Unquiet Spirits Read online

  Bart didn't acknowledge the sarcasm in his twin's voice.

  "Yeah," he snapped impatiently. "It's good to get home again."

  "Bart, settle down."

  Bart bristled but he knew he was overreacting and bit his tongue.

  "Kit told me to welcome you home and say she'd see you when she got back from the resort. She's in good shape," Bret assured him more gently.

  His brother's blue eyes darkened in sympathy. They hadn't discussed the obvious change in his relationship with Kit, but he didn't have a hope of hiding anything that important from his twin.

  "Her injuries are healed," Bret went on, "and her frame of mind is much healthier too. She's finally putting the mess with Ronald behind her and is attempting to get on with her life. Told us she'd had enough coddling."

  "That could be. But I need to see Kit for myself."

  During the months while he'd danced delicate circles around "neutral" diplomats and played the idle rich fool for them, Bart had been going nuts with worry about her. But he couldn't leave until he got the response the American government wanted from the foreign officials they couldn't contact openly.

  "Do the police or your people have any kind of a line on the guy was who tried to run her down?"

  "Nothing. The police finally filed it as a 'random violent incident.' Whatever that means. Trust me, I've questioned everyone I can think of who could possibly have a motive. Gordon was a big help. He and I went over employment records at Schofield's going back five years. No disgruntled employees who might have seen themselves as passed over for promotions, nobody laid off, fired... Nothing."

  Bart nodded. Gordon Timbrill was the third of Kit's "almost-brothers"--courtesy of two of her mother's half dozen marriages. He could see why Bret trusted him. Gordon would never do anything to harm their golden little Kit.

  "And Kit had her lawyer go over the details of her will with me. It's very straightforward. She's made sure Gordon will continue to run Schofield Pharmaceutical so that cuts him from a possible suspects list. He'd gain absolutely nothing from her death. The bulk of her money will go to the Schofield Foundation for a children's wing at the hospital her father supported. Apart from that there are few small legacies, you know the kind of thing--to her housekeeper, her handyman, et cetera.

  "Her only relatives are her aunt, Elsa, and her grandmother. Kit has left them each quite a substantial sum. And her shares in the lodge. I investigated them myself. They're comfortably off...no urgent need of funds there that I could find."

  "You can't be sure. There's an awful lot of money involved. What do you know about them? Kit never mentions having family."

  "When I asked Will if he'd met them while he was married to Laila, he told me all Laila told him was that she was seriously estranged from her family. Refused to talk about her relationship with her father. She left home when she was seventeen and returned only once while her father was alive and that was to buy the lodge next door to his property for her sister and stepmother to run."

  "I guess I'll have to ask Kit about them," Bart said, "when I catch up with her."

  "We weren't able to get Kit to speculate much about how anyone would benefit from her death. She refuses to admit it could be anyone she knows. I've had a man at the Schofield Foundation for days. He hasn't come across anything yet."

  "I guess you're doing what you can, but I'm not buying that random violence thing," Bart stated. The uneasiness he'd been feeling about Kit's safety was getting stronger by the minute. He needed to see her. "Damn. Why didn't she wait until I got home? You did tell her I was coming, didn't you?"

  "She said she needed to get away from all of us. Maybe you should let her do that."

  "Shit, Bret! She's in danger." And he had no intention of letting her run around loose, not while she was a target.

  "It's been seven months since the hit-and-run. If it was a serious attempt on her life, wouldn't you expect there would've been at least some kind of threat? But not a whisper from anyone. I've had a couple of good men from Greco Associates keeping an eye on her and they're sure no one's following her or sniffing around here."

  His twin had a point, but Bart couldn't shake off the bad feeling he'd had since he'd heard Kit was en route to Muskoka alone. "She's been safe staying with you and Milly. But right now she's out from under the wing of Greco Associates."

  A horrible thought struck him. "She's not driving alone all the way from Florida to central Ontario, is she?"

  "She decided against that. She flew from Miami to Toronto. She's having a car delivered to the hotel tomorrow and driving north from there. It's only about a three-hour drive."

  "When did she leave?"

  "Yesterday afternoon."

  "And she gets the car tomorrow? That means that right this minute she's on her own in a strange city."

  "Take it easy. She checked in with Milly first thing this morning. She's doing some shopping this afternoon, then, tonight, she's taking in a musical she's wanted to see. She'll take delivery of her car and head up to Spirit Lake sometime tomorrow."

  "Good thing I haven't unpacked. I can leave right away. Where's she staying?"

  "Milly will know," Bret said.

  Milly did.

  Bart phoned Toronto, discovered that Kit was indeed registered at the mid-town luxury hotel, booked a suite for himself on the same floor and headed for the airport. There was no point in warning Kit he was coming. She'd only tell him to stay away. And he wasn't about to do that.

  Chapter Three

  "Yes!" Kit beamed at her afternoon's purchases. Two sets of sweats, one scarlet, one turquoise; several cashmere pullovers; hiking boots and wool socks; a shiny blue raincoat; black denim pants; and a leather jacket with a detachable faux-fur lining. She ran her fingers over the two wonderful coy, kitten-soft flannelette nightgowns. Not one sexy provocative item among them, she thought with satisfaction. Step one in pleasing no one but herself.

  It might seem silly to be buying these warm clothes after strolling around the elegant Yorkville mews in eighty-degree weather today. The little gardens were a riot of color. It could have been midsummer. However, she remembered finding the cabins at Spirit Lake Resort a little chilly after sunset and in the early mornings. She was looking forward to spending those cool nights in her flannel gown alone under a down-filled duvet.

  She'd been enjoying little flashes of memory of her one real visit there.

  Laila laughing as they paddled a canoe in the morning mists; Johanna, a tall, dynamic blonde Viking of a woman giving her a fierce welcoming hug; Aunt Elsa, healthily pretty in the background. And Raoul, Elsa's fiancé, with the snapping black laughing eyes.

  Kit smiled at the memory of her first overwhelming crush. Raoul was a musician, he was gorgeous, he was funny, he had a delicious French-Canadian accent! And, amazingly, even though her glamorous mother was always with them, he still paid attention to Kit. She had spent the whole two weeks blushing at his outrageous compliments and teasing.

  She later heard that he'd left the area without marrying Elsa and she wondered idly if he had ever returned. She'd bet that those dark eyes still had plenty of the devil in them even in his sixties. She'd like to see him again, she mused.

  But right now she'd better stop daydreaming and get something to eat before she left for the theater. The musical was reputed to guarantee lots of laughs and had a feel-good ending. Another bonus was that it featured songs Kit remembered from her pre-teen days.

  The show lived up to its billing. On the way back to the hotel in the back seat of the cab, Kit hummed the familiar melody of "Dancing Queen." Now that brought back good memories. She remembered a wonderful ski holiday with Uncle Will and the boys. Laila's two-year marriage to Will had ended when Kit was seven, but afterward she'd spent more holidays with the Thorntons than she had with Laila. She'd been an adoring twelve-year-old when sixteen-year-old Bart and Bret had taught her to dance to the driving strains of "Dancing Queen."

  She was still smiling at the
memory when the cab pulled up in front of the hotel. After paying the driver, she allowed the affable uniformed doorman to open the car door.

  She smiled back at him. "Thank you, Winston." The elderly man had given her helpful directions for her shopping trip this afternoon and had told her his name when she'd tipped him.

  She was stepping onto the flagstones of the entranceway as she exited the cab when her high heel caught on the edge of a stone. She lost her balance and was halfway to the ground when Winston caught her.

  A loud crack like a car backfiring on the street a few feet away startled her. Before she could twist around to discover the source of the noise, the doorman shoved her down onto the cold damp flagstones. As he did, there was a second sharp explosion. He flinched, then collapsed on top of her.

  "Stay down," he said when she tried to get up. "Someone's shooting."

  "Don't be..." she began but stopped when she saw the blood. His top hat had been knocked off and she could see blood in his white hair. It was dripping down the side of his face into his jaunty goatee.

  "Oh, no!" she cried. "Somebody help him."

  "I'm all right, miss," he mumbled.

  "The shooter's car's gone," a wonderfully familiar, deep male voice said. Someone lifted the doorman off her and strong arms lifted her gently to her feet.

  "My God, Kittle, you're covered in blood."

  That handsome, anxious face was the most wonderful sight she could imagine.

  "Bart?" she cried as she threw her arms around him. Had she lost her mind? He couldn't be here. His fierce hug reassured her that he was. "I wasn't hit. The doorman..."

  "Got to get you inside," he muttered as he put one arm around her waist to half-support, half-carry her into the hotel. Over his shoulder, he called to the cab driver who was hovering over the injured doorman, "I'll be right back."

  Once they were in the lobby, away from the windows that overlooked the brightly lit circular driveway, Bart held her at arm's length. His intense blue eyes quickly traveled over her body. "You're sure you're not hurt?"

  "I'm sure." Her knees hurt and her hands were scraped but that was nothing. Bart was here!

  He set her in one of the big easy chairs that were placed in scattered conversation groups around the huge carpeted room.

  "Don't move a muscle. I'll be right back," he called over his shoulder as he headed back to the front doors. "Just going to check on the doorman."

  Bart's heart was pounding as if he'd run five miles with a heavy pack. The smears of blood on Kit's cheek and on the shoulder of the jacket of her red leather pantsuit had thrown him for a loop. He could have lost her. The near miss made him even more determined. From now on she was going to be wearing him like a second skin. At least until they caught the scum who was trying to kill her. Lord! He'd almost succeeded this time!

  By the time Bart got outside, the doorman was on his feet and surrounded by cab drivers from the taxi rack. A police car with flashing lights and siren was screaming to a stop in front of the anxious crowd.

  From the looks of the men intent on explaining what had taken place, Kit could give her report to the police when they had finished with the other witnesses to the shooting. Bart spun on his heel and strode back to her.

  "Come on, Kit," he said, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. "Let's get up to your room. We need to talk. The police can find us there."

  "Is Winston all right?"

  "The doorman? He's on his feet. A little wobbly, but he's damned lucky to be alive." It went without saying that so was Kit. "Looks as if the bullet just nicked him. Let's get out of here before the police find us or we'll be tied up for hours."

  As he might have expected, she dug in her heels. "Bart, I'm a witness. I have to talk to them."

  "Can you identify the shooter? Or the car?"

  She shook her head.

  "You can talk to them later. I'll tell whoever's in charge of the reception desk that we'll be in your room." She opened her mouth to speak but he carried on. "Because you're too shaken up to wait down here."

  That must have been the truth because his spunky Kittle accompanied him without further protest. He kept a firm grip on her hand. The connection and the warmth of her slender fingers in his reaffirmed that she was alive. And he was going to keep her that way.

  On the long elevator ride to the twenty-second floor, he drank in the sight of her. Lord, she was beautiful! How could he have been immune to that face and that body for all those years?

  Her pale blonde hair was longer than it had been seven months ago, wisps escaping from the long thick French braid that hung down her back. She was thinner, too. That made her lovely cheekbones more prominent, her heavily lashed blue eyes look even larger. He tore his eyes away from her too-tempting, generous mouth that was made for laughing... and for kissing.

  His glance skimmed the curves of her breasts, her waist, her hips. That was even worse. He switched his gaze to the numbers above the elevator doors. That was safer. But he still gripped her hand. And she let him.

  "How did you happen to be there right when I needed you?" she asked as she took her hand away to unlock the door to her suite. Her husky voice was a little shaky and her hands trembled slightly as she slid the plastic card into the lock slot.

  He could tell she needed to be held but he hesitated to take her in his arms. They'd agreed.

  "You told Milly and I called your grandmother at Spirit Lake to double check your plans. She confirmed you were going to see a show tonight and drive up to the lodge as soon as you took delivery of the SUV tomorrow. The concierge told me which show he'd recommended and when you'd be expected back. I was sitting in an armchair with a view of the circular drive when I heard the shot," he reported. "What I'd like to know is how the guy with the gun happened to be there at the right time."

  Kit took off her bloodstained jacket, threw it on a large striped couch and turned to face him. The strain on her face and the yearning in her eyes snapped his control.

  "Oh, Kittle," he breathed, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him. "I can't help it. I need to hold you."

  The fierce strength with which she gripped him back showed how much she needed to be held. Holding his gaze almost defiantly, she raised her slightly parted lips to be kissed.

  Bart told himself she should be treated gently, tenderly, after what she'd been through, but he could not stem his ferocious hunger for her. For months he had ached for her touch. He needed to taste her, to plunder every recess of her mouth. He'd waited too long to stroke and kiss every inch of her little sexy body.

  The first touch of their mouths ignited a blaze that flared out of control.

  Kit's fingers rammed deep into his hair and held his head while her tongue stabbed and stroked and mated with his. Lips and teeth nibbled at lips and tongues in a frenzy of need.

  Bart cursed the difference in their height as he bent over her and ran his palms up and down her back. Finally, he could not stand the distance between their bodies any longer.

  "Dammit, Kit! I feel like a Great Dane trying to make out with a flea!"

  He grasped her buttocks and lifted her against him.

  "You silver-tongued devil! A flea!" She laughed and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  "How's that for a cooperative flea?" she said as she nibbled on his ear.

  Bart's erection was instant and total.

  Kit could feel his hardened penis against her sensitized mound. The pressure against the tiny bud inside made her wriggle against him. She had wanted Bart like this forever.

  "Stop wriggling or it's all over."

  Bart slipped his arms under her buttocks and began to carry her toward the bedroom. With a joyful laugh, she toed off her shoes and let them fall to the floor. Almost dizzy with happiness, she frantically began to unbutton his shirt and press nibbling kisses on his neck and chest. She had despaired of ever being with Bart like this!

  The laughter died in her throat.

  She
couldn't let this happen. Every cell in her body craved fulfillment but she wouldn't be able to live with the guilt if they made love. Her conscience struggled with her body and won the gargantuan battle by a hair.

  When Bart felt her body stiffen, he stopped in his tracks. Kit raised her head as she flattened her hands against his chest to push him away slightly. Her eyes, slightly unfocused and smoky with passion, were full of regret.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. There was a terrible depth of despair in her voice. "We can't, Bart."

  He gripped her even more tightly against him for a few seconds.

  "I wanted you to be my brother for so long." Her blue eyes searched his, clearly desperate for understanding. "In my mind, you were. It doesn't make sense, but no matter how much I want to make love with you, I can't do it."

  He took a long shuddering breath.

  "If that's what you believe, Kit, I'll go along with you," he rasped. "Just give me a minute and I'll put you down."

  He leaned against the doorframe with Kit still wrapped around him, squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on stepping back from the brink. Kit wanted him. His body ached for her. It wouldn't be impossible to coax her to make love tonight, but she would regret it. And he wanted more than one night with her. The long separation had taught him she belonged in his life. It wouldn't be easy but he could wait until she realized they were meant to be together.

  Finally he made himself put her down.

  The dazed, unhappy expression in her eyes was almost more than he could bear.

  "Stay here. I'll just be out in the hall," he bit out. And, mentally cursing his lack of judgment, and his unbelievably adolescent lack of control, he grabbed the room key off the table where Kit had tossed it and made his escape to cool off.

  Damn it. He'd promised himself he would move slowly. He'd known it would take more than a spectacular bout of lovemaking to make Kit realize that there was really no reason to feel guilty about wanting each other. Because this was about more than simply satisfying an urge. The long months he had spent apart from her had taught him that much. What he felt for Kit was much more complicated than that.