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  “My point is, he can only affect what belonged to him.”

  “But didn’t the whole property belong to him?”

  Fire roared up the wall behind them and smoke roiled under the ceiling like thunderheads. Luke hauled Stefan back over the sofa. “You had to say it, didn’t you? He’s dead, not deaf. Cover your mouth with your shirt and get out before the generator blows.” Or the propane tank. Jesus, the place was a fucking bomb.

  “You go. I have to get the painting.”

  “Are you nuts? Forget the painting. This guy wants to fry us.”

  Stefan shook his head and Luke was tempted to knock him out to stop him from arguing. “No, he doesn’t. Not really.”

  Another row of paint tubes burst in a rainbow splatter and Stefan broke for the easel. Luke grabbed for him, missed his arm, and got the sleeve of his flannel shirt. It ripped, leaving Luke holding the ragged cuff. Stefan staggered forward, pulled the collar of his undershirt over his nose, and gingerly removed the canvas from the easel.

  Luke sprinted to the door as fast as his gimpy leg allowed. He yanked the door open and breathed a sigh of relief that turned into a cough. Eyes watering, he peered through the smoke at Stefan, who shambled toward the door with the still-wet painting held away from his body. Move faster, damn it. He lunged for Stefan’s arm and yanked him out the door.

  “Head for my car,” Luke wheezed. “Once we get—” The weeds under the rental car flared, engulfing it in flames. “What the fucking hell? The grass is soaking wet. How can he do that?”

  “He’s a ghost,” Stefan panted next to him, still holding the painting as if it were made of glass. “You expect logic?”

  “Shit. Next time, I’m opting for the extra rental insurance.” Luke put his hand between Stefan’s shoulder blades and pushed him toward the forest.

  Stefan dug his heels into the spongy ground. “Stop. Other people live on this mountain. The forest has barely recovered from the Tillamook Burn. We can’t just walk away.”

  “How the fuck do you suggest we handle it? Garden hose?”

  “I’m not an idiot. We call it in. The sat phone—”

  “Don’t say it.” Luke flinched, expecting the impact of a propane explosion when Arcoletti ignited the cabin. Instead, his leg heated from the inside as if the titanium rod in his femur rested in a bed of red-hot coals. He collapsed on the ground, clutching his thigh. “Jesus H. Fucking Christ.”

  Stefan’s eyes widened. “Luke. What—”

  “Run. Get away before the gas tank blows.”

  “Like hell I will.” Stefan spun around, faced the studio, and shouted into the dueling roar of fire and wind. “Jeremiah! Jeremiah Arcoletti!”

  “Jesus, Stefan. Don’t poke the bear.” Smoke burned the back of Luke’s throat and the pain in his leg robbed his lungs of air. “Not when the bear has a big fucking flamethrower!”

  Stefan held the painting out in front of him and walked toward the studio. The flames hadn’t spread. Could Arcoletti contain fire? Who the fuck knew? Luke just wanted to remain conscious long enough to drag Stefan down the mountain.

  Stefan held the painting higher, angling it right and left as he moved, displaying it to the burning studio, the watching forest, and the pissed-off ghost. He turned around and Luke got a look at the picture in the flaring light from both fires.

  A portrait. In Stefan’s own style.

  Edward Franklin.

  The wind died as if the clearing held its breath, and the crackle of flames from the car and the studio sounded louder in Luke’s ears.

  “Jeremiah. Look.” Since he didn’t have to compete with the wind, Stefan’s voice turned soft, coaxing. Luke would have followed that voice across broken glass on his hands and knees. “Here it is. The last painting. The one you would have done if you’d had one more chance. Your Edward.”

  As if the combination of the portrait and Stefan’s words had conjured him, a figure stepped out of the trees. A man in a tuxedo, his bow tie undone, the flames casting orange glints on the round lenses of his spectacles. Semi-transparent, like his reflection in Last Chance Cafe.

  Edward’s ghost met Stefan’s gaze and smiled, just a quirk of the sensitive lips and a brief incline of his head. He took in the clearing, the car, and the studio, and shook his head like a parent admonishing a naughty child. He beckoned once, turned, and walked back the way he’d come.

  If Luke squinted really hard, past the spots flashing in front of his eyes, he could see a taller, loose-limbed shadow by Edward’s side, head haloed in a wild aureole of hair.

  The two disappeared into the trees and the burn in Luke’s leg vanished. The flames of both fires snuffed out, leaving only smoke, a damaged studio, and a seriously barbecued rental car.

  Luke pushed himself to his feet. “Holy shit. What just happened?”

  “He finished.” Stefan’s arms fell and his shoulders relaxed, the portrait dangling from one hand. “They both did.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Considering the shambles of the studio, Stefan’s delighted laughter was inappropriate, but so what? He’d done it. He’d painted again without performance-enhancing spirits—alcoholic or ectoplasmic. Not only that, but Luke was back and he’d seen the evidence Stefan hadn’t lied, not about anything.

  A deafening report stopped his laughter cold. God, had something exploded after all? He spun around, ears ringing, and dropped the portrait in the weeds.

  Luke lay on his side with a hand pressed to the outside of his thigh, lips drawn back in a rictus of pain, and Stefan’s euphoria vanished. Luke’s injuries. Shit, why hadn’t he remembered? “Luke, is it your hip? Let me help.” Stefan rushed toward him but wavered to a halt when Luke glared at him.

  “No,” he barked. “Get the hell away.”

  Stefan pressed his hand to his belly at the unexpected rejection. “But—”

  “Jesus, Stefan, for once will you do as you’re told? Get down!”

  From beyond the cabin, a figure emerged, long coat flapping in the rising wind. A pale ribbon of fabric detached from the figure’s neck and fluttered to the ground in a familiar twist of silk and fringe. Thomas. Stefan heaved a shaky sigh. No matter how shady Thomas’s business practices might be, he’d never failed to help.

  “Thomas,” Stefan called, his voice still rough with smoke. “Luke’s hurt. Can you give us a lift back to town?”

  Luke flopped onto his stomach. “Are you kidding me? This is Thomas Boardman? Jesus, I’ve been shot by Truman Capote in opera drag.”

  Stefan’s eyes widened and he lurched forward a step. “He shot you? Thomas?”

  “Check out your little friend’s big honking gun. Damn it.” Luke squinted at the dark blot on his sweatpants. “Asshole winged me.”

  “Thomas,” Stefan said, “it’s okay. This is my friend, Luke. He’s not here to hurt me.”

  Thomas stopped by the blackened hulk of Luke’s car, his pale eyes white in the moonlight. “Who cares about you? Where is he? My uncle?”

  Stefan jerked as if Thomas had shot him as well. He knew. He knew about the ghost. Shit, no wonder he’d been so careful to keep the Scotch fully stocked. He eased away from Luke, drawing Thomas’s focus. “He’s gone.”

  “Bring him back.” Thomas waved the gun at Luke. “I’ll shoot him again if you don’t.”

  “Why?” Stefan forced his tone to remain calm and reasonable.

  “They cheated my uncle out of his fame, his fortune. Our family honor.” Thomas dragged the sleeve of his duster across his nose and a trail of snot glistened on the black wool. “He’s a great painter. A giant among artists. He deserves to be a star.”

  Luke levered himself to his knees. “Except for one tiny detail. He’s dead.”

  Stefan took another sideways step. “He’s right, Thomas. Surfacing after so long, those forgeries will never stand up to scrutiny.”

  “They’re not forgeries,” Thomas shrieked. “Jeremiah Arcoletti painted them. Just because he used someone else’s hands�
�”

  Sirens see-sawed in the distance, emergency vehicles beginning the ascent up the mountain. Thomas flinched, raising his shoulders toward his ears as if to block the sound.

  “Fire lookouts must have seen the smoke, Thomas,” Stefan said. “The crew’ll be here any minute.”

  “Get a fucking grip, Boardman,” Luke said, pushing heavily to his feet. “It’s over.”

  Thomas’s gaze bounced back and forth between Luke and Stefan, his gun hand tracking a beat behind. “But my gallery. The exhibit. I can’t tell everyone I was a forger. I won’t.”

  He turned the gun toward his own temple and Luke lunged for him. The tackle took them both to the ground, and the gun went off.

  Stefan’s ears deadened as if stuffed with cotton. He ran to where Luke lay draped over Thomas’s twitching body. Something wet glistened against the navy of Luke’s pea coat. Christ. Please. Not blood. He touched the wetness and brought his finger to his nose.

  Oil paint. From the studio explosions. He closed his eyes and breathed again.

  Luke swore and pushed himself onto his haunches. “Ow. Jesus. Could this guy be any lumpier?” He held the gun in one hand, pointed away into the trees.

  “Is he…?” Dead stuck in Stefan’s throat.

  “No.” Luke packed a load of contempt into the word. “He’s not. He couldn’t even do that right. Second-rate, all the way to the end. Good thing, too. Imagine the horror if Boardman started haunting the place. Everyone within ten miles of the joint would be wearing ascots and drinking Campari on the rocks.”

  “Don’t joke, Luke.” Even if Thomas’s motives had been less than pure, he’d still rescued Stefan from the street and given him the means to paint again.

  “Why not?” Luke stood and nudged Thomas’s leg with his foot. “He was willing to sacrifice you to Arcoletti’s ghost in order to resuscitate his uncle’s reputation and have a nice little reception with white wine, free-range goat cheese, and undeserved reflected glory. He’s worse than Marius. At least Marius was a genuine snob. Thomas is a snob-wannabe.”

  Luke hobbled a few steps toward the cabin, set the gun on a flat-topped rock, and picked up Thomas’s scarf. “God, this color is so nellie.” Scowling, he wrapped the scarf around the oozing wound in his thigh. “I feel like a fricking fairy. If they ever let you out of an orange jumpsuit again, Boardman, stick to navy.”

  The emergency vehicles rolled into the clearing. The flashing red lights reflected in the studio windows and turned Thomas’s hair pink.

  Luke stumbled and Stefan caught him around the waist. Luke flinched away from the pressure on his bandaged back.

  “Yikes. Sorry.” Stefan shifted his grip. “Luke, you don’t have to be the tough guy. You’ve been skewered, shot, and nearly incinerated. Sit down and wait for the EMTs.”

  “Nah. I’m okay.” Luke’s leg buckled and he grabbed Stefan’s shoulders. “More or less.”

  Stefan laughed at the obvious lie. “You’re a mess, Morganstern. You need someone to take care of you.”

  “Maybe.” Luke grinned and tugged a lock of Stefan’s hair. “You volunteering?”

  “I might. Depends. Still think I’m a dream-slayer?”

  “Those old things? Who gives a shit about them? I’ve got new fantasies now. X-rated ones. You’re the star.”

  “Yeah? You planning to cop to the present-tense L-word, too?”

  Luke snorted. “Real men don’t use words. We beat our chests and prove ourselves with action.”

  “Like facing a pyromaniac ghost?”

  “Hell no. Any wuss could do that.” Luke pointed across the clearing. “I drove that fricking mountain road for you. In the dark. Fast.”

  “True love.” Stefan kept his tone light, but the look in Luke’s eyes was anything but teasing, and Stefan felt a spike of heat from his throat to his balls.

  “Damn straight,” Luke rumbled, hooking a finger in the leather cord around Stefan’s neck and pulling him forward.

  Luke’s kiss, in the smoking ruins of the clearing, with Thomas sniveling at their feet and firefighters advancing with intent, couldn’t have been more perfect.

  After he caught his breath, Stefan traced Luke’s jaw with his thumb. “So. What happens next?”

  Luke sighed and rested his hands on Stefan’s hips. “I can’t lie. It’s going to be messy. Ghostly possession doesn’t exactly fly in American jurisprudence. But you weren’t intending to defraud and Boardman falsified the provenance, not you.”

  “I still have a shit-ton of debt and zero money.”

  “But you’re painting again. You. Not some fricking ghost. Franklin’s commission and his recommendations will jump-start my business. We may both be singed, bloody, and bruised, but we’re not broken. Not anymore.” Luke stepped closer and framed Stefan’s face with both hands. “Come home with me, Stef. I’m through pretending I can find anyone to replace this original.”

  “I don’t know…that southern light. Just not the same.” But Stefan smiled and pulled Luke into a full body embrace. A kiss. Not gentle. Insistent. Possessive. Christ, the kind of possession he could live with. “But I’ll make do.”

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  Acknowledgments

  Endless thanks to the wonderful team at Entangled Publishing, especially ace editor Theresa Marie Cole for helping me beat this story into shape, and Morgan Maulden for meeting my new-author ignorance with grace and fortitude.

  Thanks also to Ravenne Law, E.W. Gibson, Lynda Aicher, and Anne Tenino for help and encouragement, and to Rose City Romance Writers for all the butt-kicking.

  About the Author

  E.J. Russell holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer and business intelligence consultant. She returned to her childhood love of writing fiction after her twin sons learned to drive and she no longer spent half her waking hours ferrying them to dance class.

  Her daily commute now consists of walking from one side of her office to the other — from left-brain day job to right-brain author cave — where she’s perfected the fine art of typing with a cat draped across her wrists and a dog attached to her hip.

  E.J. lives in rural Oregon with her husband, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.

  Find E.J. online at www.ejrussell.com.

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