Forced to the Altar. Susan Crosby

      After a moment, she sat. She snapped open her napkin and laid it in her lap, her irritation still obvious, but she also thanked Mrs. Moody and smiled at her, indicating good manners.

      Minutes ticked by in long, tense silence, except for the crunch of lettuce. He would’ve put on some music if he’d anticipated the awkwardness of eating in a total absence of conversation. To turn on the stereo now would be a triumph for her. He couldn’t let her get the upper hand.

      “I’ve enjoyed hearing you play the piano,” he said after Mrs. Moody exchanged the salad plates for the main course of grilled halibut, rice pilaf and steamed zucchini and carrots—simple food prepared exceptionally well.

      “Thank you.”

      More silence. At first her loftiness amused him. Even though she’d said she wasn’t pampered, he knew she must have been indulged for most of her life, first as the daughter, then sister, of a crime boss. She’d likely been sheltered, as would’ve been necessary. Zach understood this was a transitional time for her. But enough was enough. He set down his fork.

      “I acknowledged that you are a fish out of water here, Ms. Johnson. I have apologized for not greeting you sooner. I would appreciate it if you would accept my apology and let us be civil for as long as you’re here. That would include dinner conversation.”

      She also set down her fork, as if in meeting a challenge to a duel. Her expression was one of surprise. “I am apparently not allowed to ask questions. If you have questions of me, please feel free to ask them.”

      Direct hit. He basically had told her she couldn’t question him, although he’d meant only about his work, not life in general. Politics. Religion.

      Sex.

      All hot topics, ones he didn’t explore with casual acquaintances, no matter how much the mere touch of her clothing and scent of her perfume—without even having met the person—had turned him on. Embarrassingly so.

      In a way, she looked like the stereotypical surfer girl. Her hair shimmered in the candlelight, the curls springy and touchable. Her skin looked healthy and tanned. He pictured her in the green bikini he’d rubbed between his fingers. Her breasts would be spilling out of the top, her rear covered but also revealed. She wasn’t a size-four waif but a size-twelve handful of pure woman, and shorter than his five-foot-eleven by about eight inches. He admired the disbursement of pounds on her voluptuous frame.

      “No questions?” she challenged. “My life is an open book.”

      Do you have a tan line from that bikini?

      “I understand you grew up in Southern California. How’d you end up in San Francisco?” he asked instead.

      “My brother sent me there to spy on someone.” She took a bite of halibut and smiled at him.

      “And did you?”

      She nodded.

      “Why?”

      “Because I wanted something from him. It was a trade.”

      He waited a few seconds. “Not going to say what it was?”

      “No.”

      “Must’ve been important.”

      “Very.” She continued to eat.

      He almost smiled. Almost. She was having fun at his expense. He liked that she surprised him. “What will you do when your brother’s trial is over?”

      “I have a plan.”

      “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

      She took a sip of water, holding his gaze over the edge of the goblet. “Enjoying what?”

      “Baiting me.”

      “Is that what I’m doing?” Her tone was all innocence.

      He didn’t feel it necessary to answer her obviously rhetorical question.

      “Why are so many rooms off-limits to me?” she asked.

      “Which ones are you talking about?”

      “Your special room. The other tower room. The guest rooms.”

      “You’re allowed in the guest rooms. Who said you weren’t?”

      “Mr. Moody said the only room I could enter on the second floor was my office, which I, of course, have not entered, since I’ve had no work assigned to me. I would at least like to use the computer to check my e-mail.”

      “I’ll take you up there after dinner. Anything else?”

      “You didn’t answer my question.”

      She wasn’t easily distracted or deterred. “My ‘special’ room, as you call it, is just that. You will not be allowed entry. The other tower room is also off-limits. You may go anywhere else in the castle.”

      “Except your bedroom.”

      “Yes.” Maybe. A few choice curses blared in his head at the wayward thought. He scooped up his wineglass and took a quick sip. He’d never had a woman in his bed here. Yet the picture of Julianne’s hair spread out on his pillow, the thought of that lush body stretched out on his sheets…

      “And you won’t enter my tower room,” she said.

      “Of course not.”

      “Of course not,” she repeated sweetly, her eyes sparkling, as if she were reading his mind, knowing he was more than a little attracted to her. “Good to know. But what about the other tower room? What’s the big secret there?”

      “Elspeth prefers it be locked.”

      “Elspeth?”

      “The ghost. Mr. Moody told you about her, didn’t he?” He watched her eyes open wide. “Obviously not.”

      “You have a ghost? Seriously?”

      “For more than a century, apparently. Angus McMahon’s daughter, who died at thirteen.”

      “From what?”

      “Murder most likely, for her to still be unsettled after all this time.” He could tell that Julianne was trying hard not to believe him.

      “You…see her?” she asked.

      “We hear her.”

      She looked toward the ceiling, then she smiled, tentatively. “You’re kidding.”

      “You’ll see.”

      Mrs. Moody returned, took away their empty plates and left apple pie á la mode and coffee—which meant he and Julianne had more time to fill.

      “It’s you I’ve seen walking on the bluff at night, right?” she asked when the coffee was served and Mrs. Moody left. “With two dogs?”

      “Yes.” He knew she’d been watching, had sensed it even when her window was dark.

      “What breed are they?”

      “Bullmastiff.”

      “Are they guard dogs? They’re very friendly with you and playful with each other.”

      “True to the breed, they’re fearless and confident, yet also docile. Good companions and protectors.”

      “And you’re very, very good at not answering questions.” She raised her coffee cup to him.

      “If I’d wanted a lap dog I would’ve chosen a toy poodle.”

      She laughed. The sound filled the room with such…joy. There hadn’t been much of that in this place. Elation. Relief. Desolation and grief, too. Plenty of that. But not the joyful noise of much laughter. The sound rooted him in his chair.

      “Can’t say I can picture you with a poodle in your lap,” she said, still grinning. “Maybe I could