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 Memory
Whispers
by Angel Smits
Imajinn Books
ISBN: 0975965336
Recurring, sensual dreams haunt Faith McCoy.
The daughter of a minister, she’s uncomfortable with the sexy images. While
on a trip to the colorful gambling town of Cripple Creek, Colorado, she
is shocked and frightened to find not only the room in her dreams, but
the man whose touch haunts and excites her. She might consider a modern-day
relationship if it weren’t for the fact that the room—and her dream—are
set in a former brothel.
Casino owner, Cord Burke has his own dreams
of the beautiful woman who seduces him. He never expected her to be real,
but when he meets Faith, he’s drawn to her and the past that seems to threaten
her. He refuses, however, to be drawn to the forevers and promises she
represents. He’s been burned too many times in life to consider settling
down.
Suspecting that they may have lived
and loved in a prior life, they face the ghost of an old enemy. But how can they
beat a ghost who has no fear—not even of death . .
Chapter One
Cripple Creek, Colorado
Faith McCoy stared at Bennett Avenue
from the museum window. It hardly seemed possible she was finally here
in Cripple Creek, a town with a history as colorful as the aspen groves
that blanketed the surrounding mountains. Below, the wide street was uneven
in places. The sidewalks ran at awkward angles much as they must have a
hundred years ago. She felt the pull of history, as if she had stepped
backward in time.
Thanks to the legalization of gambling, the old buildings that a few years
ago had fallen empty and to ruin, were now refurbished and reflected the
grandeur of the late eighteen nineties. The spirit of the past mingled
with the reality of the present and casinos and businesses crowded the
street.
The view soothed her. Beautiful buildings like these were the reason she
was here. She’d come to capture the history through her camera lens. From
the time she’d first heard about this project she knew she wanted to be
a part of it. The buildings provided a new subject for her, and they played
into her personal fascination with the past. Hopefully she’d put together
a photography collection that would benefit both the Colorado Historical
Association as well as her own pathetic bank account.
It was a good town. Solid, with roots. And yet there was something about
it. Something that made her feel comfortable and reluctant to return to
her house in Boulder. She’d never called any one place home—her father’s
church work kept the family moving too often for that—but there was an
undeniable familiarity to Cripple Creek.
The only major problem she had was the dreams, and they were nothing new.
They just seemed more frequent lately.
"If you’ll follow me."
The tour guide’s voice broke into Faith’s thoughts and she turned away
from the window. Single file, the small group made their way down the narrow
hall. The air, already stifling in the close space, grew thicker and Faith
dabbed at the perspiration on her brow.
When the guide turned a corner and stopped, Faith could only stare at the
door. Shock snapped through her like lightning, leaving nothing of her
emotions but charred remains.
Only this time she was awake.
It was the same door, the door in the dream that haunted her night after
night. But it couldn’t be. That was just a dream...wasn’t it?
She reached out tentatively and grasped the antique doorknob. Fear dampened
her palms with perspiration as she turned the time-smoothed metal. The
door didn’t budge. The lock held solid.
"I’m sorry, Miss. That room isn’t part of the tour."
Faith didn’t answer. The guide’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.
"Miss?" The older woman’s voice rose in concern as she tapped Faith’s arm.
"Are you all right?"
Faith forced her mind back to reality, and she focused on the antique décor
of the museum that had once been a brothel. "I...I’m fine." Chills rocked
through her as she turned to the guide. "Why isn’t this room part of the
tour? What’s in there?"
A flash of uncertainty and mischief sparked in the older woman’s eyes.
"Perhaps not what’s in there, but what was done there. It was the observation
room," she whispered loud enough for only Faith to hear.
"The what?" Faith whispered back. Her research had referred to such things,
but she’d never actually seen one before.
"An observation room." Several other members of the tour moved closer,
and the guide shrugged as if in defeat. "One of the girls would go inside,
and the gentleman interested in purchasing her for the evening stood outside
here."
The guide pushed aside a fabric wall hanging to expose a glass window between
the two rooms, which had been painted over from the inside. "The girl disrobed,
so he could see what he was buying." She released the wall hanging, and
it swished back into place, hiding the window once again. "The corset was
a very deceiving device, hiding flaws such as a few extra pounds or too
small a bust line," she explained.
Faith shivered. Revulsion slid through her, and she saw similar emotions
mirrored on the faces of the others. How could a woman degrade herself
like that? A warm flush spread across her cheeks as she recalled her own
dreams—or rather nightmares —which frequently included such things as disrobing
before a stranger. Her cheeks warmed, and she avoided the others’ gazes.
The tour group moved on, but Faith lingered. Images flashed through her
mind. Familiar images. Images she’d spent years denying.
A sudden need to find the setting she saw in the shadows of her mind grew.
Would seeing the room banish the dreams? Her hopes rose, but she quickly
squelched them. Nothing else had worked. Yet she wanted—she needed—to know
more.
She ached to shake the old door until it fell from its hinges. It looked
fragile enough. Glancing at the guide’s retreating back, Faith pushed on
the handle again. The lock remained solidly in place. The group turned
the corner, and Faith stood there, the air around her growing heavy and
warm with her uncertainty.
She reached into her oversized purse and pulled out a credit card. She’d
locked herself out too many times, she decided, as the idea came so easily.
Carefully, to avoid damaging the old lock, she slid the card along the
frame. A familiar, soft click signaled her success. She’d just peek, just
for a second. She had to know if the room inside would match her dreams.
She heard the group head downstairs, and the guide launched into an impassioned
speech about how the museum depended on the donations of kind patrons to
continue operation. Using the sounds of the woman’s voice and the group’s
footsteps to conceal her actions, Faith pushed the door open. The seldom-used
hinges squealed in protest. She quickly slipped inside and closed the door.
She leaned against the wood and gulped in several breaths, fighting to
calm her racing heart. Dank, musty air clogged her lungs, and she muffled
a reflexive cough with her hand.
Dingy light seeped through the thin layer of paint covering the window.
Where she had shivered before, she now trembled.
It was the room in her dreams. A room she had never seen in reality before
today. The objects were eerily familiar, though they seemed older and were
covered in dust.
A tall, wood-framed mirror stood in one corner, its surface surreal through
a coat of grime. Beside the mirror sat a tattered fainting couch. Boxes
of old papers covered the faded maroon horsehair. Dust cloaked everything.
In the opposite corner sat a trunk. Earlier, the guide had explained how
all the girls who had worked the line owned them. It made movement from
place to place quick and easy. Inside would be all that was left of some
girl’s life before she turned out.
She eyed the trunk’s brass fittings. Who’d left this trunk here? Had she
been one of the girls who had died here, as the tour guide had mentioned
earlier? Was there even anything inside? At the thought, images from her
dream flashed through her mind.
A blue dress.
A jeweled comb.
Slowly, she stepped forward to the trunk, leaving telltale footprints in
the thick dust. She knelt down. Dare she open it?
She’d heard the tales of the soiled doves who had lived in this house nearly
a hundred years before. She had cringed as the guide explained about each
piece of furniture. The antiques were appealing, but what about the people
who had spent their lives lounging on them? Were their stories left out
on purpose or by accident?
Either way, the rehearsed script seemed so distant, so impersonal, as Faith
knelt before the remnants of one of those lives. No one would know if she
took a little peek. Feeling only a slight twinge of guilt, she reached
out.
The gentle snap of the latch seemed loud in the tiny room. She froze, waiting
to see if anyone came to stop her. No one did, and she pushed up the heavy
lid. The cloying scent of ancient mothballs nearly overpowered her.
A gauzy piece of old tissue covered the contents of the trunk. She lifted
the paper. Her heart stopped and then pounded against her ribcage. A royal
blue gown lay gracefully folded on top. Its bead and crystal bodice winked
in the faded light.
Just like the one she wore in her endless dreams.
With growing trepidation, she caressed the soft fabric. The hard beads
slid beneath her fingertips.
So beautiful. So familiar. Suddenly, the world that had haunted her dreams
for more nights then she cared to count flashed before her. She trembled
as the dream played out once again.
She stood facing the mirror. The warm velvet of the dress felt heavy and
confining against her body and swept the floor. A long train weighed down
the back and flowed behind her as she moved.
The full-length mirror reflected a lovely creature. Long curls that normally
fell past her waist were piled on top of her head. A jewel-encrusted comb
held her hair in place, allowing a few strands to fall against her cheeks,
as if to encourage a masculine hand to brush them away.
Large leg-o-mutton sleeves helped accentuate the tiny waist that could
only be the result of a well-cinched corset. A blush crept over her cheeks
as she noticed how she filled and nearly overflowed the low neckline.
The vivid blue of the dress accented the creamy whiteness of her skin,
the copper of her hair and the hazel-green of her eyes. She looked the
same, yet the reflection was different. The eyes staring back at her were
different—lifeless.
Something moved behind her, and she watched a man appear in the observation
window. Shadows and wavy glass distorted his face, denying her a clear
view. Dark hair and a mustache dominated his features. Broad shoulders
filled his tailored jacket, and a proper white shirt barely disguised the
muscles of his chest.
With a deep intake of breath, she stopped her visual journey. Attraction
was not important here. He was a client and nothing more. A rich client.
He had to be to get past the front door.
In one hand he held a crystal tumbler half full of amber liquor. From here
she couldn’t tell what it was, but Madame kept nothing but the best. Between
the fingers of his other hand rested a thin cigar. He lifted it to his
lips and blew two perfect smoke rings into the air. A wicked smile formed
on his lips, and she shivered.
Fear warned her that this man had the power to break her.
His gaze devoured her with its implied touch. Hot fire roared in her bloodstream,
and she swallowed hard to relieve the pressure. It did little good.
Surprised at the strength of her reactions, her hand flew to her throat.
A cameo brooch hung from a blue ribbon. In fascination, she watched the
woman in the mirror unpin the brooch. Her own hand mimicked the gesture.
The man stood perfectly still, watching her every move through the window.
Her gaze riveted to his reflection, and a new kind of shiver took hold.
The room warmed along with her blood.
She reached behind her back and released the row of pearl buttons running
the length of the dress one by one. Cool evening air brushed her heated
skin as she shrugged the gown off her shoulders.
The rich fabric rustled as it slid over her full breasts, tiny waist and
hips. She bent over, giving him a silhouetted view. Slowly, she stepped
out of the puddled garment. The tap of her high heels on the floor shattered
the tension of the air. She knew he heard nothing.
Carefully, she lifted the dress over her arm. With slow, deliberate steps,
she walked to the couch and draped the gown across the back.
A straight wooden chair sat next to the couch, and she lifted her foot
to the seat. She unhooked her shoe and slid it off, then removed the other.
The black silk stockings caressed her skin, and she slid one finger beneath
the garter. She unhooked the stocking and the fabric whispered down her
leg. Daring to steal a glance at him, she felt the fire in his eyes, and
she removed the other stocking with the same slow, enticing pace. Never
once did she break eye contact.
Her breath caught in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the confines
of the corset or the passion emanating from him. She tore her gaze from
his and unlaced the corset. It felt so good to be free and unbound even
though her ribs ached. Rolling the fabric and whalebone, she slid it into
the decorated bag lying on the couch.
She turned to face him then, with only her chemise covering her. Deliberately,
slowly, she pulled the jeweled comb from her hair. The heavy copper curls
cascaded down, caressing her skin as they fell.
He took a deep swallow of his drink. The lamplight gleamed on his brow,
and her gaze traveled the sharp curve of his cheek, resting at last on
his mouth. She imagined his taste. Whiskey and man.
Gathering the hem of her chemise, she pulled the garment up and over her
head. As she stretched her arms upward, to escape the last of the cloth,
she saw him gulp the remainder of his drink.
She stood there totally nude. Longing seized her body. She wanted his hands—the
fingers clasping that tumbler so tightly it threatened to shatter—to touch
her instead. Suddenly, she knew she’d felt their touch before.
He nodded. A key scraped in the lock. The door swung open. She stood there
facing the man without the barrier of the window glass between them.
His shoulders filled the doorway, and the anger in his eyes struck terror
in her heart. She clasped her arms self-consciously over her chest, wanting
to scurry into hiding. Pride made her stay. She met his gaze with a defiant
lift of her chin.
The words falling from his lips rocked the world’s foundations. "So, this
is what you’ve become...wife."
Faith jumped. The trunk lid slammed down and caught her finger. She yelped
and then clamped her jaw shut, suffering the pain in silence.
The dream faded, and the dusty surroundings came back into focus. She closed
her eyes, shutting out the all-too-familiar room. She crossed her arms
over her chest, hugging herself, hoping to ease the familiar empty ache
the dream always left behind. The ache that magnified the hollowness in
her chest and the cold that settled around her heart.
He’d never spoken before. This time he’d left words, but where had they
come from? Her imagination? Always before he came to her, then vanished,
leaving nothing but emptiness in his wake.
She blinked the tears from her eyes. He’d made her cry too many times.
She heard the sound of voices. The tour group? How long had she been here?
Rising unsteadily to her feet, she backed up until she bumped against the
closed door.
She scanned the room again. Nothing had changed in the last five minutes,
so why did she feel different? She looked back at the trunk. What else
was in there? Should she look at the rest of the contents? Or should she
run away from the images and their accompanying emotions? The latter won
out.
Afraid of answers to her own questions, she turned to escape.
"Why, you silly fool." A soft, feminine voice echoed in the room.
"Hello?" Faith hadn’t heard footsteps, and she didn’t see anyone.
A giggle slid through the cloying air. Wrenching the door open, she rushed
out into the hall, nearly toppling a hat rack sitting outside the door.
The hair at the back of her neck stood on end. Chills ran through her.
Get out, her mind screamed. Leave this place and never come back. She wanted
to. Really wanted to. But she knew she couldn’t really leave it all behind.
The room and the man would follow in her dreams. Turning, she ran down
the stairs, uncaring that her steps might be heard. As she flew toward
the front door, she noticed the tour guide standing in the hall talking
with a tall black man.
"Upstairs," a woman’s voice said, a voice that wasn’t the tour guide’s.
"No," Faith cried.
"What, dear?" The woman looked at her.
"N...nothing. I’m sorry."
"Come on up and see me."
Faith tore open the entry door and ran from the house. The giggle she had
heard upstairs rang in her head. Her breath ripped through her lungs, and
her heart slammed against her ribs. At the corner, she stopped and looked
back at the house.
It stood as stately and elegant as when she’d entered. The soaring turret,
wide verandah and carved gingerbread spoke of a time long past. Dove gray
paint added a haughty air, which the peach trim only slightly muted.
Leaning back against a worn brick wall, she closed her eyes and tried to
catch her breath. Madness. The dream had sent her near the edge many times.
Night after night she awakened, sweating and aching from the potency of
the images. Now, the images threatened her waking sanity. She had to fight,
but fight what?
The rough brick of the old building bit into her back. She whispered a
brief thanks for the slight discomfort. It meant she was awake. Still sane.
She concentrated on her breathing. In. Out. Slowly. The air’s sweet scents
reminded her she was high in the Rocky Mountains. Her equilibrium returned,
and Faith gave in to it.
Opening her eyes, she grasped for the reality around her. The familiar
sights of Cripple Creek settled into focus.
Maybe she was just tired. Disrupted sleep and sixteen-hour days could do
that. That’s why she’d hallucinated back there. Relieved that she’d found
a reasonable explanation, she took several more calming breaths. With her
confidence firmly back in place, she stepped away from the wall and out
onto the sidewalk. As the sun slipped behind the surrounding tall peaks,
lights came on in the tiny mountain town.
She turned to look back at the museum again. Suddenly, in one of the house’s
upper turret windows, a young girl pulled the curtains away from the glass.
But there hadn’t been anyone upstairs, Faith was sure of it.
Even from this distance, she felt the intensity of the girl’s stare, sensed
her animosity. Through the old distorted glass she saw the girl’s long,
black hair hanging in ringlets past her bare shoulders.
A shiver of foreboding snaked up Faith’s spine as the girl tipped her head
back and laughed.
***
The dream faded. This
time the man slipped away without speaking.
"Come back," she whispered, but he didn’t hear her. The blackness engulfed
him and startled her awake.
Abruptly, Faith sat up in bed. The springs of the hotel’s antique brass
bed squeaked.
Her heart pounded in her chest and echoed
in her brain. The dream. Damn the dream. She tried to calm her heart’s
racing beat by focusing on the ordinary room, on the here and now. She
closed her eyes only to see him behind her eyelids. She snapped them open
again, anything to chase him away.
Why had the man faded before he spoke? The words he’d said in the observation
room only a few short hours ago echoed in her mind. They seemed more real
to her than the rest of the dream ever had.
Voices startled her, and she nearly laughed
out loud with relief when she realized they weren’t disembodied. These
were real and coming from outside.
She climbed out of bed to close the wood-framed window. Cool mountain air,
heavy with the scent of pine, slipped inside the room. She breathed deeply
and fought to slow her thoughts and cool her body.
Frustrated with the dream and her reactions, she stared at the alley below.
In the moonlight she made out the silhouettes of two men walking through
the night.
They were trying to walk anyway. From the zigzag pattern of their path,
she realized it was more like one held up the other. The sound of booted
feet against the crumbling cobblestones resounded off the surrounding high
walls.
Like many of the other old buildings, the hotel’s original owner had put
much effort into the front and neglected the other three sides. Black lattice
fire escapes wove back and forth up the brick walls on each side of the
dimly lit alley.
"When are you going to learn?" One man’s deep voice broke the night and
throbbed in her chest like the bass drum of a passing parade band.
"Hell, learn what? How to punch an idiot harder?"
Faith recognized the voice despite the fact that it was muffled. A security
guard at one of the casinos, the Double Barrel Saloon, Johnny Harper was
a big bear of a man who’d given her directions the first time she’d visited
Cripple Creek. He never hesitated to greet her when they met on the street.
His gap-toothed grin and size reminded her of a bedraggled teddy bear.
"Come on, man. I may not always be around to bail your butt out of trouble.
What are you going to do then?"
"Hell, I don’t know. Find a new friend?" Howling laughter climbed up into
the night air, and Johnny doubled over as glee overtook him.
"You know damned well no one else would put up with your behavior." The
man with the sober, sexy voice chastised Johnny. Could this be the boss
and friend Johnny’d mentioned? Curious, she leaned a little closer to the
window.
Together, the two men stumbled toward the bright halo of the old-fashioned
street lamp. She caught a glimpse of the man whose voice seemed to echo
the beat of her heart. Johnny stopped and sank to the curb as the other
man leaned against the lamppost.
He reached into the pocket of his T-shirt
and extracted a slim cigar, which he slipped between his lips. The scraping
sound of a struck match broke the silence of the alley.
For an instant, flickering flame illuminated his features. Faith gasped.
She swallowed the scream bubbling in her throat and ducked back behind
the curtains. His head snapped up as the muffled sound seemed to reach
his ears. Shadowed eyes stared up into the darkness, and the dream suddenly
seemed too real. He seemed too real.
She covered her heated cheeks with her hands as if he could see her and
tell what she was thinking. The dream returned to taunt her, and the questions
she’d asked herself a million times ran through her mind. Where had the
dream come from? Why did she know what it felt like to slowly peel away
her clothes? She’d never stripped for a man. Sure, she’d had several relationships.
A couple had been serious enough to make her think of wedding bells, but
never had they progressed to the dream’s level of sensual intimacy.
Yet, she knew it all. Knew how it felt to have a man’s gaze roam over her
body. Knew the heat that crept into her bloodstream and tingled under her
skin.
And knew this man’s face.
But that couldn’t be. The emotions she could blame on reading too many
romance novels...but his face? It was a coincidence. Or maybe it was simply
that she had seen him before and superimposed his features on the man in
her dream. He was handsome enough to catch any woman’s eye. And she wasn’t
immune.
Relief washed over her at the realization. That was it. This man looked
similar, yes, but there were differences, like the fact that he didn’t
wear a thick, dark mustache.
She slipped further into the shadows. Her eyes drank in every inch of him,
her imagination filling in the details the shadows hid from her eyes. He
was tall, well over Johnny’s six feet. The breadth of his shoulders pulled
his T-shirt tight over the muscles of his upper arms.
Moonlight and the distorting glow of the streetlight
didn’t allow her to see the true color of his hair, but she knew the thick
dark curls were brown and soft to the touch. She almost felt the smooth,
high cheekbones and even planes of his face. The rough texture of his whiskers
would tickle the sensitive tips of her fingers.
She tore her mind from that dangerous path. Stop. She wasn’t here for personal
reasons, she reminded herself. She was here to work, that was all.
She’d finished photographing all the buildings on the original subject
list. Tomorrow she’d head home. But what about the brothel? It wasn’t on
the original list—a fact she was sure her father had engineered. The historical
association might want the pictures, but Reverend McCoy would never allow
his daughter to visit a house of ill repute, even a defunct one. She figured
she’d never tell him about today’s visit.
Still, the building’s clean architectural
lines and Victorian air seemed to call to her. It was familiar. Like this
man? Like the voice upstairs?
She shivered at the memory. No, not like that. Different, as if something
from inside her reached out to it.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she continued to stare down at the men.
There were no answers in the darkness, just the dregs of her doubts and
dreams.
Time and reality faded away, and like a double exposure, she saw him in
a great black cape. He blew two perfect smoke rings into the air as he
stared up at her window. She blinked and the vision vanished, but the man
remained, as did a deep soul-scarring pain that vibrated across the cool
night and shivered through her heart.
Text Copyright 2004 by Angel Smits
To order a copy from Author, Author!
Bookstore, click here.
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