Except, of course, it hadn't been a date.

Even so, her pulse was erratic, and she wondered how he would look without his shirt, how it would feel to just lie against him.

Her mind took things even further. She was sure he would be an aggressive lover, but a good one. Tender at times, but passionate. He would know his way around a woman's body. He would…

She took an instant step back, praying he couldn't really read minds.

"Um… we didn't really finish talking. You're… welcome to come in. I'm sorry, I just didn't want to sit in a bar anymore. My sanity is a little fragile at the moment, you know."

To her surprise, he hesitated.

"Nikki, I don't want to force anything on you."

Force? She was ready to…

"I need you to trust me, to believe in me. And if that means I should walk away now, that's what I intend to do."

This was all business, she reminded herself. He saw ghosts, she saw ghosts. They were like detectives, comparing notes. Not potential lovers.

"Well," she said, and managed an awkward half smile, "I can go inside and lock up, but that doesn't do much against ghosts, does it?"

"It will do a lot against real-live killers, who apparently got hold of both your friend and a government agent."

"Yes, I definitely have to be careful," she assured him. "Julian has been great, staying here with me a lot."

"Julian," he repeated.

"So are you coming in?"

He didn't reply.

She was both exasperated and a little offended. "You can check out the place for the undead as well as the living criminal element."

God, she loved his smile. Loved the way it softened the hard contours of his features. The light in his eyes, the slightly wicked curve of his lips… she loved it all. Too fast. She didn't know him.

She realized she was holding her breath. Because she was willing to take her chances. Right when the world was the most dangerous she'd ever known it to be. Right when she shouldn't.

"Please, I'd appreciate it if you would come in. I know there are living criminals in this city, but at this particular moment, it's those who aren't living who frighten me the most."

"Miss DuMonde, I would be delighted to come in," he informed her.

She turned away quickly, alarmed to realize that she was trembling.

She fitted the key in the lock, and he followed her in, surveying the downstairs.

"Living area downstairs, bedrooms up?" he inquired.

She arched a brow. "You didn't know that?" she asked.

He shook his head, smiling. "I'm not a psychic."

"No," she said. "You just talk to ghosts."

He didn't reply, as he made note of the art she had on the walls. Most of it was local. Scenes of the streets, the river, the people. She liked to buy from the local artists. A few pieces were of scenes from around the country, and she had a set of watercolors of Florence.

There was one oil of St. Louis Number I that he especially liked. It had captured both the beauty of the architecture and the decay. A young woman, head bent, was touching a tomb with a winged angel. The painting seemed to evoke the line between life and death, and it held a sense of mystery and possibility, as well.

"You know the artist?" he asked, coming closer to it.

"No," she said. "I think she was a grad student at Tulane. I bought it near Jackson Square."

"Nice," he said.

"Thanks. I love it. She captured something… It sounds strange to say it, but there's an aura about that picture. Maybe that's not so strange to say to you. I didn't mean that offensively," she added. Lord, this was strange. She couldn't speak normally or casually. When had things changed between them? There had been something about him from the beginning, but she had probably been smarter when she had been angry, and when she had wanted him to stay as far away from her as possible.

He laughed. "There is an aura to that painting," he assured her. "Whether you see ghosts or not. That's what creates art, don't you think? Not so much the perfect reproduction of a face or an object, but infusing the subject with emotion or warmth or something special."

"Yes… I guess you're right. But then again, we all see different things, don't we?"

"Absolutely. I have one friend who has a huge painting of dogs in a bar. He thinks it's one of the most underrated masterpieces in the world. So, yeah, we all see different things."

She felt flushed. "Yeah, like dead people walking around." She winced. "I'll, uh, make tea. Do you like tea?"

He arched a brow. "Is there a reason I shouldn't like tea?"

"No." She winced again. "I… I guess I never knew what India—Native Americans drank." Oh, God, she was sounding worse and worse.

"You mean, besides firewater?" he queried.

"I—" She broke off, realizing that he was teasing her.

"I think there's actually more Irish in me than Lakota," he told her dryly, "so on the ethnic side, tea is cool. But for future reference, some of the Lakota I know love tea, some hate it. Matter of taste."

She forced a smile and a nod. She lived in one of the most mixed-race cities in the world. Her friends were white and black and every shade in between, gay and straight, Catholic, Jewish, voodoo and Wiccan. She'd never fumbled around like this before.

He was staring at her, smiling. She was staring at him, feeling like an idiot who couldn't keep her foot out of her mouth.

She waved a hand toward the kitchen. "I'll go boil water."

"Thanks."

In the kitchen, she felt the first sense of unease. Everything was as she had left it. Counters neat, wiped down, coffeepot…

Just a little different. Out farther, closer to the edge of the counter than she usually left it.

Or was she just… searching for something to wonder about, to see differently?

She began opening cabinets and drawers. The silver set was exactly where and how it should be, in the farthest left drawer. Through the glass panes of the cabinets, she could see her good china, none of it moved in the least. She gave herself a shake. No one broke into an apartment to move a coffeepot out a few inches. The kettle was on the stove, just as she'd left it.

She set the water on to boil and kept looking around. Nothing was out of order.

When she returned to the living room, Brent was still looking around at the art, yet not really seeming to focus on anything.

"She's definitely not here right now, is she?" he asked.

Nikki had carried in a tray with cups, the teapot, milk, sugar and lemon, not knowing how he drank his tea.

It began to rattle in her hands.

"She?" she said, but she knew exactly who he was talking about.

"Andy."

He took the tray from her, setting it on the coffee table between the sofa and the love seat, and sitting down himself on the latter.

Nikki shook her head solemnly. "No."

She sat, as well, and reached for the teapot, ready to do the whole hostess thing, but he said simply, "I'll pour, okay?"

She nodded, too inexplicably nervous to speak.

"She doesn't come every night, does she?" he asked, his words casual as he poured. Nikki added milk and a scoop of sugar to her cup.

He drank his plain, she noted.

"Nikki?" he persisted. "She doesn't come every night, does she?"

"No, she doesn't come every night." She hesitated, taking a long sip of tea. "I'd probably be locked up by now if she did. Maybe she knows that."

"Maybe she does. I'm sure she's not trying to hurt you. In fact, I'm certain she's trying to help you."

Nikki shivered. His knee was brushing hers. Their faces were close. Here she was. She'd met the most attractive man she'd so much as seen in… forever. He was in her apartment. They were touching. Their faces were so close that she could see the flecks of darker emerald in his eyes. Almost feel the texture of his skin. His warmth seemed to reach out and embrace her.

And they were talking about ghosts. Matter-of-factly.

"If she's trying to help," she heard herself say too sharply, "why doesn't she just appear to Massey or Joulette and tell them who killed her?"

"She probably doesn't know."

"How could she not know?"

"She might have been attacked in the dark or when she was sleeping, so she never saw anything. But she knows, or senses, that you might be in danger, as well," he told her. "I need to speak with her. She isn't going to acknowledge me or let me get close to her unless she realizes that I'm trying to help, as well."

Goose bumps broke out on her arms. "Okay, so what about the FBI agent?" she asked. "I never knew him. Why am I seeing him?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. That's something else I need to find out."

Nikki cleared her throat. "Please tell me that."

"That what?"

"That I'm not going to start seeing dead people wherever I go," she whispered.

"Trust in this, Nikki," he told her softly. "You're seeing them for a good reason, and they want to help you."

She sipped her tea again. "A good reason. My best friend is making me see a shrink. All my friends are tiptoeing around me as if I've got a disease. And it's going to get worse. Julian thought he could shock me out of it, so he announced to Madame that I'm seeing ghosts. So now she's worried, too. As for Massey and Joulette, they think I'm off-the-charts nuts."

"They think I'm pretty far gone, too," he assured her.

"Does that bother you?"

"Only if it hinders what I'm doing. Luckily, I don't seem to be as big a pain in the butt as their main FBI liaison. Quite frankly, he does seem to be a pompous ass. But that's working in my favor right now."