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| Sweeter Than Wine |
A phantom lover might be just what Marie needs. After a year and a half of widowhood, she’s ready to move on with her life. She’s also looking for ways to increase the profits of her struggling bed-and-breakfast.
Gordon MacBain, the lusty ghost of a Revolutionary War smuggler turned gentleman landowner, atones for his youthful transgressions by lavishing erotic pleasure on women who sleep in the room he haunts. But his night of passion with Marie surpasses all others, leaving them both yearning for more… One problem -- Gordon is trapped with his wife's ghost in the room where she killed him. An Excerpt From: SWEETER THAN WINE Copyright © MARGARET L. CARTER, 2009 All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc. What
she needed right now was a snack, not a fantasy lover. She chose a peach
from the fruit basket and started to peel it with a paring knife. “You can
be my inspiration, Mr. MacBain,” she said to the portrait. If the son of
Scottish immigrants could transform himself into a rich landowner, surely
she could transform herself into the hostess of a flourishing historic inn.
Too bad she couldn’t find the hidden stash of the smuggler’s lost treasure,
which tradition claimed was hidden somewhere in the A
masculine chuckle sounded in her ear. At the same instant, a gust of wind
ruffled her shoulder-length hair and blew her denim skirt up to her waist. The
knife in her hand slipped and nicked her left index finger. Blood dripped
on the brick hearth at her feet. With a muttered curse, she sucked the
wound. She’d either picked up a stray sound from outside or started hearing
imaginary voices. And where had the wind come from? The half-open window
let in the mild air of a late afternoon in September but no breeze stirred
the lightweight, ruffled curtains. Shaking
her head, she set aside the knife and fruit then took the wineglass from
the mantel in both hands. The cut on her finger smeared a drop of blood on
the rim. Before she could raise the glass to her lips, something pinched
her bottom. With a
yelp, she spun around. Nobody there. At the same instant, the goblet
slipped from her hand. Instead
of hitting the floor, it hung suspended in midair. “Okay,
no reason to freak out. This is a dream. I must have lain down and dozed
off.” She glanced at the canopied bed, half expecting to see herself asleep
on top of the quilt. She
scented a vagrant aroma of pipe tobacco. “Nay, Mistress, you are awake.” The
rich bass voice, tinged with humor, vibrated under her breastbone. The
glass tilted and the ruby wine began to drain into nothingness. Marie
backed away, her mouth gaping in astonishment. The deadbolt on the door
clicked into the locked position while the curtains closed themselves. The
glass floated to the mantel and rested there. “Other women don’t hear my voice or feel my touch when they’re awake. I wonder why you’re different.” |
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