Phantom Lover

Chapter One-2

IAN STOOD NEAR THE kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest, watching as Paige went about making dinner—a green salad and cold, fried chicken. Pretty paltry fare, he mused, trying to recall the taste of chicken, or any other food for that matter, but came up blank. How he missed eating. Not that he needed to anymore, but even liver would taste good right about now—and remembered he'd hated the s**t.

He inhaled deeply, but chicken from the icebox and lettuce leaves didn't give off any appealing scent he could detect. Quickly finding himself disgruntled at Paige's poor excuse for a meal, he shifted mental gears and let another topic occupy his mind and time: Paige Stanfield.

He had read her name on a piece of mail sitting on the coffee table the other day. He liked her name. It was simple and unadorned, just as he found her to be. She wasn't really his type, though. The women he used to go out with spent as much time on their appearance as they did with him—a couple of hours. Any longer and he was bored, itching to move on.

He let his appreciative gaze roam over the woman two feet away and felt a familiar heat start to spread through him as he visually took her in. He guessed her to be about five-foot-seven, around his age, and maybe a hundred-and-thirty pounds—give or take. She always wore clothes two-sizes-too-big. He often found himself fantasizing about what she looked like beneath them.

In the two weeks she’d lived here, he had seen her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders on only two occasions. It had been early in the morning as she stumbled downstairs to make a pot of coffee. He'd caught himself observing her longer than usual those times—all sleep-warm and drowsy and sexy as sin. Those were the few brief moments, before the reality of her life set in, when Ian saw her at ease. Most of the time her cinnamon eyes held a loneliness to them that was palpable, one he thought about often.

Ian felt a tug in the area of his heart. Had she lost someone close to her? A husband? A child?

Maybe he’d never know.

He then wondered why he was wondering at all. After all, what could he do about it?

An inaudible breath seeped from his lungs, and lodged in his throat as he caught sight of her bending over to retrieve a paper napkin from the floor. Her loose V-neck T-shirt did nothing to hide the fact that she'd declined to wear a bra today—obviously a temperature factor.

Luckily, weather and temperature had no effect on him, aside from his internal lust thermometer that Paige seemed to be raising into the triple digits.

Her breasts would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands. Fantasizing. He laughed at himself. Look at him behaving like some overly hormonal kid where he could look all he wanted but never touch.

For the thousandth time, Ian found himself resentful at being a spirit. It was boring as hell. While alive, he'd always been busy. Now, all he could do was think, and Paige constantly reminded him of his lost physical self.

Being a ghost was a bit like having a leg amputated—the appendage is gone, but still feels as real as it had when it was intact. So, too, was his existence. In reality, he was devoid of anything but his mind, soul and memory. Yet he still had cravings, longings, feelings, just as he'd had when he'd been alive and in a physical body. He could clearly feel an erection coming on, but knew it was only a residual memory, and it was frustrating as hell!

Her cell phone on the small dinette table vibrated, bringing him out of his thoughts. Paige abandoned her task of preparing dinner and walked over to where Ian stood. If she had continued in her straight path, she would have passed right through him, but she stopped, tilted her head to one side and frowned. It was as if she detected something unseen in her way and walked around him.

Ian felt his phantom heart jolt. She could sense his presence!

Paige answered her phone. "How are you doing, Marge?" Her face lit up, but faltered, melting into a grim mask. "When did you see him?" She sounded afraid, yet resigned. "Does he know I'm up here, only a half-hour's drive from your place? Good. That's why I chose this secluded area. I didn't like our last confrontation before the divorce."

Ian listened as she changed the subject and tried to get into it, but her body remained tense. She made small talk for five more minutes then said goodbye.

When she clicked off, Ian could see her trembling as she slumped into a chair. From the one-sided conversation he'd heard, Paige was divorced and hiding out from her ex. What kind of monster was he? He felt a sense of protectiveness race through him.

Paige covered her mouth with a slim hand and let out a few nervous giggles. He wondered if the guy was planning on showing up some day. Would there be a confrontation? A fight? Who would protect her? Surely not himself. He was a spirit, after all.

After Paige picked at her food for ten minutes, she tossed the remains in the garbage, rinsed the few dishes she'd used then went upstairs. Ian followed suit. He didn't go for levitation or wall penetration and climbed the stairs as he always had; his admiring gaze plastered to Paige's luscious rear every step of the way.

If only he could find a way to reach out and help her.

True, he couldn't have her, but why shouldn't he do something to help this woman? For years, he'd rambled around this house experimenting with newfound powers, waiting to fulfill some unknown destiny. He'd thought Paige would have brought him some answers, but he was more confused than ever.

He watched as she went into the master bathroom and started running a bath. He then turned around and left, resisting the urge to watch her undress. He'd never been a voyeur in the past and figured if he took up the habit now it would just get him all hot and bothered with no way to relieve the tension.

Going to Paige's painting room—his old bedroom—he planted himself on a wooden crate, trying to think of some way to help her...and himself.

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