon. Before I met that woman I spent part of the day with your friend Jack Tinman."

"Jack? Really? Ned sent you all the way out there? Not to scare him, I hope."

"No, I—"

He gave no time to finish, breaking in with, "I should hope not. I love that man. And his wife.... Ugliest woman I've ever met, but I adore her. Good people, both of them."

Telling him about Tinman, and the scam he was perpetrating on the foundation, would hurt and disappoint, but he needed to know, so she bit her lip for a second, then said, "Not as good as you think. I watched them fake an invoice today. They boosted it from twelve to thirty-one thousand. The invoice for thirty-one went in your folder, along with a copy of a check for that amount, but the check that went to the company was only for twelve."

"You're kidding. Jack's my friend. I've known the man for years. No way in hell he'd try to cheat me."

"But he did. I was there."

"Then, you misunderstood. These are good people. Jack works his ass off rehabbing houses for people who never in a million years could buy one."

"That may be, but I saw what I saw. You need to check for yourself."

He smiled and raised his hands in surrender, saying, "You want me to check, then I check, first thing in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Now sing for the driver. That should be fun."

She shook her head. "Not till we get there, I don't want him jumping out of the cab while we're still moving."

"People are staring again, Miles."

"Are they? That's wonderful. God, I wish you could pick up a wine glass, the way ghosts do in the movies. We'd have people diving out the windows."

Before he could say more they were interrupted.

"Miles, you old bastard. How the hell are you?" The man wasn't drunk, but he was well into his cups, a bit unsteady on his feet. The thought came that should he breathe in the direction of the candle, the flame would probably flare to twice its size.

"Hey Paul. Nice to see you. Sit down. Sit and join us for a while."

She scrambled to get out of her chair, which was, of necessity, pulled away from the table. The man was about to sit in her lap.

"Not there," Miles said, taking the man's arm. "That chair is reserved."

"Ahh...you have a lady. Forgive me, I thought you were alone."

"No, sit," he said, urging the man to a different seat. He threw her a wink, adding "This should be fun."

"So what are you doing here?" Miles asked.

"I live out on The Neck," the man called Paul said, "But with Essie gone it's lonely, so I eat here most nights."

"A shame." He nodded toward her, saying, "Darling, why don't you sing for Paul and cheer him up?"

"You're sure?" He just grinned, so she sang a chorus of Happy Birthday. As expected, when someone other than Miles was in the party she reverted to a less than healthy condition.

Paul looked at her, then frowned and looked down at the drink-glass he had been carrying. When he looked up his forehead did a fairly good imitation of an accordion. She sang again, quietly—and something more appropriate—but the wrinkles didn't ease. Instead his eyes narrowed. After a moment he turned to Miles, saying, "She's a ghost," in a very aggrieved voice.

"There is that," he agreed. Then, in a more formal tone he said, "Jennie Nan, I'd like you to meet Paul Harding, a man I've known forever and loved even longer."

"She's a ghost," Paul insisted, turning back to her. She hummed to bring herself back, prompting, "And she turns on and off like a God-damned light bulb."

"She does tend to flicker," Miles said, obviously having a wonderful time.

Paul was blinking, probably having lost her again, so she hummed, after which Paul said, "Make her stop, it's hurting my eyes." The man seemed to strike a good balance: just drunk enough to accept her, and just sober enough to make some sense when he spoke.

"Sorry, Paul. You have to keep watching. Look away and she disappears."

"She's gorgeous though...lady, you're gor–gorgeous."

"Thank you." She hid the smile that his drunken stuttering produced.

"It's true. You're too damn skinny, but you're still gorgeous."

Miles glanced toward her before saying, "The woman simply _can't_ control her weight these days." He broke into laughter, which he tried, unsuccessfully to stifle. This was a side of him she hadn't suspected. He was cold sober, but in some ways he seemed more intoxicated than Paul.

Paul looked from Miles to her several times, so she hummed just loud enough for him to hear, to remain in contact. After a moment, he said, "Are you going to marry her? I would."

"Might," he said looking smug.

"But how will you...how..."

The man seemed to be having difficulty in framing the question in an acceptable manner, so she leaned toward him and whispered, "While I'm drinking his blood I'm real. We do it then."

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. This was no longer fun. Once, maybe, she would have done that and walked away laughing. But hurting people for your own entertainment was cruel, and thoughtless. True, the man was drunk enough to accept her as a ghost, and now, he stared for a moment, as though trying to determine if she was serious. He was also drunk enough to accept her being out with Miles without asking the questions of how and why. But it was still wrong, and cruel, and she no longer enjoyed cruelty.

"So you and Ned live in the same building?" The elevator slowed to a stop at the thirteenth floor.

"There are three or four at the company who do." His apartment was close to the elevator, so they were inside in seconds.

The furniture was different from that in Ned's apartment, as was the artwork on the walls, but in mode they were identical. As different as they were in their approach to life they thought alike in many things. Either that or they used the same decorator, which seemed the more likely explanation, given how different they were in everything else.

"So how about some coffee?"

When she reminded him, with raised eyebrows, of her status, he said, "Then how about sitting in front of a cup of coffee while I drink mine. I could reach over with a straw now and then, and you could pretend you're drinking." The smile at the corners of his mouth told her exactly how serious he wasn't.

"Why not?" _Your brother built a fire, though. Much more romantic._

Now why had she thought of that? And why had she been doing that sort of thing all evening?

While he made coffee she took a tour of the apartment. No contour chair in sight, so her choice was the sofa, the floor, or his bed.

"You know," he said, leaning back and studying her, "This ghost business really has me off my game."

"Oh? How is that?"

He smiled, and it was deeply warming. The man really was pretty to look at. That, alone, might be reason enough to sleep with him.

"Well, by now I would have built a fire, and suggested we have our coffee in the den. Then I would have offered to rub your back, or maybe just put my arm around you and cuddled."

"That usually works?"

"Usually."

"But with me you have a problem?"

He grinned. "Well I can't say the spirit is willing with quite the same meaning, can I?"

"I suppose not."

He finished the last of his coffee. "Ah well...I will frankly tell you that it's disappointing. I would like nothing more than to spend a few hours pleasing you...and me of course."

She glanced at the stove's clock. Nearly midnight. He saw the direction of her gaze, and said, "You're right.... Of course if you..."

"I what?"

He shrugged. "Well, it _is_ possible, at least for you."

"Mmm?" _You wouldn't say it._

But he did. "If I was careful, and gentle, we _could_ make love."

"Thanks, but it wouldn't be fun for you, I'm afraid."

Not to mention that the idea of doing something like that is positively gross.

"Well, I suppose we could sit facing each other and talk dirty while we—"

"I don't think so."

So pretty...and such a damn disappointment.

One thing was sure. She would not be sharing his bed.
Chapter 14

Oh-my-God!

Jennie stopped just short of the corner. A crowd covered the sidewalk near Tinman's office, overflowing into a good part of the street, most of them standing with heads bowed in prayer.

_It can't be._ But it was. They were holding a prayer vigil at the spot where she'd asked the woman for directions. Someone had already built a shrine of sorts—the focus of the crowd's attention—and what appeared to be the woman's baby stroller sat atop a small platform in front of it.

If I were to appear now, and kiss someone else, they'd rip these buildings down tomorrow and build a church here. Damn, damn, damn.

She walked around the throng, which appeared to number nearly one hundred, and walked toward the offices where Tinman hung out.

How many others have worn this damn ring, and ended up in the ghost world? And how many ended up founding religions, whether they meant to or not?

What the hell is it? Ann becomes a mermaid; I become a ghost. What happened to the woman who wore it before Ann? And the woman before her?

Ann claimed that when the ring finished its job she should pass it on to another woman...assuming it ever was. But could she take on that much responsibility? Hell no. There was no way she could make such a choice.

Or could she? Certainly, she'd be dead by year's end were it not for the ring. That counted. And because of the ring it had been an interesting few days. So maybe, if the woman really needed its help...

But that thought led to a problem. With daydreams about Miles banished, why stay in Boston? Last night had been a surprise, but looking at it in hindsight she really should have seen it coming. Maybe, after she finished with Tinman and friends it was time to visit Falmouth and find David and Ann, to let them know what they had gotten her into.

That made sense, but still, the riddle of Ned needed solving. Why would someone like him, sensitive, caring, and intelligent, accept a profession where he hurt so many people?

It's a mystery. And who can resist a mystery...or the chance to redeem a lost soul?

But the answer to dabbling in redemption was easy. When it come to matters of the soul, she'd already meddled quite enough, as the crowd on the sidewalk showed.

She gave a moment's thought to chucking it all, and just walking away, before she did something irrevocably stupid. Ned's business wasn't her problem. But in the end, the situation was interesting, and the chance to know how it came out had enough attraction to warrant another day or two in Boston.

Tinman and his crew certainly had more going on than what she'd found—which explained why she was here rather than checking in with Ned and bringing him up-to-date. Aptly named was Mr. Tinman. Like the tin man of the OZ stories, he was missing a heart, so perhaps it was time to apply a tin-snip to his little operation.

She slipped into the office with the man and his wife, then settled down to wait for something to happen. For the next hour, she learned more about the lives of the people who worked there than she would ever want to know. They gossiped, they played computer games, drank coffee, and did everything but work. So why did they not start later in the day? The only thing that came to mind was to have the office staffed in case someone came by to check.

But whatever the reason, they provided little in the way of entertainment. It would be more fun to head outside and watch the crowd at the shrine for a while. Unfortunately, leaving wasn't an option at the moment. And in any case, any temptation to get into more trouble was best avoided.

The phone rang. Belle answered and passed the call to her husband, who spent some time exchanging data with whoever was calling. When he hung up he brought his tablet to Belle and tore off the top sheet, handing it to her, calling it list of the completed housing, ready for occupancy.

Belle frowned over the list. "But I thought none of the present batch would be finished till Monday."

"They won't, but these aren't ours. They're the ones Frank Scott's crew wound up last month."

Belle nodded and took the list, transferring the data he had copied into her computer. It took a moment's thought to realize what they had done. They were listing houses completed by another group as though they had done the work themselves, which meant they could now justify the boosted invoices for materials, as well as the phony labor needed to install them.

Those bastards.

Worse yet, some other company could well be pulling the same scam and charging a second time for the shoddy work Tinman and crew were doing. And all the while, Miles was the patsy, loving the attention and adulation being fed him by those who were fleecing the company. It wasn't impossible that Gamble Inc. was financing both companies and being fleeced doubly.

As the morning progressed she learned that the scam had even greater depth than she'd imagined. Tinman's people handled the transfer of the property to the clients, and because of that were able to control who got the houses. Apparently, they had converted many of the restored houses into two or more family apartments on which they collected the rent. The two men whose jobs she'd wondered about were rental managers.

She stood by the front door, impatiently waiting for someone to come through. But no one did. A check of her watch showed it to be eleven twenty, and it looked as though she would be there for a while longer. An annoyance, because there was nothing more to do. The notebook already contained details of not only their crimes, but where to find the proof.

So far the door hadn't opened, probably because the press of people in the street prevented anyone from getting through. Viewed through the front window the crowd easily numbered five times what it had been, earlier. Quiet and prayerful, no one in the office had yet noticed.

Tinman and his little gang would take a break for lunch, soon, but would they leave the office, even then? A refrigerator, and microwave on a stand, filled one corner, and Belle had stored a bag in the cooler, presumably filled with lunch for her and her husband. The other two men had arrived with food, too. Certainly they would go home eventually, but that was hours away. And certainly, too, the mail would arrive, but the idea of spending one more second with this bunch than she had to, held no appeal.

Unfortunately, the only way to get out of the office before two—the time the mail arrived yesterday—would be to convince someone to leave. She thought about that for a moment, then looked at Belle, busy falsifying yet another document. Her husband was on the phone, and based on the conversation, just as busily cheating Miles and the foundation.

She chewed on a knuckle for a moment, deciding. Outside the office people were celebrating what they saw as something miraculous. Maybe it was time for the people in the office to get a little religion. She took a deep breath, made her decision, then nodded.

_Okay, people. It's time you and I became better acquainted._ Maybe time for another appearance by Mary. Maybe even by her evil twin.

This time no pleasant anticipation at the shock she would see on their faces warmed her. Nor did worry over harming someone's life or beliefs bring doubt. This time the idea was to bring the fear of God's wrath in punishment for their sins. If to do that an avenging angel was needed, she would damn well be a good one.

The silk shirt of the previous evening, untucked, came to her knees, so it would do nicely as a ghostly garment, though it might be better if it was a trifle longer. But you work with what you have, so she stripped off the jeans and laid them on a cabinet by the door, to grab on the way out. The neckties would work as accessories. One she tied around her hair, gathering it at the crown of her head, a short vertical ponytail to give added height and make her appearance a bit more bizarre. The second tie took a bit more thought. She first wrapped from under her chin to the top of her head, but it interfered with the splash hairdo, and might look like she was suffering ghostly toothache, rather than being fearsome. The idea was to frighten, not amuse. Certain it would be doing no more than making herself look stupid, she placed the center of the tie across her face, centered between eyes and mouth, then took either end behind her head and forward, again, to tie at the forehead. Silly, perhaps, but it felt right, so it would be part of her new look. Hopefully, no one would recognize it as a repurposed necktie. In any case, it was time to stop screwing around, so she went to the open door of the storeroom, a place to duck, if necessary, to break line of sight. She even checked behind a stack of boxes, just to be absolutely certain no one lurked there, even though she could clearly see the office's occupants were at their desks. There would be no repeat of what happened at the swan pond.

She cleared her throat to relieve an annoying roughness there, one that had been growing for the past few minutes. Something new? A negative effect of being in her present environment? Possibly, because a tingling warmth at cheeks and forehead seemed to indicate an elevated temperature, with sweat gathering on her face as a result. Nerves or something more serious? Time, alone, would tell.

A bit unnerved, she rubbed her throat while mentally preparing for the next few minutes. Hopefully, it would work. More likely, she was being foolish and they would laugh.

Finally ready, she began to sing, wordlessly, and in what was, hopefully, an ominous tone. The roughness in her throat helped. Heads turned and eyes widened.

Showtime, you bastards!

Why she chose Belle she could never have explained. There were three men and one woman in the room. She could have chosen any of them. Was it that she identified with the woman—held her to a higher standard of behavior? No way of knowing, but that didn't matter, now.

She looked directly at Belle, extended her arm, and snarled, "You've turned, Belle Tinman. You've strayed from the light, and you've turned from the father." Allowing that to sink in she straightened once more and after unsuccessfully clearing her throat rasped, "I am Janisia the soul-taker, and this day I'm tasked to devour yours...for my master of the darkness." Barely moving her head she turned her attention on the closest man, one of the rental managers. Baring teeth she said, "You, I'll get to presently, when I'm finished gathering her soul." She leered. "I'll enjoy your screams." Then she started forward, raising her arms toward the woman, hands clawed, a pose taken from late-night horror films.

They didn't even try to close the door on the way out.

Wouldn't it be funny if they ran into the shrine people and started comparing notes? And if so, will the name, Janisia, be added to the list of demons the church warns against?

In all, not a bad name for an off-the-cuff choice.

She picked up the jeans and carried them outside, just in case someone came by and closed the door. As she slipped into her pants, she wondered what she'd just done, so far as the evidence contained in the office. Would they come back and destroy it, in fear?

Don't be silly, Jennie. No power on Earth could get those morons back into that office.

Maybe the old, good times Jennie was still around...at least a little. She wasn't feeling holy, though, she was feeling good. Damn good. In fact, the tickle in her throat was gone, as was the strange feeling of warmth. Frowning, she wiped the sweat from her forehead. About to dry it on the jeans, she glanced down and froze. Crimson smears trailed across the back of her hand. Blood, not sweat. With mounting horror, she dabbed at the wetness on her cheek, just below the necktie. She lowered her hands, afraid to look, but certain of what that would show. Her fingertips were glossy with fresh blood. Breathing suddenly became a conscious effort.

Insanity.... This is not happening. It can't be.

Feeling unreal, she undid the necktie she'd wrapped around her head and probed her cheek, seeking a source of pain. Nothing. No pain, no bump or cut, nothing. Apparently, the blood had either oozed through her skin or had simply appeared there. Either way, an absolutely terrifying idea, because it implied that someone, or some thing, was exercising moment-to-moment control of her life. That should have been made apparent by her changeable appearance over the past few days. But this took things to a whole new, and frightening, level.

_But I haven't been hurt by it. At least not yet._ True, but scarcely reassuring.

As she re-tied the neckties and threaded them through the belt loops of the jeans she thought about it, but in the end reached no conclusions, except for a decision not to piss off whoever had such godlike powers over her.

She walked past the ever-renewing crowd at the corner, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief from the jeans pocket. How would she explain a blood streaked face to Ned? And how could she explain Janisia, or even the impulse that resulted in Janisia's appearance? Maybe better not to let him know about that side of her personality.

They were counting rosary over her at the shrine. But then, maybe they were closer to the answer than she was. Something else to think about when she had some time. It was becoming quite a list.
Chapter 15

Ned was at his desk, which was nice. Things hadn't been going her way, lately. It took more time to get to the office than expected because she had to locate a bus stop where someone was waiting for the bus. Added to that, she chose a bus that turned off the avenue shortly after she got on, to make an extended local pickup loop before heading downtown. Finally, there was the usual problem of finding an elevator car headed for the right floor. At nearly three, tired and frustrated—still unnerved by the happenings at Tinman's office—the elevator doors opened and she stepped off, dodging around the man getting on. Hopefully, her work with a moistened end of the handkerchief had removed all the blood. It had certainly ruined the handkerchief, and Ned's necktie

Her vitality took a blip upward when she entered his office. A nice surprise, one that partly offset her mood.

Ned glanced up, as she came in, then raised one eyebrow. "So we're taking turns with the deluxe version of Jennie Nan?"

"I suppose so." She studied him for a moment. He looked like hell. She told him so.

"I guess I do," he said, going to close the office door. "I'm tired, and I'm upset. I was starting to worry about you, too. What happened?" Before she could reply he held up a hand, saying, "Wait. Forget I asked, because it's none of my business." Such an undercurrent of bleakness filled his voice. He wanted her, and he thought he had lost out to his brother, which made it far worse than her rejecting him. Men were so foolish. Find a pretty face and they were in love. Bang...just like that. So simple for them...and so _damn_ stupid. Later, when it turned out the woman wasn't what they expected, they shrugged, said, "Oh well," and turned their sights elsewhere. No wonder the divorce rate was so high. Still, he was frustrated and hurt, no matter that it was his own doing, because he was literally wired to act that way. And he was doubly frustrated because—like all men—he hated losing.

But she could help ease that particular frustration, so she smiled and said, "Miles is blond for a reason, Ned. It fits him very well."

He met her eyes for a moment, his lips finally curving up in a tiny smile. "I wasn't sure you would notice. He can be _very_ charming."

"Does it please you to know I woke up on the couch this morning?"

He took a long breath before he said, "Yes it does. I don't know why it should, because it changes nothing, but it does."

"Because Miles doesn't get me?"

_Why am I doing this? This is bullshit, and makes it sound like I'm interested...or a tease._ But she could no more help herself than stop from breathing.

"No." He shook his head. "Because you were able to see it without anybody telling you. I'm pleased because of what it says about your mind, and its ability to see beyond surface issues."

"You don't like Miles?"

"Not a valid question. He's family, and you're issued family, you don't choose them. Where were you? I was starting to worry."

She came to sit on the chair. "I went to Tinman's office, again. Have you been watching the news lately?" When he shook his head she said, "I assume you haven't looked at the paper today, either."

"Oh-oh." He smiled. "Have you been in church again?"

"Founding one, I think. Maybe worse."

"Worse? That sounds pretty ominous. Do I really want to know?"

"Probably not. Where were you last night at five? I stopped in to tell you what I found, when I got back, but you weren't here."

He straightened, and she could almost see the computer of his mind switch on. When he spoke his voice was the Ned Carson she'd known over the past days. "I took Sally to dinner. What happened?"

_Interesting. Why he would he take Sally to dinner?_ The woman was in her fifties, so a romantic entanglement seemed unlikely—though the woman was still quite striking, and she chose her wardrobe wisely.

Birthday?

But she had no business asking, so she filled him in on the visit to Tinman's office the previous day, instead. His only response was a flaring of his nostrils when she outlined the switching of the invoices. When she finished, she showed him the top page of the notebook, saying, "Here's the company name and the number of their invoice, if you want to copy it." He waved it away, saying there would be time to do it later, then asked her to go on.

Taking a breath she told him of today's visit, and of what she'd discovered. She left out the business of the shine, and said nothing of how she managed to leave the office. She left out, too, that Miles hadn't called Tinman's office, as he said he would. Maybe he had forgotten, or had tried to call after she left the office. No sense in turning brother against brother, at least until, she was absolutely certain that Miles wasn't, himself, checking into their little scam. Again she offered the book, and again he declined.

"I'll get to it later, Jennie," he said. "That's important, and you've done a service I can't hope to repay, but it can wait. I have a problem of more importance. Something we need to discuss away from the office."

Away from the office? Interesting. "Now?"

"Right now. I expected you this morning, and I've been shuffling my meetings and calls so I would be free when you arrived. Follow me." With that he stood and went to the door. She followed, with no idea of where they were bound.

On the way out, as they passed his secretary's desk, Sally said, "When you get a minute or two free, Jennie, I'd like to talk to you." She was looking ahead of Ned, rather than behind, so the woman, obviously, couldn't see her. But still, she just as obviously knew she was there. What had been going on in her absence?

"Ned?" But he said nothing, other than to look over his shoulder and meet her eyes for a moment—a glance that told her nothing.

Most curious.

Ned sat on the little stone wall outlining the park. The sky had turned overcast, with the threat of rain, so they were alone. At the moment the day was damp and blustery, though springlike, without the deluge the skies were promising for later. He ignored the waking tulips, their fat budded flowers readying themselves to greet the change of season. His sigh, and the slump of his body proclaimed him distracted and weary. Had a sleepless night contributed to his present state of mind?

Over me?

"Someone's bugging the office—at the least. My car might be bugged, too, and I suspect the apartment, as well."

"Oh? Apparently, yesterday was as interesting for you as for me. What happened?"

"The bids were opened."

"And?" He really must have been thrown for the proverbial loop, because her having to pry information loose wasn't his way. Not his way at all.

For a moment he seemed to be elsewhere, or perhaps hadn't heard the question. Then, he met her eyes and said, "The winning bid was one penny per share greater than ours, just like the one a week ago. Whoever is doing it _wants_ me to know what's happening. They want not only to destroy me, they want me to know they're doing it...and be unable to prevent it."

"Nasty. But couldn't it have been one of the people on your list?"

He shook his head. "Impossible. The figures I leaked to them were both higher and lower than what I bid. The only ones who knew the real figures were Sally, because she faxed them, and me."

"And the people who got the bid, don't forget. Couldn't they have simply picked up the phone, called someone else, and said, 'Can you beat this offer?' "

"Not in this case. It was a sealed bid. You give them a best and final offer and they take whoever wins."

She drummed her fingers on her leg for a time, thinking, before she said, "Forgetting that for the moment, couldn't you stick to true auctions, where the other bidders were in the same room with you?"

"Wouldn't that be nice?" But he wasn't talking to her, apparently, because he spent some time looking around at the buildings surrounding the square, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turned to her, directly, saying, "That's not the problem. I chose this company for the test as much because of the sealed bid as for any other reason. You don't really understand what we do." The tan of his raincoat showed the spattering of a misty rain. He seemed not to have noticed.

"You're getting wet."

"No matter, I need to talk this out, and where else can I take you? I— Oh." He stood, snapping open his umbrella and holding it over her, protectively, asking, "Are you okay?"

"Okay?" For a moment she just stared. His being so worried made no sense. It was only bit of rain. Then it came to her. She'd been foolish. A single drop of rain would strike with the force of a bullet, passing through her body without being slowed by the damage it was doing.

"... I see what you mean. I seem to be okay, though." She hurried to get fully under the shelter of the umbrella. Still, it seemed unlikely that he, alone, had been struck by the droplets of rain, which meant the ring had been protecting her.

"That's good, but let's get you under a better shelter, just in case the ring can't handle something heavier than a drizzle." As always, he was two steps ahead in his thinking. He glanced around the square, then pointed toward the lot where his car waited. As they walked she had to smile at the picture they made: a man walking in the rain while holding an umbrella at arm's length, carefully shielding the sidewalk.

"So where do we go now?" He pulled the car's door closed, then turned to stow the umbrella on the floor behind her seat. His tone said he was back in "problem-solving" mode, though with an undercurrent of sadness.

"Your place? It's private...and dry." There were raindrops in his hair, and for no reason at all, she felt like crying.

"It's bugged, remember?" The harshness of the car's starter punctuated his words.

"A movie house?" Finishing their discussion in the car, or his apartment, was out because both might be bugged. When he shook his head she sighed. "A motel, then."

He looked at nothing for a minute or so, then studied her face for a time before he abruptly placed the car in gear and backed out of the space, saying, "Why not?"

"When you're done in there, tell me how the company works."

"Okay" Finished changing, he came into the room, still toweling his hair, wearing the jeans and turtleneck he'd grabbed at his place on the way to the motel.

"I'm a pirate, remember? I don't walk into an auction-house and politely raise my hand, while the auctioneer calls the tune. I cruise the seas like a shark, looking for the wounded and the lame. And when I find them, I circle, deep enough that they never suspect, checking defenses, and making sure the meal is worth the chewing."

"And if the coast is clear, you attack."

He sat across from her, on the edge of the bed. "And then I chew them up. Yes. The point is that after I do all the work...after I find a company with assets greater than the value of the stock, or one that's dying because of weak management, some other shark is being told, 'There be prey.' Someone is passing on information, right down to the limit I'm willing to pay. By the time I make my bid someone else has completed the deal."

"Ouch. So someone is bugging your place, or the office?"

"Either that or reading my mind. And not even Miles can't do that. Nor does he have access to my apartment, in case you were suspecting him."

"I wasn't. He owns a chunk of the company, so he'd be cutting his own throat. But...well, what about the office staff? There are lots of people working for you, and I assume there are at least a few, umm...pilot fish, who search the waters for your prey."

"Good point." He went to the mini-bar and poured himself a stiff drink, saying, "I'm sorry I can't offer you one." When he returned to the bed he said, "The problem is, none of them have the whole picture except for maybe Bart Gibson. He handles the less risky acquisitions, and he's good at it. And, he hasn't been bothered with cross-bids, so he was my first and best suspect."

"But?"

He sighed. "But he's not the one. I deliberately withheld information on two transactions and lost them, just the same."

"Could he be putting together the same picture by accessing your sources within the company?"

He grunted, and gave her a very reluctant, "Possibly. But it's very low probability, because he never made an effort to find out about what I was doing. As near as I can tell, he might have known I was interested, but not how much those companies were worth. Without that, anyone other than me would have no idea of what to bid, or what promises to make."

She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair, before saying, "But couldn't someone else, knowing it was a good deal—simply because you were planning to bid—generate the same numbers?"

"Absolutely." He tossed back the rest of the drink. "But not in time. It's not a matter of saying, 'There's a good deal, snap it up.' I'm very specialized in what I do. Sure I acquire companies bound for the dumpster, for one reason or another, and sell them for scrap. Lots of people do that. But I don't play the hostile takeover game, where you buy a company, then gut it to pay the cost of acquisition. The old man did that, constantly. He thought of it as an art form, and I hated him for it, and for turning me into someone like him."

"And?" An unexpected, but interesting admission.

"And?"

"And you hated him for it, but you still did it. What happened?"

He laughed. "My darling sister Jeannette happened. She took what the old man had to offer and ran with it. In fact, she made the man look like an amateur, when she reached her stride. The old bastard loved it. Positively loved it."

This made no sense. "But...Ned, I was in your office when you asked for her proxy. Why would he leave her only half the share in the company he left to you and Miles? It seems to make no sense."

"That's because you didn't know the man. He admired her, but by then she'd gone out on her own. She didn't _need_ the company, and by making her a minority owner she had no real control. And of course she was a woman, and deserved no more, by his standards. But if Miles and I disagreed she would still be the deciding factor, and because of what she's become, would always vote in support of the one who held his own views. Mostly, he did it to keep Miles from having a say. He figured I would take over the day-to-day operation, because Miles wasn't interested in the business—maybe give her a run for her money. Problem was, by that time I began having doubts. Watching Jeannette operate was like seeing all my own sins magnified. It was..." He blew out his breath in a long sigh. "It was enlightening, to say the least."

What he said explained a lot, and pleased immensely, but it didn't explain everything. She bit her lip, and thought about changing the subject, but could not keep herself from saying, "I don't think you've changed as much as you may think you have."

He put the empty glass on the table, more carefully than she might have expected, as though afraid the noise the glass might make could cause him to miss something.

"When I came to your office that first time—and before I made myself visible—I watched you in action, and..."

"And?"

"You weren't very kind." Telling him he had been an unfeeling bastard...that he had manipulated Toni, and had treated the delegation from the company he had taken over like children in the principals office, would be as cruel, to him as he had been to them.

Her remark rated a shake of the head, and, "How was I unkind, and to who?"

"Whom."

"Who was I unkind to? And _don't_ tell me I should say, 'To whom was I unkind.' Just answer the question."

She rocked her head in indecision before saying, "Well, Toni, for one. She—"

"Toni's a bitch, and I spoke the only language she understands. And _that's_ a longer story than we have time for today. If I was married, now, and had a decent environment in which to raise children, I'd take my brother's get and raise them myself. He certainly can't. I already see them more than he does. When they're old enough, I plan to put them in a good school, well away from her influence." He met her gaze, challenging her, as he said, "Who else?" A trace of anger tinged his words, and she had to force herself not to fold her hands primly in her lap.

"There was a meeting right after your sister left." She didn't mention having gotten the wrong idea of the conversation with Jeannette, as well.

"Wolston, right?" At her nod he spread his hands. "I called them incompetent. I gave them hell, and I said that what went wrong was their fault, including my having to shut the Rossfield plant, Right?"

"Yes."

"Well it was. They had a good old boy network going, where getting ahead depended more on your ability to fit in and hold your liquor than your knowledge of business. The original owner was a hayseed, but a smart one—as hard as granite, mean as an angry scorpion, and as street-smart as they come. He made millionaires out of his cronies, and he didn't give a damn if they were incompetent, as long as they worshipped him. Then he died and they were in charge." He went to the bar and poured another drink. She thought about telling him to be careful, but suspected that she had little influence over him at the moment. Instead, she waited for him to resume, which he did as he poured, facing the bar rather than her.

"Those morons took a thriving business and eliminated such things as research and new product development because they didn't understand why they needed it. Their idea of design was to buy the competition's product, give it to the few remaining engineers and say, 'Copy this, but make it look better, and be cheaper to make.' Popular wisdom in the company was that they'd copy a product down to the last millionth of an inch and then build the bearings out of crap, to save a buck or two on a thirty thousand dollar machine." He came back to the bed, and by the time he sat, the glass was more than half-empty. At a guess, he had consumed about five shots so far, with one remaining in the glass.

He sat, holding the drink for a time, just looking into her eyes. Occasionally, his eyes would flicker over her body, but only for an instant, and always returned to meet hers. She wanted to speak. She still had to ask how he felt about the people in the plant, and if there had not been a solution that might have reduced his profits a bit but saved the plant. If the popular wisdom he had given her was right, why not spend a few dollars more building the products, and make them better than, or at least equal to, the competition? But he was obviously too upset to think straight, probably aided by the alcohol he's consumed. His tirade hadn't been at her. She was just a focus point, and had she asked what he thought the chances were of another snow before warm weather truly arrived, he would probably have reacted with the same intensity. She was at least partly responsible, yes, but nothing could be done about that, save remove herself. And it wasn't yet time to leave.

So instead of continuing, she said, "So what do we do about the leak? And how can I help?"

"Huh? He frowned, then blinked at her, as though waking. Finally, he shook his head, and said, "I really don't know, and I can't think now." At her frown he added, "There's something you need to know about me. Unlike Walston and his cronies, I can't hold my liquor." He looked down at the remains of his drink for a moment, then reached out and put it on the night table, saying, "If I finish this I'll be shitfaced in five minutes...maybe will be anyway, so I need to sleep before I make more of an ass of myself than I already have. We'll talk later."

She pointed at the pillow, as a sign that she understood, and he moved fully onto the bed, ending up on his back with hands laced together under his head. He glanced in her direction, but then shifted his attention to the ceiling. Apparently, as he had said, he wasn't going to continue the conversation.

But silence promised to be boring, and he had not yet closed his eyes, so she said, "Tell me a bedtime story then, Ned. Tell me how your mother met..." She stopped, then said, "I don't even know his name. You've only called him the old man."

"He was. That bastard was sixty-three when he married my mom. His name was Harold. Mom called him honey, because she didn't like Harold. He made the three of us call him sir—as a sign of respect, he claimed. But in private, from the first day, we never called him anything but the old man."

"When did you stop...having to call him sir?" She waited for a few moments, but he didn't respond. A glance showed that his eyes were closed. Sleep had claimed him.

She stopped and stared down at Ned, after pacing, on and off, for more than two hours. She should have been bored—had expected to be—but wasn't. Instead, she spent the time replaying the events, from when she reached the office to the present. There was so much she hadn't understood—or rather, misunderstood. More hidden passion lay in this man than she'd dreamed. Certainly, he wasn't the monster she once imagined, any more than Miles was truly a prince charming

How odd. Neither of them had changed in the least, but she now saw them in roles that were almost the opposite of those she'd originally assigned them. Looking at him, now, there was nothing of the evil that had infused his face when she first saw him. Was it sleep that made the change, or had she seen only what she expected to see? Certainly, in repose the guarded look that usually protected him was gone.

She squinted at his face, then held a finger out to block the view of his facial hair.

_What would he look like without it?_ The answer was simple. He would be Miles with dark hair.

The muzzie goes tomorrow. And the wardrobe, too.

For a long time, she stood, tapping her lip with a forefinger, mentally taking him shopping for new clothing.

With shock she realized that she'd just spent a mental half-hour daydreaming a visit to a men's store, to pick out several stunning outfits, holding a conversation the whole time. And in her mind, he had been responding.

Now that's scary. What the hell are you doing, Jennie? The man is handsome, granted. And he's brilliant, as well, but he's a walking computer, with balance scale where his emotions should be. Get yourself under control.

True, passion lay buried there, but the key word was buried. If Miles was the proverbial blond, in behavior, Ned was his opposite number. What she wanted was somewhere in the middle, and he wasn't going to change.

But he's so cute when he's sleeping.

She checked the clock on the nightstand. Seven-fifteen. He had been asleep for long enough to have sobered, but best to give him a few more minutes.

Resisting the urge to sit next to him and stroke his hair into neatness—which was impossible, in any case—she went to the opposite side of the bed and sat on the edge for a minute, then drew her legs under her, just watching him and deliberately not thinking at all. Perhaps ten minutes later she sank into the bedding, and was, once again in the real world.

She looked skyward, mouth twisted in disgust.

Decision made for her, she got off the bed, suppressing the urge to push his hair off his face before she did so. Once again the world was gray. She walked to his side of the bed and called, "Up and at it, Ned. We're getting out of here." No response. "Ned!" she called, louder. Again no response.

_Is he dead?_ Or was he telling the truth about the way liquor affects him?

She leaned closer. He wasn't dead. His breathing was the slow deep breathing of slumber. It appeared that when alcohol slowed his thinking processes his computer-mind went on strike, demanding optimal operating conditions. It took nearly a minute of yelling before his eyes opened. She had almost reached the conclusion that when his eyes were closed, and he couldn't see her, he could no longer hear her, either. But just before she gave up he cracked an eye and said, "Is there a problem?"

"I thought you were dead."

"You woke me to say you thought I was dead?"

He was giving her one of _those_ looks, but she refused to be baited, and said, "I tried to wake you but..."

He smiled. "There's another thing you need to know about me. When I'm asleep I _am_ dead.... What did you want?" He sat up, and she moved away, back to the chair.

"We need to finish our talk and leave," she said, sitting on the edge of the chair.

"Leave?" He blinked up at her for a moment, then took a deep breath and laced his hands behind his head, saying, "Talk I can understand. Why do we have to leave?"

"Because I'm bored, and because there's nowhere to sleep but on the bed."

"And that— Oh...I see. You've already tested it and became real?"

_Damn, the man is fast._ Apparently sleep had purged his system of alcohol and the computer was back on duty.

"I tested it, and I turned real a few minutes after I sat on the bed." She pointed toward the ceiling. "Whoever is in charge wants to watch something more interesting than conversation, I guess." That brought a slow smile. After a moment, though, he waved his hand in a never-mind gesture.

"I am not going to get myself in more trouble than I am now by saying one word in response to that one."

She grinned in return, and leaned forward to poke him on the nose before settling back into the chair. It was like poking a statue, and very unsatisfactory—probably for him, as well.

"So where do you want to go?" He stretched, and sat up against the headboard.

"I don't care. Your place will do. Or we could stop at a restaurant. You're probably hungry by now."

"True. I am. But we didn't finish our talk."

She assumed he meant about the possible leak of data, and said, "So what do you want to do?"

"Well, first, I'm going to get an alarm system installed at the apartment. Then, I'll have it swept for bugs."

"You don't have one? I would have thought—"

"I haven't been there for long. It's a gated building, and quite frankly, I haven't got many valuable things in there. I never figured on someone doing a thing like this. It's like a vendetta, and I've been asking myself if it's something I've done or if it's part of the old man's legacy...someone he harmed who wants revenge."

"And did you decide?"

He smiled. "Everyone wanted revenge on the old man."

"So what next, after the alarm company?"

He came to the edge of the bed and leaned toward her, saying, "That's where you come in. It's something I have no right asking, and it's a job even I wouldn't want to do." She motioned for him to go on, and he said, "The number of people who might have been able to pull this off is small. I need you to watch them for twenty-four full hours, even to the point where you follow them to the john, to see if they meet someone, or make a call."

She leaned back against the chair, thinking. He was asking a lot. There were several reasons in favor of saying no, not the least of which was that she found herself _wanting_ to like him. He had a lot going for him, and being brutally honest with herself, she could see herself in bed with the man. But if she let herself get to even daydreaming about him, it would be selling herself on how special he was and finding reasons to let herself fall in love with him.

But he wasn't someone to have a casual affair with—someone to bed and then kiss goodbye. For one thing, the man himself made it impossible. Too much passion lay buried in him not to welcome the attention of an attractive woman, but he was also the type to let a woman get under his skin. He wanted her. That much was obvious. She'd been dealing with horny males since her breasts had been no more than enlarged nipples. But he was the serious sort, who, after a week, would be building his life around her, and who would be terribly hurt when she left. He might be able to steel himself to hurting others, but she wasn't built that way.

She realized, with a start, that he was waiting for her response—had been for at least a minute.

Add patience to his virtues.

The question of who she'd been concerned about hurting, him or her, she deliberately left unanswered. But still, it hung in her mind.

Damn him.

"You're asking a lot," she finally said, going to the window and peering through the blinds. It was pouring outside.

"I know. I'm going to have a detective agency trail them, as well, but they can't read over someone's shoulders, as you can. And they can't go where you can go." He stopped, making no attempt to talk her into doing it. And in fact, he had no coin to offer. Miles was no longer an inducement, and he had been the entire reason for coming to Gamble Inc.

Finally, she sighed, tired from the events of the day and worn down, emotionally. What she really wanted was a warm tub, big enough to float her. Maybe with a scented candle at the toe end, where she could watch the flame. Maybe with a book to read, one so good she would let the water out as it cooled, and read till she was dry. Maybe something to take her mind from things best left unsaid.

Again he was waiting. And again she was dithering, so she said, "I don't desert my friends, Ned."

He bowed his head for a time, then nodded and got off of the bed, to head into the bathroom. Had that been the sheen of tears she saw?
Chapter 16

Someone was in the apartment. Jennie was sure of it. The clock on the night table said three-ten. Close to when she woke the last time she'd been there. She'd thought then that it had been a noise that woke her. Apparently she'd been right.

Grunting, she worked herself free of the chair. Neither of them had brought up the matter of her sleeping in his bed, though she'd expected him to at least suggest bathing or a change of clothes, as a ploy to get her there. Men tended to think in those directions. But there had been none of that.

She headed toward the living room, making no effort to be quiet. One good thing about ghosthood: having no effect on the real world allowed silent movement.

But it was too late. The outer apartment door was closing, the wedge of light from the hallway narrowing deliberately, rather than hurriedly being shut. The slow movement, she assumed, was to avoid the sound of hinges squeaking.

The opening was too slim to get through, and thus track whoever had been in the apartment, but it might be possible to see if it was someone she recognized, so she sprinted to a spot from which to peer into the hallway.

Too late. It appeared to be a man At least that was the impression the figure had given. Whoever it was, was bent forward, concentrating on pulling the door silently shut. Standing, she couldn't see any facial features, and the slice of hallway visible through the doorway vanished before she could get low enough to make out who it was.

_Damn!_ She ran for the bedroom.

Apparently, the agency behind the ring was on her side in this, because in seconds the bed was real.

Bouncing the bed and shaking him in her haste, she shouted "Ned...come on, wake up. I need you."

Probably too late, but perhaps whoever it was had stopped in the hall to make notes on what they had found, so it wasn't impossible that they could still catch him waiting at the elevator.

"Come _on_ , Ned!"

He was frowning, but at least he seemed to have caught her sense of urgency. "What's wrong?" He might be slow to wake, but once his eyes were open he was fully functional.

"Run and open the apartment door and see if anyone's in the hallway, or by the elevator. Hurry."

To his credit he didn't argue. Instead, he nodded assent, leapt from the bed, and raced toward the living room, wearing only the pajama bottoms he seemed to favor for sleeping. She waited on the bed, because she would only be in the way.

"No one," he reported, as he came back into the bedroom. "What happened?"

"I heard a noise and went to check. Someone was in the apartment. Apparently, I'm not the only one who knows you're a sound sleeper."

"Apparently. But it's no secret. What were they doing?" He came to sit at the foot of the bed.

"I can't tell you, because by the time I realized someone was in the living room, and it wasn't you, it was too late. The door was already closing, so I caught only a glimpse of whoever it was. But I woke the other night, too, and I thought, then, it was because of a noise." She hesitated, wishing she'd been a little more alert, before admitting, "But when it didn't come again I assumed it was someone passing in the hallway and forgot about it."

He waved that away. "Was it someone you've seen before?" She shook her head, so he said, "Man, woman?"

"Man, I think. But I'm not sure. Whoever it was, was bent over, pulling the door shut, so I never saw their face."

He slowly nodded. "Size...as big as me?" He was near six feet, with the build of a runner.

"Smaller, I think, but taller than my five-seven. He wasn't bulky, but he wasn't really slim, either. He could have been someone I've never seen before...and probably was."

He stood, abruptly, saying, "Okay. We know how it's being done, so the alarm company call is off."

"Off?"

He spread his hands. "Because tomorrow night I'm going to find out who's doing this." He hesitated a beat, then said, "Get some sleep," and started toward the bedroom door.

"But, where are you going?" she asked, thoroughly confused. In his voice had been no trace of worry or anger. He had decided on a course of action and that was that. He made his decisions so _quickly_. She'd never met someone who could so swiftly access a situation, decide what needed doing, and then move on without hesitation or second thought.

Ned turned, to raise an eyebrow as he told her, "Lady, you are lying in _my_ bed, and you are without doubt the most desirable woman who will _ever_ honor me that way. So there is no way in hell I am going to throw you out of there. No way." A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he added, "Nor do I intend to ever wash those sheets. I'll probably have them bronzed."

"Be a bit uncomfortable, I think." She laughed, as much from a release of tension as from anything else.

"But worth it," he said, thoughtfully.

"So why..." She gestured toward the doorway.

"The why is that while I'm pleased to have you in my bed you don't want me in _your_ bed..." He made a sad face, then finished with a more serious, "The couch in the den will do nicely, though, Jennie. Goodnight."

He turned away, but she stopped him at once, with. "Don't be an ass. I like you. I don't love you, but I like you. So get back here and go to sleep. It looks like tomorrow will be an interesting day, followed by an even more interesting night."

"Next to you. You're asking me to sleep next to you." A statement, rather than a question.

"I am, but the key words are 'next to,' rather than 'atop.' I'm sure you know the difference."

"I seem to recall." He gave a warming smile, then said, "I liked your night-clothes the other night better, I think."

"I'll bet. But I'm dressed now. And I'm going to stay that way." She wore one of his shirts as a nightshirt.

"That was my guess."

She slid under the covers, making sure the shirt didn't ride up...not that he would see anything new. When he continued to stand there, she finally said, "For God's sake, Ned. If I bother you so much go in the bathroom and take a cold shower. Or better yet, you could—"

"No...I couldn't, thank you very much." But he was moving toward his side of the bed. "You know," he said, as he slid under the covers, "You're not the woman I thought you were. You're more of a devil than I gave you credit for."

She smiled. "You should have seen me this afternoon."

"Mmm?"

"Later." But she reached out and found his hand, to squeeze it. Warm, and he squeezed back with exactly the right amount of pressure. She closed her eyes, feeling more at peace than she had in years.

When she woke, her hand was against his arm, maintaining contact. Her toes nestled against his leg, doing the same. It felt very, very right. And when she moved away, experimentally, it took seconds only before he'd reached out to make contact again. That, too, was warming. She even forgot to say, "damn him."
Chapter 17

Five o'clock, and Gibson was gathering his things, which meant an extremely boring day was finally over. For a time, it seemed it never would end.

They knew, now, how the information had been stolen, but the knowledge did little good, without knowing the thief's identity. Whoever it was had simply made a trip to Ned's apartment each time a bid was due, taking advantage not only of his deep slumber pattern but also his having no alarm system installed. He had a chain lock, which would have prevented the thefts, but foolishly, he seldom remembered to use it.

The only remaining questions were, who had done it, and how was the data being passed on?

One thing they had gained. While the number of people who knew of his physical quirk was impossible to determine, the number who had access to his apartment wasn't. It was a gated building. Getting in meant either parking in the basement lot and taking the elevator, or coming through the ground level doors. In either case, access was given based on either a difficult to counterfeit resident's swipe card or approval by the guard staff, and they were on duty twenty-four hours per day. In addition, all entrances were watched by video cameras.

The security company promised to check their camera records and get back to him. If whoever it was had come from the outside there would be a record. Unfortunately, no such record existed for the hallways or the elevators. Had they managed to get into the building without being detected, they had free and unrecorded access within the building. Added to that, there were at least four people who had access because they lived in the building. Plus, an unknown number who were not part of Gamble, but had dealings with it, and lived there.

With no one yet eliminated, she spent a boring, boring, day sitting in Bart Gibson's office. The man held conversations that showed little, other than that he wasn't discussing things taken from Ned's briefcase the previous night. Unless, of course, he was speaking in code. No way of knowing if any of the figures he'd discussed were part of the critical ones, though—a weakness in the plan, one to point out when they talked. She _didn't_ enjoy the time spent in the bathroom with the man, watching him stand in front of the urinal.

Thoughtfully Ned insisted she take reading material from his library to help pass the time. But it wasn't possible to both read and pay attention to Gibson's comings and goings, because if the book was interesting, and she became engrossed in reading, the outside world would vanish, and it would be as hard to attract her attention as to wake Ned.

One thing that she did appreciate. He had, somehow, come up with a selection of cosmetics, and a purse in which to carry them. Added to that he presented her with a pair of comfortable sandals, as always, he's been thinking ahead. And miracle of miracles, a mirror brought into the ghost world with her worked. For the first time in nearly two years she was wearing makeup to enhance her appearance, rather than to cover the effects of illness. She was even able to trim and style her hair a bit—at least in the front. That felt very good, and he'd expressed serious approval.

The clock said it was just after five, and Ned wasn't in his office. He'd mentioned leaving for dinner at a few minutes after six. Bart Gibson was gone for the day, leaving her at loose ends till he showed up. Because she wanted to be in the apartment tonight, to lend moral support if they were visited again, Gibson would go home alone.

She thought about reading one of the books, but Sally was at her desk, and it was time to honor her request for a meeting. A fast look around showed the other secretaries had left for the day, along with the occupants of the nearby offices, leaving the area empty except for the two of them.

She had no desire to frighten the woman. She'd done quite enough of that, lately, so she sat on the edge of the conference table and began to sing. After a moment Sally stuck her head in the doorway and said, "Hello. Would you like company? I was hoping you might stop by."

_Nicely done_. The woman had class, and knew how to put people at ease without being obvious about it.

"I was hoping for company, too. Do you know where Ned is?"

"He said he'd be back by six. He had to solve some problem or other. He moves so fast it's sometimes hard to keep track of him, I'm afraid." She came into the office, smiling, and saying, "He told me you were beautiful, but he didn't do you justice...though I think you might want to visit my hairdresser. I don't suppose you have one where you live."

"It's been a lot longer than I'd like, I'm afraid." There had been no cutting edge buried in Sally's remark.

They could exchange banter for a while, but it made sense to end the ceremonial chit-chat and get down to business. No telling when Ned would arrive, so best not to waste a minute of their time together. This woman was a source of information about him, so she said, "How much has he told you about me?"

"Enough. It's things he didn't say, though, that may mean more." She pointed toward one of the chairs, in inquiry, saying, "If you don't mind, I have a bad hip and I can't stand for long."

Jennie motioned toward the chair, taking the other for herself, humming to bring herself back to visibility as Sally looked up from settling herself in the chair.

"A nice trick. There are times I wish I could do that—the vanishing part."

"You wouldn't like it, I think. There are interesting aspects, but..."

"I suppose. I've been following the news reports." Her eyes were dancing as she said, "I take it you're both the one who blessed the woman and her baby and..." She frowned, until Jennie supplied, "Janisia?"

Sally laughed. "Where did you get that one? Or am I asking for privileged information?"

She matched Sally's laughter. "No. I have not the faintest idea of where it came from. It just popped into my head and I ran with it."

"And the blood? According to the news, you were covered in blood and wailing like a banshee."

That was sobering. How she'd behaved toward Belle, and the others, was something to regret for a long time. Of even more importance, what had happened to her face, to create Janisia, was so unexpected, and so far out of the realm of reasonability, it was something to not think about, ever.

She sighed, and changed the subject. "I'd rather talk about Ned, if that's okay. What didn't he say?"

"... He said a lot. You know he's desperately in love with you, I suppose."

"I know he wants me," she admitted. "But he doesn't love me. It's been only a few days since we met, so he hardly knows the real me. He's projecting his own idea of what I might be, or what he wants me to be, I think, not seeing me for myself."

"Maybe. But you dislike what he does for a living, so it carries over to the man, himself. How is that any different?"

"I..." What could she say?

Before she could resolve that, Sally said, "I think you may be wrong about him, and the way he looks at you. He usually sees things pretty clearly, and he said he's taken it into account."

"Oh?"

"He also told me about the way you see him, and said he has no idea of how to change it. That's tearing him apart. He covers that, just like he covers everything else. But it is there, I think."

_How complicated life is. How few times things go the way you wish they would._ But what she said, was, "I don't hate him, Sally."

"But you slept with his brother." Deep disapproval colored her words.

She couldn't help the frown that came, as she said, "Who are you, Sally? You're a lot more than a secretary. I can see it even in the way he looks at you."

"His mother was my sister." A simple statement, but it held so much meaning, and explained so much. After a moment, she added, "I promised Kelli I would look after the two of them, and I have. But I can't..." She stopped and bit her lip, as though cutting off something she'd been about to say. After a moment she shook her head and said, "But you're something I couldn't have predicted." Her eyes were hard as she finished with, "Or have protected him against."

This woman is a tigress where Ned is concerned.

Aloud, she said, "I'm not your enemy...or his."

Sally digested that. "But you're not his friend, either, I think."

Tired of dueling, she said, "Tell me about him. I'm trying to understand, but it's not easy."

"Fair enough, but where should I start?"

"He said he was fifteen when his mother remarried. I get the impression there was a love-hate relationship between Ned and his stepfather."

"Love-hate? I suppose there was. His mother made the biggest mistake of her life when she married Harold Gamble, though. He seemed to offer so much she thought she could learn to love him, but no one ever loved him. He killed her, I think."

"Oh?"

"Not with a knife or a gun, but he killed her the way you kill a plant by taking away the sun." She flicked her hands in a stop gesture, as she said, "But that's neither here nor there. It's Ned you want to know about. Why do you dislike him?"

"I don't."

"Humor me."

"... He's cruel."

"How?"

She waved a hand to indicate the room around them before saying, "He has an office like this, yet his brother, who's just as much an owner, has a two-by-four office in the other corner of the building. That stinks."

Sally cocked her head and leaned back in the chair. Both her face and voice showed unmasked contempt as she said, "Now where the hell did you get such a dumb idea? Not from Miles, surely. His office is the one next to this one, and it's every bit as big."

"But...but I've seen his—"

"What you've seen is the spot where he's squatting till the new furniture arrives next week. They finished with the paneling and carpets last week, but Prince Charming simply had to have everything custom made. Did he strike you as the retiring type who would let Ned push him into a teeny corner of his own business? Didn't you think to _ask_?"

Shit.

"So what else?" Sally asked, when she didn't respond.

She licked her lips before venturing, "The other day I saw Miles outside and followed him into the office." She ignored Sally's snort of derision. "When I did, I also stopped into Ned's office. I obviously misunderstood several things that happened there, but there is one thing. The people who came in from..." The name of the company wouldn't come. "They had a plant in Alabama—one he was going to close."

"The assholes from Wolston Industries," Sally supplied. Apparently, she shared Ned's opinion, but given her fierce loyalty that wasn't unexpected.

"Yes, Wolston, but...well there's something about the meeting that I don't understand."

"Ask away. That's one I worked on for him."

"Well, the thing I can't..." She started over. "What I have a problem with is that Ned closed the plant and put five thousand people out of work. I can understand him having to do it, I suppose. He explained the situation, but..." She waved her hands, unable to simply label him unfeeling. He was far from that. Yet, still...

Sally nodded, slowly, as she said, "You're the reason he came running out of the office in the middle of the meeting, aren't you? He certainly _looked_ as if he had seen a ghost."

"I think so. I didn't expect him to be able to see me, and I sang something nasty at him."

"And you left, then?"

"Yes."

"Then, you don't know what he did?"

"Did?" Had she screwed up _again_?

Sally's nostrils flared, and she crossed her fingers on her stomach, mouth pursed, her expression clearly saying she'd done something stupid. After a moment, Sally leaned forward, and in a voice one might use to address a child, said, "Then you missed the part where Ned told them he had already sold the plant to Korman Machine Tools, who planned to spend two months reconfiguring and retraining, then reopen as their flagship plant." She reached out to tap a finger on the table as she said, "When they reopen they'll need a lot more people than were working for Wolston, because they actually _sell_ what they make. And Ned even gave those fools in the office severance packages. I would have kicked them down the fire stairs, one floor at a time. Maybe even one step at a time."

Shit, shit, shit. The man's a damn saint, and I'm an idiot. I'm scaring young mothers and he's saving the jobs of a whole damn town. Shit!

Almost as bad was the smug expression on Sally's face as she said, "What else?"

There was nothing else, so she shook her head, unable to speak.

"Okay, so let's get down to business. What are you going to do about Ned?"

"Do? I...I don't know what you mean? About what?"

"About him being in love with you."

His thinking he loved her was something she actually could handle, so she said, "He doesn't love me. He may think he does, but he wants me, the way men do when they meet someone who makes them turn hard. Men are...well, men. It's how they're made."

"Uh-huh. Do you think I've always looked this way?" When she only stared, Sally said, "I know a few things about men, too. I was better looking than my sister, and she was gorgeous. It's why Harold harvested her. He wanted Kelli the way you say Ned wants you. But Harold also never loved another human being in his entire life. Ned's not like him. He claims that from the moment he met you there was...he says there's rightness about you. I don't know what he means, and I'll be damned if I can see it, but that's what he says."

At a loss to explain why Sally was still attacking, and uncertain of what to say in response, the answer abruptly came, and it was simple.

"I didn't sleep with Miles, Sally. I like him, but..." She made a small shrug of the hands, to finish.

"... How nice," Sally said, changing not only tone of voice but her entire body attitude. "How very nice."

It looked as if they might be friends, after all.

"So tell me more about Ned. What was he like as a child?"
Chapter 18

"I owe you an apology, Ned." They had been sitting in the darkened den for hours, talking quietly and waiting as the clock crept slowly past the numbers and toward three AM.

"Mmm?"

"For the way I've treated you. Sally and I had a long talk before you arrived, and she straightened me out on a lot of things."

"Like?"

"Like what happened the first tine I came to your office. I left before you got to the part about finding a replacement employer for the people who were losing their jobs."

There was silence, followed by a quiet sigh, and "You thought I was the sort of unfeeling bastard who throws people out of work while munching on caviar. That explains a few things."

"Something like that. Plus I misunderstood about your sister, and about Toni, and lots more, as well."

"So I'm now..." He hesitated, then, in a stronger voice, said, "Before you move me from the junk-yard to a pedestal, you need to think about something else."

"What?" It would be nice to be able to see his face more clearly, but the fire had burnt almost to embers.

"By selling that single plant to the right people I made almost enough to cover the cost of acquiring the entire company. So Gamble came out way ahead on that one. I'm a businessman, Jeannie, not a saint. I try not to be a clone of the old man, but sometimes I am. Sometimes I have to be."

Another long silence followed, before he took a deep breath and said, "Do you mind if I ask you something fairly personal?"

"I can't promise to answer."

"Fair enough. I need to know something, though. If you ever beat this ghost business...I mean if..." He subsided for a moment before trying another tack. "After tonight, assuming we resolve this thing, there's no real reason for you to stay around. Added to that you and I can't exactly have a normal friendship."

That might no longer be true, so she gave a noncommittal, "Hmm?" to tell him to go on.

"Well what I'm asking is that if...I'm not trying to pressure you, now, but if you ever get the ring off I'd like us to start over...maybe get to know each other as...well, as people."

"I've thought about it, Ned, and I'm not sure that starting over would be the best thing."

"Ahhh?"

_One tiny word, yet so filled with buried emotion._ Ned, the man who was always assured—the man who made lightening decisions—was as close to confusion as she'd ever heard him, all because he was afraid to offend her, or to say something that might disturb what he saw as a fragile friendship.

Dear Ned. How badly I've misjudged you.

"Don't you want to know why?" she asked, when he said nothing further.

"Do I? I'm not sure."

"You do," she said, wishing she could do this while sitting on the bed, so as to turn real and hold his hand while she told him. But that might be a dangerous thing to do, and required more clear-headed thought, because this was about a lot more than having sex, so she said, "If you and I met under normal circumstances, you would be the successful business man and I would be a model. It would be very formal, probably a lot like when Harold met your mom. We'd have dinner, carefully talking about neutral subjects. Then, we'd take in a play or attend something very cultural, and sit in silence, other than for a few whispered comments, designed to show each other how sophisticated and desirable we both are."

"I suppose. But I'm not him, and you're—"

"Not yet. I'm not finished." He nodded, a shadow in the midst of shadows, so she said, "And after two or three dates, during which we were both on our best behavior, we might catch a glimpse of the person behind the mask. Is that what you want?"

A sigh, and, "No."

"So let's stick with what we have."

"... I'm not sure I understand."

"Then you're a lot dumber than I think you are, Ned."

"...Thank you, I think," he said, as he went to take his empty coffee cup to the kitchen. "Any rules or options I should know about?" A good deal of the old assurance had returned to his voice.

She smiled. "A few. I'll let you know if you break one."

His chuckle was warm—and warming. The man had a nice laugh. But, time to change the subject, until she could be more certain, in her own mind, what the rules were, or should be.

"So what happened to Tinman and company?"

That brought a true laugh. "Mr. Tinman wants a lawyer. His cronies want a priest. But Mrs. Tinman is singing from the rooftops and they can't write fast enough to keep up. Apparently, your little trick put a lot more than the fear of God in her. Miles may call me his evil twin, milady, but I have a lot to learn before I can come close to matching you."

She chuckled. "At the time, all I was trying to do was get them to open the front door, so I could— Because I wanted to leave." She had been about to say, "Get back to you."

"Be that as it may," he said, thankfully not asking what she'd been about to say. "Belle's absolutely certain you...or at least your alter-ego, is right there, hiding in the shadows, and waiting only for her to be alone to strike. She spent most of the day babbling the details of their little operation in hopes of tipping the scales back in the good direction, I think. That's where I was, tonight, before I met you. Miles wasn't available, so they called me."

So there had been a positive result of that little stunt. Nice to know that. Before she could respond, though, he said, "It's two-thirty, Jennie. We better shut up, or we'll scare our visitor away." He left the couch for a moment, to stir the fire and brighten the room a bit.

For the next fifteen minutes she thought over all that had happened since putting on the ring. It had been an eventful time, and she'd learned a lot about herself. How many times in the past had she prejudged people on the basis of how they looked, or their choice of clothing? How many times had she been wrong? She should know better, yet she'd followed Miles on the basis of what she read into him, no more. She'd nearly gone to bed with the man, for God's sake. And Ned? She'd formed her initial impression of him before even seeing him, based only on Jeanette's comments about having to see "his highness." Then, never questioning, and never checking, she let each event bias her opinion and skew the interpretation of the next.

_I am a total idiot._ She sighed. So what else is new?

And now he was in love with her. Not lust, but love. Or so said Sally. Was love even possible within the time frame of their relationship? And what about her? She was far from being in love with him, but still.... He was intelligent. He was kind. He was thoughtful. He was every bit as handsome as his brother, or would be when she convinced him to shave. He had been the center of her thoughts from the moment she opened her eyes until now, yet through most of the day she'd thought him an unfeeling bastard in all the ways that counted. Did she find that characteristic attractive, or had she recognized what he really was despite her stupidity? Something more to think about? In the end, though, Ned was neither saint nor sinner. He was just Ned Carson, the man. What did that do to her feelings? Put that on the list, too. She would have to think long and hard before she slept in the same bed with him, though, because at the moment the desire to wrap her arms around him and tell him she was sorry was almost overpowering. To much of that kind of thing, though and...

_No._ That particular daydream was best left undreamed.

A soft click came from the direction of the apartment's entrance.

Several seconds went by, then the den brightened with spillage from the hallway into the living room.

Deliberately, they were sitting on the floor by the couch, where they would be invisible to anyone in the living room.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she traced his passage into the apartment. The room darkened, once more as the front door silently closed. The quiet breathing of a third party in the apartment came, followed by a quiet click-click, probably the latches of Ned's briefcase opening.

She eased to her feet, glancing over at Ned, to see if he was ready. It seemed foolish of him to have done this unarmed, but he'd insisted there was no real danger. No actual crime had been committed, he claimed, other than that of betrayal, which wasn't a criminal offense. The breaking and entering he dismissed.

But he hadn't moved. Without their conversation to keep him awake he'd drifted off to sleep.

Damn. Not now, Ned!

But in some ways it was good that it had happened. She could investigate the intruder without being seen, and if she didn't recognize whoever had entered the apartment she could easily follow, which might be better than catching him at his business. With or without Ned, the case would be solved—and without, he would be in no danger.

Finding Bart Gibson crouched over the case, taking notes by the glow of a penlight, was anticlimactic. She had, after all, spent the day with the man.

Damn. Ned is really going to be pissed.

She thought about making a repeat appearance as Janisia. But now that they knew both the how and who of it, the problem would vanish along with Gibson's chances of working in the field, ever again. Better to let him think himself safe until the ax fell.

The man carefully recorded the nonsense data Ned had provided. If he or his backers tried to act on the stolen data they would lose millions of dollars, because they would be buying the moldering remains of a long dead corpse, worth nothing, even for scrap.

Quietly, the man closed the briefcase and moved toward the doorway.

Goodbye, you bastard. You're about to get yours.

Would Ned brace him about it in the morning, or wait until he had acted on the false information? He might even decide to let him dangle for a while, till the man truly hung himself. He had mentioned that whoever was doing it might be backed by organized crime. If true, they would not be pleased, at all to find themselves out millions of dollars because of Gibson's bad financial advice. But given that he had been playing with fire...

But this time Gibson didn't simply leave. He went to the door and retrieved a plastic grocery bag he had apparently left there on his way in. As he moved he removed a package from it then crumpled the bag and stuffed it into his pocket. Something about his hands seemed odd.

_Shit._ His hands were covered by surgical gloves, probably to mask his fingerprints. But why? She tried to make out the writing on the box front but it had been handwritten, and in the near darkness it couldn't be made out. It didn't matter, though, because his purpose became apparent when Gibson opened the package and began to sprinkle its contents on the living room carpet, working his way from the front door toward the den.

Powder? Why would he be sprinkling powder on the rug?

Then it came, and she shivered as chill spooled down her spine. What he had was called an accelerant—something to bring quick and harsh flame, yet vanish into the resulting fire and leave no detectable residue. _The man's trying to kill Ned!_ But why? His little scheme had worked flawlessly, and he couldn't know she'd been spying on him, or even that she'd seen him leaving the apartment the previous night.

So why this? It made not the slightest sense, unless...

If Gibson and Belle are connected, in some way, and what she says leads back to him...and if Ned puts that connection together, which he would, Gibson is finished. But if Ned dies in a tragic accident, and sweet scatterbrained Miles takes over the company, he'll have to rely on Gibson, and the man wins the jackpot.

She strode into the den, to where Ned lay sleeping. _Not on my watch, you don't!_

No way of directly stopping the man, but she still had her voice, so she ran past Gibson into the den, shouting, "Wake up, Ned. I need you. _I need you_!"

He didn't stir, and Gibson was already moving into the den. He stopped abruptly, when he saw Ned by the couch. But when Ned didn't respond to his presence, Gibson leaned toward Ned's sleeping form, studying him.

After a moment he shrugged and went back to what he had been doing, satisfied that Ned was securely asleep, and no threat.

Apparently, Gibson planned to make a trail of powder, leading to the fireplace, then light the powder at the front door end of the trail of powder, as he left the apartment, to give the impression that the fire had somehow escaped onto the rug. With a part of her mind, she wondered why the package was so small. Given the rate at which he was shaking it out, it held barely enough powder to trail from the living room to the den. Did he have more stowed in the hallway? No time to think on it, though, because the man was moving quickly. Apparently, he'd finished, because he was at the fireplace, pulling open the glass door.

"Ned, Ned, don't be a sleepyhead," she sang, trying to both wake him and distract Gibson.

She was successful in attracting Gibson's attention, at least, because he jumped back from the fireplace, like a child caught doing something naughty, and stared, saying, "Where the hell did you come from?"

"I came from hell, and I'm here to take your soul," she snarled, in an encore of her previous appearance. She stepped between Gibson and the fireplace. She wouldn't be able to stop even the smallest effort on his part, but he didn't know that, and perhaps the illusion of being solid would prevent him from getting on with his dirty work. And of more importance, it put his back to Ned, who was getting to his feet.

No trace of fear showed on Gibson's face. The firelight reflected only rage, as he snarled, "Then go right back there, bitch." He threw a punch directly toward her face, using the hand that carried the accelerant.

Desperately, she threw herself to the side. His punch was threat enough, but she had no idea of what would happen if the cloud of powder now spilling from the box spread into the space where she stood. Would it penetrate her body like a load of ultra fine buckshot? The dust in the air seemed to be doing no harm, but this could be another matter, entirely.

She fell hard against the edge of the coffee-table. Bright spears of pain shot through her, bringing a shout of agony—a broken rib, at the least.

But Ned was on his feet and moving fast. He slammed into Gibson from behind, driving him toward the rough stone of the fireplace. Gibson dropped the box, bracing himself against the stone, to absorb the blow and keep from slamming face-first into the mantle.

She continued her fall to the floor, trying to keep from slamming her head on the stone hearth. She managed to protect her head, but only at the cost of almost unendurable agony in her side, forcing her to lie there, whimpering, as a wash of flame erupted from the fireplace, triggered by the cloud of powder from Gibson's small package of death.

Time seemed to be flickering, like a series of strobe images. Flame swept toward the falling box, then exploded outward and enveloped Gibson in light, licking Ned with errant tongues of blue-white flame. A scream of agony from Gibson, as he flung Ned backward to fall over the coffee-table and onto the floor. Gibson, flaming like a human torch, screaming for an impossibly long time without a taking breath, then, making a noise no human throat should ever make, he inhaled the flame around him and died.

In seconds it was over, the apartment silent, but for the quiet sound of flame. Smoky fire now blocked both the door to the apartment and the way into the utility room, with its second doorway to the hall. But fire didn't matter. Her injuries would heal, and she would be untouched by the flame. Ned, though, was another matter. He might be badly hurt, and he needed to get out of the apartment. She would have to see to him, first.

One sleeve of his shirt was aflame, but as she gathered herself to get to him he extinguished it by rolling onto his stomach, both arms beneath him. He lay there for a moment, pain made obvious by the sibilance of his breathing.

"Ned. Are you okay?"

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course he's not okay!_ But what could she ask, "Are you going to die?"

After a moment he struggled to his knees, hands pressed tightly against his body. He was trying to get to his feet but seemed to be having trouble.

"I think I've done something to my leg," he said, sinking back to the floor. "Maybe torn a tendon. I can't walk." That no longer mattered, though. The powder Gibson had sprinkled was fully alight, set to burning by his still flaming clothing, cutting off all pathways to escape, even had Ned been unhurt.

He slumped back to the floor, pointing toward the fire, which had become a low wall of flame between fireplace and living room.

"The smoke is probably toxic, I think. The idea is to kill me, not burn the place down." Even in this situation his brain ticked on, analyzing and calculating.

The man was a treasure. And treasures need to be preserved. But there was no way in which she could help.

"So maybe I'll be joining the ghost world in a way I never expected," he said, a false lightness in his voice.

Join the ghost world? Can that be the answer?

It couldn't possibly work—shouldn't work—but by the insane logic of this crazy place it just might.

Aloud, she said, "You're not going to die, Ned. Not if I can help it."

"I—"

"Don't talk, Ned, just move. You need to keep low," she said, ignoring her pain and dragging herself toward him. "Keep low and get into the bedroom...and hurry."

He stared, then shook his head. "You can't lift me. You can't even stand. I watched you hit the table when you fell. You have broken ribs, at the least." As usual, he had taken her words, extracted their meaning, and was two steps ahead of her. But he was wrong. She was capable of anything she had to do to keep him alive.

"Move!" she ordered. "Stop talking and move."

He nodded. Somewhere in the apartment a smoke alarm began to sound. The absurd thought came that tomorrow she would suggest that the apartment management invest in a more sensitive brand of detector.

Ned kept his face to the floor as he dragged himself into the bedroom and onto the bed. Even so, he was bathed in smoke before he reached the bed, and the bedroom swirled with it. As for her, the journey was endless torture, filled with pain like shards of broken glass. She followed the sound of his choking cough when reason said to lie still and breathe as shallowly as she could to ease the pain. How she managed to get onto the bed she had no idea. The wait until she felt the bed respond to her movements was filled with endless worry that it would not come in time to save him. Above them the blare of the smoke alarm went on and on.

"Get on my back," she ordered. "I need to carry you off the bed."

"You can't. You can't stand...even _without_ me on your back." His words had been expelled in broken pieces, punctuated by his labored breaths. No way to tell how serious his burns were, so she pushed such speculation aside. Only the task at hand mattered. Only that.

"I can damn well do what I need to do," she told him. "You hear me? _Whatever_ I need to do. So get your damn ass moving. Do you _want_ to die?"

"... No."

She turned, ignoring the pain, to look into his eyes as she said. "Sally says you're in love with me. Are you?" Too weak to respond he only nodded, then was seized by a spasm of coughing that left him with eyes closed, face showing only pain.

She kissed him fiercely on the mouth, before saying, "Then live for me, dammit! Live for me and I'll screw your ever-loving brains out in return. You hear me? _Live_ for me!"

Without waiting for his response she turned on her side and pressed herself backward against him. If she could get him on his side against her, maybe she could roll onto her stomach, carrying him with. When he didn't cooperate she tried to reach back and grab his hand, so as to pull him across her like a blanket, but movement brought pain so intense she nearly blacked out.

She had nothing left—nothing more she could do. And he was nearly unconscious. Defeated, she rolled onto her stomach.

It's not fair. It's just not fair.

Shaky fingers touched, as gently as a kiss, then his hand settled on her hip.

_Oh God, I can feel his burns._ His hand lay, unmoving, for a time, while she prayed, _Please, Ned, we're so close. So damn close. Please don't die._

Then, slowly, he finger-walked his way toward her shoulder, to grip, and pull, and drag himself over her. She might have lost hope, but Ned, so like a man, hadn't the good sense to quit when he had lost the game.

Bless him!

Her eyes dripping constant tears, she struggled to her knees, his body a dead weight on her back. But his hands were locked around her neck, holding him in place. He would stay where he was. Dead or alive, she would not lose him.

As quickly as she could, ignoring waves of pain that radiated from her broken ribs, pushing with her arms and creeping backward with splayed legs, she moved toward the foot of the bed. Her eyes were closed. The smoke rendered them useless, in any case.

She came to the bed's edge, then backed over it, easing her feet to the floor. Unfortunately, that put full weight, both his and hers, on her torso, bringing a whimper and usurping the remains of her strength for a long moment. As much to escape the pain as from a need to complete the task, she straightened her arms, raising her upper body like a fat schoolchild doing a pushup. Then, like that child, she lifted her stomach from where it rested, until she was supported by her legs, and her arms on the bed. Then, it was a matter of walking her arms toward the edge until she was in balance, hunched over, his body lying on her, as on a tabletop. Panting, she turned to look toward the living room, and the flames flickering there.

Gray.

On her back his weight remained. More tears, but these were not tears of grief.

But where could she go? The flames might not be a danger to them, now, but the apartment door was firmly closed to both of them. Were they to be crushed as the apartment building burned?

Weakly, he pointed toward the corner, anticipating her dilemma. "There," he said. "Safe."

There seemed no reason for the corner to offer safety, but he _had_ said the building wasn't going to burn, so he must know something she didn't. She staggered there, then lowered them both to the floor, careful to stay in contact as she rolled him from her back.

It took several minutes to get him arranged on the floor, and on his back in a position of relative comfort. He still drew breath, but shallowly, and there was a rasp in his breathing she didn't like. He was also unconscious. An effect of the poison? No way of knowing, and in any case all she could do was worry and pray. But then, a thought came. Perhaps there was more.

"Listen," she called, looking toward the ceiling, but addressing the agency behind the ring. "Fair is fair. I've provided you with fun and games for a couple of days now, okay? You owe me, and I know you can do it, so don't you dare let my man die. You hear me? Turn on your damn ring-magic and heal him."

Do it, you bastard or I'll find you and kick your ass from here into next Thursday.

Best not to voice the thought aloud, though.

My man? Had she really called him that? She hitched herself around and looked at him. Hers?

I suppose he is. I saved his life so he damn well belongs to me.

She watched him breathe for a time, until she was satisfied that he would continue doing it without her help.

Question is, if I own him, what the hell am I going to do with him?

She tucked her arm under his neck to insure they would not come out of contact, and thus send him to his death in the smoke filled apartment, then closed her eyes and drifted off into a troubled sleep.

When she opened her eyes the lights were on and there were people in the room. A man in the living room was spraying the rug from some sort of portable tank. No flames, or even steam rising, so the spray was precautionary, only. He had been right in his judgment. In the far corner of the room, where they were, the chance they would be stepped on was small.

Cautiously, she took a deep breath, to determine the extent of her own injuries. Pain came, but not at anywhere near the order of magnitude it had been, so she turned her attention to him. His eyes were closed but his breathing was easy, and seemed almost normal. A single look at his hands caused her to avert her eyes. The visible parts were ugly with charring. But under that blackness was healing. At least there should be, if her own recovery could be used as a guide.

So, it looked as if they would both survive. And Bart Gibson had gotten the punishment he had so richly deserved. The world of corporate investment was far more of a blood sport than might be imagined.

"Hey Nick, I'm done in here, let's go." The voice had come from the living room.

"Be there in a minute," the man in the bedroom said. "Just making sure there's nothing smoldering in here." The man was doing something in Ned's dresser.

"So what do you think was going on in here?" he called. "I heard from Jack that they took somebody out of here in a sack, and that he was burned to hell and gone."

"Probably smoking, and fell asleep."

The man was checking the contents of the drawers as he spoke. He reached in and picked up something small, which he slipped into his pocket. She was pulling her arm from under Ned's body when she stopped, frustrated. What could she could do? If she let go of him he would reappear in the real world. Not only would it be difficult to explain how he had gotten into the corner of the bedroom, he might still be suffering the effects of whatever had been in the smoke. It wasn't impossible that he had been harmed by something whose effects were impossible to treat with conventional medicine.

She lay back down again, memorizing the man's face. Maybe Ned could do something later. Maybe she could. _Resurrect Janisia?_ No, frightening the man in that way would be cruelty far in excess of what the crime deserved. And after what had happened at Tinman's office there was the question of what she might invoke if she did it again. During the acting out of her little play with Belle, the words she was speaking didn't feel like her own. Certainly, they weren't what she would have chosen. And why had she been impelled to use the necktie as she had? That wasn't what she might have thought of, either. Or perhaps it had been, based on the situation. No way to tell. But either way, once was more than enough.

She didn't remember falling asleep, but suddenly she was looking into Ned's eyes.

"Morning Lady. How are you feeling?" His face was wreathed in smile lines, and his fingertips were touching her cheek. His hands, she noticed, other than for some obviously healing spots, were as healthy as they had been before the fire.

Thank you...whoever you are.

She turned and kissed his palm for luck, then stretched. The pain was gone and she felt positively wonderful. After a moment she tapped him on the nose, saying, "You know, Mister, if you hadn't gone to sleep on the job last night we might not be in such a mess."

His smile faded. "I know. And Bart would still be alive."

"Ned, are you out of your mind?" She pushed herself into a sitting position. "He didn't come here last night to steal your secrets, he came here to _kill_ you. Any information he got was only a bonus. So why would you have any compassion for him?"

He nodded. "I suppose you're right."

"You know I am. I just hope they've taken his body out of the apartment. I wouldn't want—"

"You can relax, they have."

"Oh?" She turned to look. No part of a body showed through the doorway, but that proved nothing.

"How can you tell?"

"I checked. I've been awake for about ten minutes, exploring. I understand, now, what you mean about not being able to affect things."

"Shit."

"Umm?"

"You don't go back to the world when I'm away from you, which means we're both stuck here, now."

"Not necessarily." He was wearing an odd look, one she didn't know how to interpret.

"What means not necessarily, Ned? What do you know that I don't?"

He traced her eyebrow, then leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose, before he said. "I'm not one hundred percent certain, now, but I seem to remember your making a sort of promise...as an inducement for me to go into the ghost world with you."

Shit...he remembered.

"I also have a hazy memory of you talking with someone. I couldn't hear what they said, but I do remember you saying something about fun and games, just before you called me your man. Was it all a dream?" He had one eyebrow arched, and that said he damn well knew what he'd heard.

"Ned..."

"Mmm?" He bent to place a kiss on her lips, then pulled back far enough to see her reaction. Gentle as the brush of a butterfly's wing it sent a shiver through her.

Damn him.

"So did I hear wrong?" This time he claimed her forehead, then each eye in turn. So very gently. Shiver had turned to warmth.

"You're not letting me think. That's not fair."

"I'm a pirate, remember? Fair has no meaning to a pirate. Isn't even in our dictionary." Another kiss, this time on the lips, and this time lingeringly, though still as soft as a whisper. "Pirates are never fair."

He sat up and took her hand, then proceeded to kiss each fingertip in turn, followed by her palm. Finally, he took the edge of her palm, next to her little finger, into his mouth to gently bite at the flesh, his eyes never leaving hers. It felt absolutely marvelous. A very sexy thing to do, she decided, but something that also had to end.

"Stop it," she said. He was making rational thought difficult.

"Yes dear," he said meekly, though with more laughter than conviction.

He released her hand, but she took his, and brought it to her lips for a kiss of it's own before she said, "You heard what I said, but how will it bring you back into the world?"

He smelled positively amazing, she noted. Sexy enough to make her want to lean closer, just to keep the scent of him in her nostrils. But that wasn't helping her thinking processes at all.

"Well, if you truly meant what you said, and you would like to start now..." Again that raised eyebrow.

"First tell me how it gets you back to the world."

"First? I suppose that's an improvement. Kiss me and I'll tell you."

"Oh? Orders, now? It never fails...tell a man you'll bed him and he gets all...cocky."

He grinned, then waited, the corners of his mouth moving as he tried to suppress his laughter. She placed a fast kiss on his lips, then said, "Give...and I mean talk. No more kisses until I get reasons."

"Kisses don't need a reason." His eyes were dancing with suppressed mirth. This was a side of him she could easily get to like. But she said nothing, and after a moment he said, "What happens when we're in bed together, Jennie?"

"Oh...ohhh, you're right! And when you get out of bed you'll be real again."

"Exactly."

"But what does it have to do with you and I—"

"Nothing, I just thought it was a good idea, being we were going to be there, anyway."

She pulled free and stood, turning her back so the sight of him wouldn't distract her.

"What?"

"We need to talk, Ned." There came the sound of him getting up, and when he spoke, his voice came from directly behind.

"Serious talk?"

"I think so. I need to explain."

"About what you said."

"About what I said." She turned to face him. Not being able to see him was worse than watching his face, it seemed. She took his hand and pulled him to sit facing her on the edge of the bed. She was making a statement of sorts by doing so, and hoped he would realize that. She kept his hands in hers.

"First of all, I meant what I said. I meant it about taking you to bed, and I meant it when I called you my man. The problem is, I have not the faintest idea of why I said it—about your being my man—or what I meant by it when I did. It just..." She waved her hands in frustration.

"Yet you did mean it." Curiosity rather than disappointment or anger showed in his voice. A good sign.

"I meant it, but...Ned, this is crazy. I've known you for less than a week. I know almost nothing about you. Until yesterday I thought you were a heartless bastard. What else don't I know?" Best not to mention that each discovery had made him more desirable, rather than less.

In answer he just shrugged. "What can I say? You're absolutely right." He pointed. "Pull your legs on the bed, by the way. We might as well solve the returning me to the normal world part of the problem while we're at it—though I think this talking business might take a while." As she complied he leaned forward and touched her leg saying, "Will I make it easier if I go first? Talking about it, that is."

She bit her lip, then nodded. "I think so."

He said nothing for a moment, looking as though he was thinking through what he was about to say.

"First, I have to say I can't disagree. I know nothing about you. Certainly not enough to say I'm in love with you. But I am. I just..." He waved a hand in seeming confusion before going on with, "I had a hole in my life, Jennie. You came and it was gone. I can't explain it, but it is." His eyes were closed, and he sighed, deep and long.

She shook her head, rejecting that with, "How can you say you love me? Look at me." When he did she couldn't meet his eyes. With their passage into her world, she'd reverted to her true appearance—or at least the slightly improved version that was the ring's gift.

A finger under her chin forced her to meet his eyes, as he said, "I was dead inside before you came. Now I'm alive. Nothing else counts...nothing." He gave a little chuckle, then, adding, "Besides, at your worst you'll _still_ make other women turn green with envy."

"Thank you." She felt like crying. His declaration was simple, direct, yet so profound, that the only reply that came was a repeat of, "Thank you," followed by, "No one has ever given me a gift I'll treasure more."

"It's not a gift. It's simple fact, and I can't begin to explain it except to say the ring you're wearing may have had a hand in it—must have."

Her eyes were drawn to the ring. Could it be? Had she been directed to him by the powers behind the ring? Two days ago she would have categorically denied it. But after what had happened at Tinman's office she wasn't quite so certain. Were her emotions being played like some musical instrument? Were her very thoughts not her own? Hopefully not. But if there were, was there a way to tell? No. In any case, he was speaking, so she couldn't think about it, either.

"Remember what happened to your brother? You said the ring turned his future wife into a mermaid and placed her near his boat, so they had no choice but to get together."

"True, but I came downtown by my choice, Ned, not the ring's—and not looking for someone. It's not as if I simply appeared by the train stop just as Miles was coming up, like Ann did, in the water near David's boat. Don't forget that. The only reason I saw him that morning was because I fell asleep in a theater and couldn't get out until they opened in the morn—" She was unable to keep her mouth from forming an oh of surprise.

Oh my god!

"You see what I mean, then?"

"I...I suppose I do, but this is a lot to take all at once." Had the woman who opened the doors and let her out been _directed_ to come when she did?

"I suppose it is. So tell me what you _think_ you meant by 'my man.' The other part I can pretty well translate. It means I have the chance to convince you I'm worth making a commitment to, and that you're worth the effort on my part. It doesn't mean you're planning to, hmmm.... Now what did I hear you say?"

"I said I would screw your ever-loving brains out, Ned, and I keep my promises. I would just like somewhere that's a bit more romantic than a soot covered sheet in a burned out apartment...even if the soot doesn't rub off." It seemed fairly obvious that the bed trick was not going to solve the problem of restoring him to the world. Maybe it only worked after dark? Time would tell.

He looked around before he said, "I suppose you have a point. Men are a lot less critical of that sort of thing, though." He took her hands in his, and the old Ned was back in the driver's seat as he said, "Tell you what. We'll put your promise on hold until you're sure, and until it's a mutual idea, not payment of a debt. Okay?"

She studied him for a long time, head cocked and thoughtful, before she said, " _Now_ , you're starting to interest me."

He grinned.

"So, are there any ghostly tricks for getting out of the apartment?"

"One. I'm not sure you'll like it very much, though."

"Try me."

"I'd rather show you. It's something you have to experience before you'll believe it. And in any case, I'm not certain it will work. This situation is a little different from the last place I used it."

"Go on." He sounded interested.

She led him into the living room, stepping around the torn up carpeting. The place was a mess, as much the result of the firefighting efforts as from fire damage. She placed him in front of the door and pointed.

"Sit on the floor there, with your feet against the door at the bottom." When he had complied, looking mystified, she said, "Now press both feet against the door, as though you were trying to force them through the opening between the door and the floor."

"You're kidding."

"No. You don't have to press hard. The speed doesn't change if you do." She sat next to him, nudging him over.

"Move, so I can go through at the same time. Otherwise this will take all day."

Ned was eying his feet as he slid over to make room. The bottom half inch seemed to have vanished.

"What happens if someone steps on us?"

She shrugged, bumping him with her hip to move him over another inch or so. "Screams, I think. Last night I'm pretty sure I broke a few ribs when I fell against the table, and it hurt as much as it would have, had I been real. It's healed, though, so if you were run over by a paving machine you would probably learn how much pain the human body can generate, but you would probably survive."

"Not very reassuring. Reason, though to keep as close to the hallway wall as possible as we go through." He put an arm around her shoulders, and when she leaned against him, reached a hand to tip her face to meet his.

The man certainly could kiss. In fact, he had a positive talent for it.

How nice.

After a moment she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, taking pleasure from his lips, warming her entire being as she gave herself up to the feelings the man generated within her. It occurred to her that having her legs stuck under the doorway was probably a good thing if she were planning to wait until a "romantic moment." Somehow, that didn't seem as important as it had only a few minutes before.

After a warm, sweet eternity, she snuggled herself against him, at peace with the world.

Wait till I compare stories with Ann. And wait till I tell my big brother about this.

For a time her mind idled, content to just _be_. Then she kissed him again, and that was even better.

Ned laughed, as he released her. He took her hands in his, and kissed them, before leaning down to place a deliberate kiss on each of her breasts, where hardened nipples raised the fabric, bringing a purr of pleasure. Just as deliberately, he took the bottom of her shirt and raised it, exposing her breasts. This time it was more than a kiss, and made her muscles, from shoulders to thighs spasm with pleasure. The man _knew._ Of itself, her hand came up to cup her breast, presenting it for attention, while the other rested on his cheek, stealing warmth.

Just as deliberately, he pulled the shirt back into place, saying, "Until that romantic moment, then."

When she could think again she said, "You were laughing a moment ago...why?"

That brought another laugh, and, "I was just thinking...I've never looked at a closed door as a birth control device before this."

She grinned, and they stared into each other's eyes for a ridiculously long time. She held his hand tightly, afraid she might be hurting him, but unable to stop.

Twice came the sound of someone passing in the hallway. Both times they were lucky.
Chapter 19

"What's wrong with that man's wardrobe, Jennie?"

The man stood at the elevator, waiting. Definitely not someone from Ned's office. He wore a suit, as did so many of the men in the building. But his was well out of fashion, and near the end of its life. It had been chosen for wear characteristics, not style. His necktie was uninspired, and looked as though it had been dry-cleaned a few too many times. Obviously, someone whose job required such an outfit because of regulation, not to please the customer or attract clients. A single glance at his no nonsense shoes and she had her answer. He was a cop of some kind.

"You think he's here to talk to people about your disappearance?"

"That or Bart's death. Either way he's our ticket to the floor." They had been stymied for ten minutes, waiting for someone to take the elevator to his floor.

Interested, they followed the man to Gamble Inc., where he first asked for Ned, then Miles. Saying he didn't want to distract his brother, he led her to his own office. Sally sat at her desk, on the phone. He eavesdropped for moment, as she made excuses for his not being there, then went into the office telling her to bring Sally in as soon as she finished the call. He was probably afraid she might react to seeing him. At the moment, Sally wasn't alone. Another secretary was busy at one of the file cabinets.

"Jennie!" Sally said, startled.

She'd virtually whispered her song in Sally's ear, to keep her as the only one who could see her, but still, her appearance had drawn a reaction before she could shush her. Recovering, Sally asked, "Do you know where Ned is?"

"What did you say?" the other woman asked.

"Nothing, Sonny," Sally said. "I was just thinking aloud."

The other woman gave her a polite smile, and went back to work, but the set of her eyebrows clearly expressed her opinion of people who talked to themselves.

Jennie smiled. "Ned's closer than you might think, come into the office and close the door."

As Sally closed the door she told him to start singing.

Unfortunately, though he had a surprisingly resonant baritone voice, Sally gave no indication of hearing him, though. A disappointment, but not much of a surprise. She was the one wearing the ring, after all.

With a mental shrug she brought herself back to visibility for Sally, who was in the process of reminding her that she needed to do that.

"You don't have to worry about Ned, Sally. He's okay." Ned, who was standing next to her, wrapped his arm around her, bringing a warm contented feeling.

"But where is he? Everyone's looking for him this morn— Oh-my-God!" Sally's hand went to her mouth, covering it as though to stifle a scream. "Oh Ned, I am _so_ sorry. I..." Sally felt behind her, backing up until she located one of the chairs, then sank into it.

Ned laughed, obviously tickled at the situation.

"I may be in Jennie's ghost world, Sally, but I am _far_ from dead." He nuzzled her neck a bit before saying, "And I can tell you from experience, this lady isn't dead, either." He chuckled, before saying, "Besides, if I was, a single kiss from her and I'd be brought back to life again."

But Sally was more interested in other things, because she said, "I'm glad to hear that, Ned, but you need to..." She stopped, and waved her hands aimlessly for a moment before saying, "You need to, somehow, get your ass behind that desk in the real world, because all hell has broken loose, this morning. Bart Gibson is dead. The police called first thing this morning to say that— Oh...but you would know, because it happened in your place...I..." She seemed at a loss as to how to proceed.

Ned moved to kneel in front of her, retaining Jennie's hand as he did so.

"It might be better if we told _you_ , Sally, rather than the other way around. I'm going to need your help with a few things, and we don't have a lot of time. I'm expecting a flood of calls, and probably more than a few policemen, too."

Quickly, he summarized the situation, then outlined what he wanted her to do. None too soon, either, because he hadn't quite finished when they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Miles stuck his head in, asking, "Sally, have you seen or heard from Ned since yesterday?"

"Me. Uhh...no. Not a umm...word." Sally, it seemed, wasn't a terribly good actress. Her eyes kept straying to where she and Ned were standing.

"Is that unusual, Mrs. Conrad?" The man who had piloted their elevator on the way to the office pushed by Miles, who stared at both her and Ned with eyebrows that threatened to climb into his hairline.

"... Not usual, but it's sometimes hard to keep track of Mr. Carson."

"He doesn't call you to get his messages?"

Sally shrugged, seeming to pull herself together as she said, "We have voice mail, of course. So he might have called in several times this morning already. Do you think something may have happened to him? He's not answering his phone, and I've been hearing wild rumors. In fact, this morning I—"

"May I see his appointment book?" the detective asked, cutting her off. Behind him Miles was frantically trying to ask what had happened, without actually speaking. Apparently Ned was glowing, and advertising his status.

"It's okay, Miles," Ned said. "I'll tell you about it when we can be alone." He, at least, didn't have to worry if the policeman could overhear his comments.

Sally led the policeman toward her desk, and they were barely clear of the room when Miles hissed, "My place." Then he headed for the door, himself, with a look over his shoulder that said he had a lot of questions to ask her, as well.

"So there's no way for you to get back?" Miles asked, when he'd been brought up-to-date.

"None I can think of...as yet." Thankfully, he didn't mention both the coming night and his bed in the same breath. He did make it plain to his brother, by the way he held her as he talked, that they were more than friends.

"I don't understand why Bart would want to kill you, though," Miles said, from his position by the office door—keeping watch, to be sure they wouldn't be disturbed. The probability was high that he would have a stream of visitors this day.

"To protect himself, I imagine. We haven't heard what came out of Belle Tinman's little aria yesterday...or what her husband might have said. Maybe he was trying to protect himself from that." He shrugged. "Or maybe the people he answers to decided that they wanted me dead so they could pick up the company. No way to tell, and Bart certainly can't tell us."

Miles looked at nothing for a long moment before saying, "Ned...I really—"

"What Tinman did wasn't your fault," Ned said, interrupting him. "It's my fault as much as yours, in any case. I have people who look at crap like that all day long, and I didn't think of putting any of them to work checking out your foundation grant people, either."

"But I vouched for Tinman, personally. Shit...I _liked_ the man. And his wife may very well be the ugliest woman who ever lived, but she was also one of the nicest people I've ever met."

"Stop apologizing, I met the woman and I was charmed by her, too."

"So now what?" Miles asked. "What do we do about your appointments today? People are asking if the company is going to be sold, and I'll bet half of them are updating their resumes as we speak."

"No doubt," Ned said, his voice showing unhappiness. He was silent for a time, then took a deep breath and said, "Okay. For today we can get by. You let everyone know that I'm okay, and that the company is in no danger. I'll work through Sally and hold things together, as though I was calling in now and then." He turned to Jennie, saying, "I'm afraid this is going to be a very boring day for you."

"Not necessarily. I'll have a chance to see the real Ned Carson in action...even though the real Ned happens to not be real, at the moment."

"And me?" Miles asked.

"After things here are under control, you're my secret weapon. Where I absolutely need to, you can answer as me. I can listen in and feed you what you need to say."

How often, in the past, had the brothers played at being the other? Twins often did, according to popular literature. She hadn't thought about it, but having that ability would allow either of them to "attend" some necessary function on a day when they had pressing business elsewhere. At least it would have until they had deliberately changed their appearance to play down the resemblance.

"The police aren't going to buy into my calling as you, from here."

"Agreed, so we won't be doing it to the police. As for the company, tell everyone that because of the attempt on my life I'm lying low for a few days. You can tell the police the same thing. Tell them I'm afraid Bart was part of an organized crime syndicate and that until I'm convinced it's safe I'll be vacationing at an undisclosed location, and won't even tell you where, for fear of a phone tap."

"And if you can't get back?"

"I'll get back."

"But if you can't?" Miles was not going to be put off.

"Then Gamble Inc will be the first company in history to be managed by a ghost." Ned laughed. "I wonder what that will do to our image?"

"It would make a hell of a logo," she said.

° ° ° °

Jennie sat, thinking, holding Ned's hand to keep him visible to Sally, humming, in case she looked away for a moment. But her mind was far from Sally's phone conversation. Instead, she focused on what a fool she'd been. For all her life she had judged people on surface details. Pretty was good and ugly was bad. Mother taught her that, and the modeling world reinforced it. She'd learned to ignore the stares of the men around her. A simple walk through a supermarket was a series of happenings, as each man she passed reacted to her presence. In the beginning, having men find some excuse to cross her path a second and third time was entertaining. Now, she ignored it—but still expected it, and even demanded it. Lovers were chosen for appearance, or for power. And none truly satisfied. They came and were gone with the change of the seasons...if they lasted that long.

And Miles. Another pretty boy. A male version of herself, with respect for no one—a man who used others as a source of entertainment. And she'd found him desirable.

She looked over at Ned, head bent forward, eyes closed to remove distractions. He was listening to the woman on the phone, then feeding responses to Sally, who passed them on. He had been as moved by her appearance as any man, but he didn't love her for it. He loved her for who she was. But who she was, was a lie. He hadn't yet seen the real Jennie. Instead, he'd seen her stripped of the admiring throng and thrust in an alien environment. He'd seen her after more than a year of living with a death sentence, the arrogance beaten from her, along with all hope.

What would happen if she found her way back to a normal life? Would the disease be cured? Would she appear as she did now, or as she once was? And either way, would she go back to being Jennie Nan the model? Would he still love Jennie Nan, model?

And what about Poor Belle? Both Ned and Miles truly liked the woman.

_But I wouldn't have given her the time of day, based only on how she looked._ Of course there was the small matter of her being a criminal, but it seemed unlikely she'd turned to a life of crime because of her appearance. _Unless people like me treated her so badly she wanted revenge?_

There were no easy answers. But one thing she did know: Ned would never meet the model Jennie Nan. That woman was dead, swept away, forever. He thought her someone special because of what she was, not because of how she looked. And it would be her task to be certain he and Jennie never met.

That decided, she leaned her head on his arm and pulled him closer. He never hesitated in his conversation, but his voice turned warmer, and he was smiling. That was nice.

As she sat, a silly thought came. According to David, he and Ann had found the treasure-ship he'd been seeking. And based on preliminary estimates, her half—after some not insignificant taxes—amounted to several million dollars. Now fate had conspired to have her meet Ned, the perfect man to advise her on investing it.

Strange that because of her disease, David had gone seeking gold, and found Ann. And as a result, she'd found Ned. Not exactly what David had been hoping for when he took a sabbatical in Florida, but still, a pretty damn successful quest.

In the end, if the ring had cured the MS, and she stayed with Ned, she had no need of the money from the treasure. And if the disease returned, money wouldn't help. So in reality, the treasure was David's, perhaps to invest in that engineering firm Ann had been talking about.

She looked at Ned, and pulled him even closer. It looked like she was already rich in all the ways that mattered.

° ° ° °

"We'd better go now, Ned."

"Hmm?" He looked up from the papers Sally had spread on the desk.

"It's after seven and Sally wants to leave. I checked, and everyone else has gone, so we either leave with her or slip under the door to the fire stairs."

"No thank you," he said, with a chuckle. "Once is quite enough." He put down the pad he had been taking notes on, yawning.

What he was going to do when he ran out of pages in the notepad he gave her the other morning? But that assumed he wouldn't be able to get back into the world by climbing out of bed when, and if, they turned real.

If so, perhaps if she lay in bed with Miles for a time she would become real to him? Miles could shop for whatever was needed, then pass it to Ned, through her. Though it also made sense that he could leave it on a bed that she and Ned shared, assuming they would continue to return to the normal world when in it.

About to join her at the door, Ned stopped and sank back onto the corner of the desk.

"I just had a thought. Where are we going to go?"

"Go?"

"When we leave here. My place is out because they've already started rebuilding it. And we certainly can't go to a motel, unless we sneak in the flat way."

"Not my favorite plan. I can just imagine waking up to find the lights on and a man about to toss a suitcase onto the bed."

"Exactly. So where do we go?" When she only shrugged he pointed toward a doorway, saying, "I have a mini apartment there for when I'm here late enough that I won't want to drive home. The only problem is, once we take that option we're stuck here for the night, more or less." He was asking more than the simple question of where they would sleep. She could hear it in the care with which he said it. He wanted to resolve the problem of their relationship.

What _was_ she to do with Ned? There was a bed in that room, and if night was the missing factor in getting him back into the real world the answer was simple. But there was a bed in that room, and they would be sharing it, be they to turn real or not. The answer to _that_ was anything but simple. Or was it? Hell, she'd been daydreaming about it most of the day. He had been teasing her with kisses and caresses throughout the day till she was nearly ready to jump out of her skin...or maybe tear him out of his clothes would be a more accurate statement. So why the hesitation? Why the doubts?

"Okay," she said at last. "I'll tell Sally to open the door, but..."

"But?"

She grinned, and kissed him. "But you have to carry me across the threshold."

Ned looked to be vastly amused by her remark.

Now what in the hell made me say something stupid like that?

To cover embarrassment, and keep from dwelling on the ramifications of what she'd said, she hurried to ask Sally to open the apartment and turn on the lights.

That rated a very knowing grin, and, "My pleasure." As she walked out of the office, afterward Jennie thought she could detect suppressed laughter. Then they were alone. Very, very much alone.

The cleaning crew had come and gone, and they were still in the office. They discussed what was to happen tomorrow, and they talked of nothing special. They talked around the subject of Ned, and around the subject of Jennie. But now it was time, so she reached out to take his hand and pull him to his feet, telling him so. But still, the situation was awkward, as though she was taking an irrevocable step. She supposed she was. But his office was anything but a romantic spot, and she was far more nervous than she expected to be. When he held out his arms to pick her up she shook her head.

"I was kidding. I can walk."

"I wasn't."

Breathing suddenly became harder. She tried to keep from biting her lip as he lifted her in his arms.

Breathing became impossible.

Carefully, he carried her into the tiny apartment. A small table lamp threw a tan-shaded glow on a space that bore a strong resemblance to a motel room. A single bed stood close to the far wall. On the wall opposite where they came in, stood a slab sided armoire, brown and practical. Through a doorway came the gleam of porcelain, obviously a bathroom. The apartment was a man's hideaway, earth-toned and practical. But her eyes weren't really on the room. That was background for a subject of more importance, his face. As with everything he did he gave the simple act of carrying her ten steps from his office to the bed his entire attention. She expected him to place her on the bed and then join her, but instead, he turned and sat on the edge, still cradling her in his arms. Gently, he claimed her lips, then straightened to gaze down at her and say, "Are you nervous?"

She nodded. "Very. I don't know why, but I am." She laid her head against his chest, saying, "But it feels nice to be held this way, Ned." She leaned closer to him. He had a pleasant masculine scent that made her want to close her eyes and just breathe him in.

"Thank you," he said, tightening his hold on her. "Would you like me to rub your back?"

She thought it over. He'd offered a compromise—giving her to have time to relax, and to become accustomed to his touch.

Always solving problems, Ned. In everything.

She nodded. "I think I'd like that. Thank you." He was also seeking permission to lie her on the bed, to see if there was any change in their status.

He was lifting her when she reached up to touch his mustache, saying, "That thing goes tomorrow, you know."

"Unless you end up liking the way it tickles your skin." He lowered her to the bedspread, crafted of a nubby fabric, interesting in texture but never intended to be as harsh to the skin as it was on hers. Her spare wardrobe lay hidden under his desk. She thought of going to get it, as padding, but the bedspread was a minor annoyance so she elected not to. She turned on her stomach, when he pressed a hand to her side to indicate he wanted her to do so, then waited as he kicked off his shoes and joined her on the bed. Under her the spread abruptly turned soft, and the bed jounced as he adjusted his position on the now resilient mattress. He was back, as well. She breathed a quiet thank you before saying, "You should get off the bed, Ned, to make sure you—"

"You talk too much. Your job is to feel, not talk."

"Yes sir." She smiled, pillowing her head on the backs of her hands and closing her eyes. His hands gently stroked her back for a moment, then pulled the shirt free of the jeans and slid it up her body, bunching it at her shoulders, leaving the decision as to going further to her. She unbuttoned the sleeve ends and pulled the shirt over her head, tossing it to fall somewhere off the bed. He was negotiating with her. Even in this a businessman. Or perhaps a gentleman.

_A very gentle man._ With a thought of, _what the hell,_ she reached down to untie the necktie she was still using as a belt and open the buttons and zipper of the jeans.

I'll see your shirt and raise you a pair of jeans.

She expected him to respond by pulling the pants free, but he began rubbing her back, instead. Pulling the jeans down just a bit, he started at the base of her spine, slowly working his fingers up her back in a way that set her to purring. When he reached her neck she arched it forward as he kneaded it into jelly. His kiss—placed just above his hands as accent—made it even better.

For a while he worked on her back, while she glowed, jangled nerves fading into warm anticipation. She was torn between turning over and pulling him against her or giving in to a sweet paralysis that would go on forever. Then his mouth touched her back, tasting, and gently nibbling as it moved from shoulder to spine. Paralysis won.

"What are you doing?" she breathed.

"Tasting you. Not good?"

"It's wonderful, but I need a bath. And I—"

"I'm giving you one. Besides, I _like_ the way you taste. And I like the way you smell, too." He poked at her armpit, adding, "Except for there, at the moment..." He nibbled at her other shoulder, then worked his way down her side, before saying, "But this is _very_ nice."

He went back to rubbing her back, soothing. Now and then his lips returned to her skin, warming, until she felt she must be floating off the bed. He was working his way down her leg when she suddenly realized the jeans were gone, but she had not the faintest idea of when they had gone, or how he had managed it.

"What do I taste like?" She asked, reaching back, seeking some part of him to touch.

"Mmm? A little bit from salt, a little bit from your personal scent, and a lot from the texture of your skin, I think. It adds up to very nice."

"By scent you mean stink." In response he ran his tongue from the back of her knee to the top of her leg, causing her entire body to jerk in response.

"This is entertaining, aside from being tasty," he said, in response to her movement. "... in case you were wondering. And no, you don't stink, you have the most sexy, most interesting, and most satisfying personal scent I've ever encountered."

"There?" He was attending to her upper thigh.

"Yes, there. Everywhere...but there, especially." He moved on to work on her feet, but added, "Especially when you're feeling...romantic." Romantic wasn't the word. Desperate was more what came to mind. She would have attacked him, then, but he had rendered her both virtually unable to move and curious as to what came next.

When he finally pulled her onto her back it was with a feeling akin to relief that she came into his arms. Like coming home, and his mouth on hers was so perfect a match it was like something she'd been doing all her life. Not the wild passion of first time lovers, but the warm joining of souls who know their opposite number as well as they know themselves. He was right. The hole in her life—the one she hadn't been aware was there—was forever gone.

Gently, he lay her back on the bed, while she looked into his eyes, overcome with a feeling that had never touched her before. There were tears, and the thought, _Now I know what love is like_. Then his lips were at her breast, causing her to pull him to her, and to climax, then climax again, body throbbing uncontrollably, eyes wide in sweet surprise. Time faded into a blur of pleasure and surprise, as he stroked, kissed, and nibbled her into a state of pure madness.

"I can't," she said, at one point, sobbing. "I'll get lost...I'll get lost."

"Never," he said, fiercely. "That can't happen because I'll be here to guide you home. I'll always be here for you, Jennie. Always."

And he was. His eyes and his dear face were the first things she was conscious of, after an endless time of flight—of blinding heights and sweet descents that went on and on.

But she was not yet finished, because this dear man had held himself back for her, and that could no longer be permitted. She pulled his clothing from him and drew him to her, on her, in her, around her; close in every way a man could be close to a woman. She locked her eyes with his as she did, moving against him—driven by need, driven by love, and driven by a certainty that she _must_ seal this man to her forever...or die. Through it all, through pleasure she'd not dreamed she was capable of, and through an animal passion that astonished her, she never took her eyes from his. And she cried. She cried from the moment she drew him close until she lay next to him, panting in near exhaustion, confusing him terribly. But they were tears of love, and they were tears of pleasure, and of more importance, they were tears of fulfillment. Jennie Nan, at long last, was home.
Chapter 20

"It's nearly six, A. M. Jennie. We'd better get up."

"Mmm?" She blinked up at Ned, who was already dressed. He came to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning down to claim her lips in a lingering good morning that left her awake, and feeling warm and loved. He, at least, was back in the world.

"What will you do today?"

"Do? I don't know." Why he had asked? He never spoke without a reason.

"What's going on, Ned?"

"Marry me, Jennie Nan. Or at least come with me to get the process started."

"Come with you..." She looked down at the ring, but her finger was no longer circled by that piece of carved stone. Her jaw went slack with surprise. Had it simply vanished, vaporized in the heat of their lovemaking? An amusing thought.

"I had a hunch, so I flinched it this morning."

"Oh, then—"

But he wasn't finished.

"Marry me Jennie Nan. Marry me today."

"I...sure, if you...but are you certain?" Removing the ring hadn't worked before, but rather than telling him, she sat up, then stood and stepped away from the bed. If a proper time for the ring to release its hold on her existed, this was surely it. As she came to her feet, she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dresser. She looked, to her own eye, to be perhaps halfway between the wasted Jennie who had put on the ring and what she would think of as normal before the diagnosis of MS. A parting gift from the ring? But that aside, she _was_ back, and the world around her was one of colors, not shades of gray.

So the ring was finally finished with her. For just a moment, she had a twinge of fear. But the image gazing back at her wasn't that of a dying woman. And if the ring could cure his burns and his poisoning from the smoke, _and_ her broken ribs, surely she'd been given a reprieve from MS, as well?

Eyes closed, she breathed a thank you to whoever or whatever was behind the ring, for kindness, for excitement, for magic, and for Ned, a gift as precious as the healing of her body.

So the magic was over and it was time to begin to live. First came honesty, so she turned and put her hands on his shoulders, her eyes seeking his.

"I don't think I'll ever look like I once did." She held her breath.

"And?" He stepped back a pace eyeing her, critically, before saying, "I think fattening you up a bit may make sense, but I happen to think you're perfect now." In demonstration, he bent forward, to take a nipple between teeth and tongue for a moment—causing her breath to hiss between her teeth—before straightening and saying, "They are, at least. Now get showered and dressed, so I can take you out to breakfast, maybe pick up some makeup, then show you off to the staff as the future Mrs. Carson."

For a moment she just grinned up at him. But he made sense, so she turned and headed for the bathroom, calling, "Thank you, Ned."

_So Jennie Nan becomes Jennie Carson. Not bad. Not bad at all._ But then she stopped, and instead of heading toward the bathroom she growled deep in her throat and wrapped herself around him.

Screw breakfast!

° ° ° °

"Oh, hi Jennie. You're early today." Miles came through the office door and tossed his newspaper on the desk.

"No, you're late. I stayed here last night...with Ned, and I've been waiting for you." She got up from his chair, but didn't move out of the way so he could sit. Instead, she moved to the corner of the desk, leaning against it and forcing him to remain where he was. Ned was busy tying up the strings that held the company together, leaving her at loose ends. Later, she would go out to the house for a change of clothing, and to call David and Ann to invite them to her wedding. Maybe call her parents as well, though how she would explain her sudden return to health might be something of a problem.

"Waiting for me. I...whatever for?" His mouth carried a smile but his eyes were wary.

"I know what you've been doing, Miles. I know Bart Gibson stole Ned's secrets for you. Even if you hadn't had the information in your desk drawer, I would have known."

"In my desk drawer? I—" His eyes widened. He had probably realized the significance of her crimson lips. That was when she hit him. Only a slap, but given with all the strength she could put behind it.

"Yes, you bastard. I'm real...but you aren't. You're a phony from the word go." She stood, standing virtually nose-to-nose with him, glaring as she said, "I spent the day with Bart Gibson the other day. I even followed him into the God-damned bathroom. I followed him everywhere...but I _didn't_ follow him in here, because I was afraid you might react if you saw me. And I didn't bother listening, because after all, _you_ certainly couldn't be the one...could you?'

"Jennie..."

"Don't 'Jennie' me, you bastard. This morning I found the numbers from Ned's briefcase on a sheet of paper in your top drawer. I used the key Sally was kind enough to lend me."

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit." She took his shirt in both hands, too angry to be afraid. "Why, Miles? Why try to kill your own brother? Why destroy your own business?"

He wrenched free, turning his back on her as he said, "It's not my business. It belongs to the old man, even now. And everything he touched is evil." He spun in place, his face a mask, as he said, "Everything. The bastard raped everyone he came in contact with, _including_ my mother...including me."

"... You?"

He gave a little nod of indecision before saying, "I was able to stop him, but he tried. And I listened to him forcing himself on my mother, too damn many times." He seemed to wake, then, as he said, "I never told Gibson to kill Ned, though. I have no idea of why he did, unless he was involved with other things, like what Tinman was doing."

"You didn't know about that?"

He shook his head, anger gone, seemingly replaced by resignation. "No. I really liked the man. I saw the work he did, and I respected him for it." He sighed, rubbing his face, as he said, "Ned is a winner. If I dropped him naked and alone—anywhere in the world—a week later he would have a thriving business going. Two weeks later he would own the God-damned town. So if I drove Gamble out of business I'd inconvenience Ned, not hurt him. He's like the old man in that."

"And you?" _Nothing goes the way you expect._ But at least she knew, now, why Miles disliked his brother.

"Me? People like being with me, Jennie. It's what I do best. If I were dropped in that same town, a week later I'd have a nice job, lots of friends, and a comfortable place to live." His eyes turned hard, like Ned's did when he was angry, as he said, "But if Gibson hadn't gotten stupid there would be nothing of the old man left. No more Gamble Inc."

"Except for Jeannette, Miles." Ned stood in the doorway. How long had he had been standing there?

Miles turned, and she watched, fascinated, as what appeared to be a wordless conversation flickered between them, in the way twins have of privately communicating. Facial expression changed, and body attitude shifted. It lasted only a moment. Then Miles said, "Her I don't have to deal with. How long were you out there?"

"I followed you as you came in, hoping to give you the good news about Jennie and me."

Miles straightened.

"I won't apologize, except for what Bart did. I would have fed the bastard into the fire myself for that."

"I know. Would it help if we changed the name of the firm to Carson Brothers?"

"You're going to forgive him?" It appeared so, but made no sense.

Ned shrugged. "He's an idiot, Jennie, but he's _my_ idiot. What can I do? He turned to Miles, asking, "How did Bart get you involved?"

She stared. Why would he assume Carson involved Miles, rather than the other way around?"

"Bart didn't. It was the other way around. I figured he was the only one it could be, and that the only way he could be doing it was sneaking into your place when you were asleep. I just waited outside your door for a couple of nights until he showed up."

Jennie shook her head. "Then...you didn't plan this?" Nothing they were saying made sense.

Miles looked at her as though she'd said something especially stupid. His face bore the imprint of her hand in flaming red, and she wondered if it still hurt. Certainly, the hand did.

"Me? How could I set something like that up? I run the foundation, not the company. I wouldn't know who to approach for seed money, or with the data. I just made it easier for Bart by cutting connections Ned might trace. That way, when the firm lost enough money he would be replaced by someone who probably couldn't handle the job, like Bart, and it would fail...then goodbye Harold, and good riddance." He turned back to Ned, saying, "You can't hit me, you know. You promised mom you never would again." Again an exchange between them, this time including a few words in a language she didn't recognize, and which she assumed were in a private language of the kind so many twins develop. There was much about them both that she had yet to learn.

After a few seconds Ned shrugged, then extended his arm to her, saying "Come on, Jennie. This can wait. Right now, I want to call everyone together and announce our engagement."

She went, still not satisfied with what had just happened. She preceded him through the door, and before following her, he turned to Miles and said, "I hated him too. I heard him with mom more often than you did, because you were away at school. And the old man tried his crap with me, as well. I never asked, but looking back, I would guess he hit on Jeanette, as well. My revenge was to turn his company into something he would have hated. That's why I kept the name...as my own form of payback. You should have talked with me, Miles. You should have talked."

° ° ° °

Jennie moved closer to Ned, made sleepy by the night and the hum of the road. The visit with David was everything she'd hoped, and it was fun to tell him, only a week after his surprise announcement of marriage to Ann, that she had an announcement of her own. One short week, yet one so full of happenings.

"Happy?" he asked.

"Very much so. I've decided you can keep the muzzie, because I do like the way it tickles."

He laughed. "I liked your brother,"

"Better than I like yours, I wager."

"He's not stupid. He's just thoughtless. Give it time."

No, Miles wasn't stupid, he had a brain equal to that of the man sitting next to her. He just chose not to use it. But she held her tongue.

After a moment, he said, "I can't see you. Maybe you should sing to me."

She laughed, and thought of the ring, on her finger again but no longer influencing her life. Then she thought of Ned, and what he had just said. So much had changed. She'd greeted him with a song of derision. Now one of love. But always and always, _he_ would be her song.
Chapter 21

"So what will you do with the ring?" Ann had raised her voice to be heard over the noise of the club.

Jennie turned from watching the band set up their instruments. "I have no idea. I don't regret what happened, but I would never, in a million years, take the responsibility for inflicting it on another woman." She thought for a moment before saying, "How about you? You can be the one to choose, if you like."

"Me? Are you kidding? I'd be afraid that if I even touched it again it might have forgotten I once was wearing it. God forbid it should start all over again." She shook her head. "Besides, I've taken my turn, thank you. Choosing the next one is your job." She nodded toward the ramp leading down from the restaurant. "How about one of them?" At the top of the ramp a threesome stood at the shoe-check desk, two women and a man.

"You mean just stop them and hand it to one of them? You told me the woman who gave it to you said to pass it on to someone who needed it. How do we know either one of them do?"

"Let the ring decide."

"The ring? I...but how? I don't—"

"Toss it in the sand by the bottom of the ramp. Lots of people have stumbled when they got to the bottom of the ramp because they didn't expect a foot of sand in a nightclub. If the ring wants either one of them they'll find it. If not it will wait for someone else."

"I don't know. Somehow that seems almost—"

"Better make up your mind, Jennie. They're on their way down."

_Let the ring choose?_ _Why not?_

She tossed the ring.

As those on the ramp reached the bottom the woman leading the three had her head turned, to say something to the others. Apparently she wasn't expecting the depth of sand her feet encountered, because she stumbled, then fell to hands and knees, to scattered applause from those already in the club. When she got to her feet she was clutching something in her hand. She showed it to the man she was with, then put it in her purse when someone called out to them.

_Well I'll be damned. It worked._ Next to her, Ann gave a quiet and drawn out, "Yes." Obviously, she had seen, and felt the same pleasure to know that the ring had made its choice.

It might be nice to strike up a conversation with the woman, to find out what kind of person she was and to tell her to be ready for wonder. But she would learn that for herself, soon enough.

_So it's finally over._ Shaking her head, Jennie raised her drink in silent salute, and in farewell, though to whom she still had no idea.

Across the room the woman who had found the ring was settling onto a stool in the midst of a group who obviously knew each other, eying the man who'd escorted her in with what looked like speculation. Interesting. But if she stayed to watch, the temptation to interfere would be too great, so she turned to the others, saying, "I think that was our cue to leave. Anyone up for dinner?"

As they started toward the exit she glanced toward the bar. Something seemed familiar about the bartender, but she couldn't place it. As she started up the ramp it came to her. He looked like a grown up version of Jimmy, the boy who was in her bedroom on the day she became a ghost. She turned, but he was gone. For a long moment she stared, blinking in thought. Then she shook her head and followed Ned up the ramp. Behind her, she swore she could hear laughter.

And it had begun again.

Author's note:

I hope you enjoyed Jennie's story. It was an adventure to write. It was also an experiment in characterization. In most stories the various characters are pretty constant in both behavior and as the protagonist perceives them. But there is another way, in which the protagonist, and the reader, change their viewpoint of the characters, in this case the two brothers, both intelligent, one good and the other far less desirable. But which one is the desirable one, so apparent when we begin, clouds and reverses.

Strangely, I, as did Jennie, thought Miles was the instigator of the plot, evil rather than the lovable, trusting, fool he really is. Turns out that Ned is a lot smarter than I am, because he saw it at once. But he cheated. He grew up with Miles. I just met the man.

If my story pleased you, please, take a moment to review and comment Jennie's Song where you purchased it, and perhaps share it on any social medium you favor. A writer lives and dies through word of mouth selling, so I would be very grateful. And drop by my blog to say hello. I have a handful of stories posted there for your enjoyment, ranging from romance to horror.

Jay Greenstein

Other novels by Jay Greenstein

Science Fiction

An Abiding Evil

 As Falls an Angel

 Wizards

 Foreign Embassy

Modern Western

Posse

Romance

Sisterhood of the Ring – Six linked novels

 Water Dance

 Jennie's Song

 A Change Of Heart

 A Surfeit Of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

