The first room we entered was the parlor; it was unnaturally
still, the furnishings draped in white sheets and a layer of dust
coating all the fixtures, waiting for a chambermaid's cloth to
wipe away the accumulated grime. Our shoes echoed hollowly
on the marble floors and I realized with shameful unease that
I felt like something of a wraith, a transparent shade of a man,
skulking about in places I didn't quite belong. Maybe it's just
because I've never felt comfortable when surrounded by the
trappings of the ultra-rich, no matter how much I might try to
fake it -- I am and always will be a child of the back alleys,
a guttersnipe that made good (or bad, depending on who you
ask). Felicia, on the other hand, was a ray of light in that
room, dispersing the shadows, chasing away the ghosts,
bursting with a vibrancy that refused to be contained, and
as I looked at her I was whole again.

"Oh, Luke, isn't it wonderful?" she gushed, spreading her arms
wide and grinning at me in delight.

I couldn't help but smile back, caught up in her enthusiasm. But
I still had an image to maintain. "If you like dustbunnies and
cockroaches," I drawled. "Maybe this is where all of Mr. Ed's
bodies are buried. Keep an eye out for Jimmy Hoffa, maybe
Elvis."

She shot me a dirty look and decided to ignore me, instead
scrutinizing the room like an appraiser or an interior decorator;
she was getting distracted again. Beats me how she ever managed
to run a private detective agency, if she got sidetracked this easily.
Maybe she was just rusty, but somehow I doubted it. It was this
damn notion of old-fashioned romance she had taken hold of in a
death grip, and she was never going to let go.

"Look!" she said suddenly, and crossed over to a set of french doors
on the far end of the room that appeared to lead to some sort of balcony.
She opened the doors without hesitation -- she was far too at home
here -- and stepped out onto the sun-warmed stones before turning
back around to find me with her eyes. "Come look at this view,"
she commanded.

Who was I to turn down a beautiful woman? I joined her at the
stone railing, and even I had to concede that it was an impressive
sight. From this vantage point we overlooked the jagged, gray
cliffs that abutted the Long Island Sound, just below the grounds
of the great house, and the Sound today was stormy and blue,
crashing and lapping against the rocky shore. The sun glinted
off the water, adding gilded highlights to the crests of the waves.

I breathed deeply of the salt air and pushed away the fleeting
thought that the cowboy would've loved to go rock climbing
here.

"Isn't it lovely?" she asked, gazing out at the endless sea.

I watched as the sun caught the flaxen streaks in her hair and
infused them with an otherworldly shade of gold that outshone
anything in Mother Nature's backyard. "Yes it is," I said
quietly, my voice almost lost in the rushing of the waves.

She glanced back at me, picking up on something in my tone
of voice, and I plastered my best Who me? look on my face,
all wide-eyed innocence. I don't think it quite worked, because
in response her brow furrowed and her eyebrows bunched and
all of a sudden there was something dangerous hurtling through
that sharp brain of hers. She's one of the few women in this
world who's ever been able to see right through me; I think it's
one of the things I like best about her.

"Okay, enough sightseeing, let's find the secret stash," I
said with a brisk clap of my hands, purposely changing
the mood.

Relief flitted across her face, but I could swear she deliberately
brushed against me as she went back into the house. Her skin
was warm and smelled like peaches and suddenly I was very,
very hungry.

It was pure business for some time after that as we conducted a
room-to-room search, ransacking the place efficiently and expertly
and putting everything back in proper order when we were done.
No sign of the elusive missing letters, though, and we were both
starting to get frustrated. We finally ended up on the top floor, in
what must have been the equivalent of Lila's sitting room back in
the Port Chuck casa, and we both perked up -- well, she was
perky, I was merely alert -- hot on the scent at last.

Felicia found them in the bottom drawer of a kidney-shaped
dressing table, buried underneath an assortment of lacy white
underthings that I tried not to visualize Lila modeling in her
current state of mature womanhood. "I knew it!" she crowed,
waving them in front of my face, her sapphire eyes glowing
in triumph.

"Always trust your hunches, sweetheart," I told her, and
snatched the letters out of her hand before she could blink.

"Hey!" She reached out to reclaim them, but she was no
match for Spencer reflexes. Then again, I wasn't all that
much of a match for her Scorpio-Jones determination, either.
We grappled playfully for custody of our prize as I wriggled
about like a worm on a hook, her hand locked around my wrist,
both of us laughing and cursing and gasping for breath, until
finally I grabbed her around the waist to keep her from falling
over, and to maintain the advantage, and, well, just because
I wanted to, dammit.

She froze instantly, her hand still clamped around my wrist,
and the smile vanished from her face. At this proximity I
could smell the tang of herbal tea on her breath and that
combined with the scent of her shampoo and the softness
of her body against mine was enough to make me dizzy.
What the hell was happening to me? I was too damn old
to be feeling like some idiot teenager.

We stared at each other for a long moment, her deep
blue eyes locked onto mine, and I glimpsed a whirlpool
of emotions swirling in those fathomless depths. But the
one that stood out the most, I think, was fear -- of me,
of herself, and of the limitless, forbidden possibilities
that stretched out between us.

I decided to take pity on her and released her from
my grip, then smiled in a way that I hoped wasn't too
predatory. "We'll read 'em later," I said, brandishing
the sheaf of paper and straining to sound casual. "We
shouldn't hang around here for too long anyway."

She looked me up and down, hands on her hips, obviously
still off-kilter from our clinch, but recovering admirably.
"Luke, this place is deserted. Who do you think is going
to come after us? The deserted summer home police?"
She used the same tone of voice I suspected she used
to cajole Georgie into brushing her teeth every night, and
it made me scowl.

"Leave the comedy to the experts, darlin'," I said, raising
an eyebrow. "I just think that sometimes -- only sometimes,
mind you -- prudence is the best course of action."

"Prudence is the best course of action?" she repeated in
disbelief, placing her hand on her chest in a gesture that
screamed melodrama. "Prudence? Who are you, Prudence,
and what have you done with Luke Spencer?"

"Again with the comedy. I'm just saying --"

"A victrola!"

I paused in mid-sentence, jaw hanging open, and watched
as she practically skipped across the room, her long, full skirt
billowing in a cascade of black and blue, and oohed and aahed
over the ancient piece of equipment. Like I said, she gets
distracted. "We don't have time for a recital," I reminded her.

"There's already a record on here," she said, ignoring me.
She did that a lot. Bad habit in a woman. "It's Glenn
Miller," she announced, squinting down at the label.

"Of course it is." I didn't think any of the Old Quartermaine
Coots ever listened to anything more exciting than Mr. Miller.
"Felicia, let's just get back in the Caddy, we'll go home, back
to the club, and then you can listen to some real music. I just
got a vintage Duke Ellington on vinyl that you're gonna love --"

"Dance with me," she said. Her eyes sparkled as she cranked
up the victrola, then held out her arms. The dulcet tones of
the Glenn Miller Orchestra filled the room, creeping into the
corners and dusting away the cobwebs. "Dance with me,"
she said again, insistently, an unidentifiable edge to her voice.

Lucifer himself couldn't have kept me from obeying her.
And yet I had to wonder from whence sprang this newfound
desire to touch me, when she'd been so freaked out not a
moment before.

But when I threw the letters down on the dressing table and
crossed the length of the hardwood floor and took her in my
arms, and looked at her, really looked at her, I figured it out,
because it was something I understood all too well. It was the
fear. Felicia didn't like to be afraid, and she was determined to
face this particular fear head-on, to conquer it, show it who was
boss.

And I'll be damned if I didn't want her to lose.

So we danced. Felicia, for all of her goofy charm, had
always struck me as also possessing an innate grace
that allowed her to navigate her way through life with an
effortless presence and poise, and every time we danced
together this was borne out in the way she moved, the
way she seemed to anticipate my every step, the way
she gave herself over to the dance completely, the way
she gave of herself to her partner. I could only imagine
how that natural skill translated in bed, and had to
suppress a delicious shiver at the thought.

Her waist was soft and supple beneath my hand, and
she had placed her fingers on my shoulder, just a little
too close to my neck, so that as we moved her fingertips
brushed gently against the skin between my shirt collar
and throat. I wondered if she could feel my pulse
thundering beneath her touch; as it was I felt certain we
should be able to hear it over Miller's orchestrations.

She smiled up at me with a flash of perfect white teeth
and rose-kissed lips, but I could still see the hesitancy,
the uncertainty, in her eyes as she did so. Felicia was
one of the bravest women I knew, and not just because
she had the guts to dance with me. But if she could
face this, so could I -- no one ever beat a Spencer in
a battle of wills.

Not yet, anyway.

I twirled her around and she laughed with delight, moving
into the turn and out, then back to me, her body pressed
just a little closer to mine when she returned. The warmth
between our bodies upped the temperature of the room
well beyond the summer heat that up until now had been
tempered by the chill off the water. I knew she felt it too;
her breathing noticeably quickened and a tantalizing sheen
of perspiration appeared in the hollow of her throat. I
wanted nothing more in that moment than to lean over and
taste it and savor the salt on my tongue, but instead I gripped
her hand and waist tighter and forced myself to focus on the
dance.

It was almost surreal, to be alone with her in this huge, empty
house, whirling her around, our shoes scuffing the magnificent
hardwood floor, swing dancing amidst the ghosts and memories
that lingered here, as if we were perhaps ghosts ourselves.
The place seemed desolate at first glance, yet in fact patiently
awaited a homecoming, a time when pampered voices and the
cacophony of spoiled children playing once again echoed
through the exquisitely wallpapered hallways.

It reminded me without warning of the time Laura and I
had waltzed our way through an abandoned department
store, and I stopped in mid-step, the shock of the memory
dousing me like an icy martini in the face. Felicia stumbled
and protested, then gasped in worry as I released her and
bent over, my hands on my thighs, trying to regain my
breath as if I were having a goddamn panic attack.

"Luke, what's the matter?" she asked, her cool fingers finding
my sweaty brow, gentle and soothing.

"Ghosts," I whispered. I winced at the sound of my own
voice, desiccated and old. "Pop up when you least expect
them."

"Lucky?"

I shook my head and straightened, then turned my back to
her, afraid I was going to lose the battle with the sudden
unwanted moisture that stung my eyes. "My wife," I said.
The word conjured up simultaneous distaste and longing
and I rolled it around punishingly on my tongue, the emotions
tasting thick and coppery, like warm blood.

"Oh," she said. Understanding, sympathy, and -- dare I
believe it? -- jealousy all colored that single word.

She deserved an explanation, although I don't know why I
thought so. It was my life, my wife, former or otherwise --
but the words tumbled from my mouth and I couldn't be
bothered to stop them. "I just...remembered a time the two
of us danced," I said softly. "It was..." I shrugged. "It was
magic. Like we were the only two people in the world.
The two of us against the world."

The two of us...

And then, to my utter horror, the tears started falling, harsh,
guttural sounds leapt from my throat, and Felicia was there,
as ever, in my arms, her delicate body wrapped around me
in an iron embrace, her hair and skin filling my senses as I
buried my face in the sweetly scented crook of her neck.

It didn't take long for the sorrow and anger to burn itself
out, for the sobs to trail off into ragged breaths, for the
tears to evaporate and leave my eyes dry and burning.
Felicia held me through it all, stroking the back of my
head with infinite gentleness, murmuring my name
and whispering consoling reassurances, and it was
remarkable how comforted and safe she made me feel.
She was, I realized, the one person I could lose myself
in without expectations or attachments or obligations,
and I was incalculably grateful for such a simple blessing.
I squeezed her tight in thanks and then did something
that took every ounce of courage I had, something that
was really just a mere token of the emotion I felt at that
moment: I pressed a quick and tender kiss to the base
of her neck. She tasted as delectably as I'd thought
she would.

I was afraid that she would pull away from me, that I'd
gone too far; but to my surprise and elation she actually
leaned in, her forehead grazing my jaw, and placed a
soft, chaste kiss against my cheek.

And suddenly, she was the one who had gone too far.

I lifted my head so that I could see her face. Her lips
were moist and parted, beckoning me, taunting me,
even. Her eyes were clear and bright and looked back
up at me with confusion and complicated desire. I held
her face in my hands with reverence, as if she were
made of fine china, and when she didn't shrink from my
touch I leaned over and caught those tempting lips with
my own, unsure at first but then growing stronger as her
mouth moved beneath mine willingly, eagerly. When
she finally allowed my tongue entrance to her mouth it was
like sex, like sinking forever into heaven, hot and wet and
delicate and strong and honeyed and tart and sweet and
more addictive than the most potent drug.

We clung to each other, hungry mouths searching, hands
clutching and wandering and questing and growing ever
bolder until she broke away from me, breathing hard. She
pushed at my chest and I relinquished my embrace even
though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

"I'm sorry," I began, trying to breathe myself, trying to make
things right, "it was my fault, I shouldn't have --"

"Don't," she said sharply. "We...we didn't do anything wrong."
She touched her lips and traced them with a trembling fingertip,
seemingly in shock. "We just...kissed, that's all. That's...that's
not so bad, is it?"

"No," I said quickly, cursing myself for doing this to her. "It
was just a kiss. No big deal," I lied. I tried to smile for her
but couldn't, couldn't force it when I was feeling so abjectly
miserable.

"Just a kiss," she repeated, trying to convince herself. "Just
one..." She looked at me, and our eyes met, and the world
stood still.

And then as if by magic she was in my arms again, and we
were kissing once more, urgently and frenzied this time, pulsing
with desire. Her mouth was so, so soft and her hands were
so warm and I reached up to bury my fingers in her silken hair...

"I can't," she groaned, breaking the kiss abruptly. She placed
her hands on my chest but didn't push me away this time, merely
kept me at arms' length. "I love my husband, Luke," she said
with tears in her voice. Her fingers toyed with the fabric of my
shirt. "I love Mac. I love him more than life."

God, I didn't want her to cry. I deserved to rot in hell for
making her cry.

"I know, sweetheart," I said as gently as possible, touching
her cheek with a fingertip and brushing away a tear. "Why
don't we just go home now, okay?"

She nodded and stepped away from me, wiping furiously
at her eyes, and picked up the letters from the top of the
dressing table. I made no move to take them from her.

As I watched her leave the room I felt bereft, as if I were
seeing my future drift away from me, just like that. But
then she turned back to look at me, and smiled with the
light of the angels despite the fading tears in her eyes.

"I get to choose the music on the way home," she
announced with forced cheeriness.

"Hey!" I protested, more than willing to go along with the
change of mood. "You can't do that. House rules: your
car, you get to choose the music. Everybody knows that.
It's practically a law, for crying out loud. I think it is a
law in Hawaii."

Her smile was genuine this time, full and real and familiar.
"Come on, Luke, you're always hogging the radio, fiddling
with the dial like you're going to find King Solomon's mines
on there," she said, wriggling her wrist around in a pantomime
of my channel surfing. "I've never seen anyone who fiddles
around with it like you do, it's a sickness you know, you should
go to a support group or something..."

She continued to babble along as we left the house together,
and by the time we reached the Caddy I was grinning like an
utter fool. I had a feeling that every damn thing was going to
be just fine.

end.