CHAPTER ONE
“No, no, NO!” I mutter, wrestling with a particularly stubborn strand of Christmas lights that has somehow managed to tangle itself into what looks like a sailor’s worst nightmare. “How do lights even DO this? It’s like they have a vendetta against joy.”
“Perhaps if you approached the task with more patience, madam, you wouldn’t have these problems,” says a male voice with a crisp British accent.
I look up, but the owner of the voice has yet to materialize. “Easy for you to say. You died before electric Christmas lights were invented,” I snap back.
“I fail to see why you persist in this exercise in futility. Christmas decorations are merely a commercial assault on common sense.”
“Wow. Way to kill the Christmas spirit before I even get started,” I mumble.
When I quit my job as a librarian to write historical romance novels, I thought the biggest challenge would be crafting believable dialogue. Turns out, it’s living with the ghost of a nineteenth-century British detective who has opinions about everything, including my Christmas decorating skills.
After the end of a nearly twenty-year marriage, I moved from Fort Lauderdale to Lockwood Cove, a quaint little beachside town in southwest Florida, with a laptop computer and big dreams of one day hitting The New York Times bestseller list. When a hurricane damaged the beach condo I’d been hoping to rent, I ended up in Lockwood Manor, a supposedly haunted Victorian mansion. Spoiler alert: it actually is haunted.
The problem with having a ghost for a … well, whatever Richard Lockwood is to me—Roommate? Partner-in-crime-solving? Impossibly attractive dead detective who makes my heart do weird floppy things?—is that you never know when he’s going to “pop” up. I’ve been seeing ghosts ever since I was a little girl, but this is the first time I’ve lived with one.
Normally, my advanced radar system—or my “ghost-dar,” as I like to call it—gives me a nice little heads-up whenever a ghost is around by dropping the room temperature and giving me a dry mouth. But Richard learned how to bypass that by lowering his energy output so I don’t feel those things. Pretty considerate of him, huh? Sort of. It also allows him to sneak up on me whenever he feels like it. If I could put him on a schedule, I would.
I shoot a glaring look in the general direction of Richard’s voice. “What did people in your time use to light up their trees?” I give the light strand an aggressive shake. “Candles? How did you not burn down half of England?”
“We exercised proper caution and planning,” Richard says, materializing next to the fireplace. “Unlike certain modern individuals who appear to believe that brute force is the solution to every domestic challenge.” His insufferably superior tone makes me want to throw something at his head. I try to ignore him, but it’s difficult when he’s standing there looking at me with those piercing green eyes and that artfully tousled dark hair that somehow manages to look perfect despite him being … you know, dead.
“Is this about the toaster again? I was only trying to shake the crumbs out.”
“Yet you still ended up nearly electrocuting yourself to death. At least that mishap served a practical purpose. This Christmas nonsense is purely decorative frivolity.”
“Frivolity?” I sputter, waving a tangled string of lights at him. “It’s called joy, Richard. Christmas spirit. You know, that thing that makes people smile and feel all warm and fuzzy inside?”
“Warm and fuzzy,” he repeats with the same tone he might use to discuss a particularly unpleasant medical condition. “How delightfully saccharine.”
I’m trying to think of a snarky comeback when Daisy materializes at my feet, wagging her tail back and forth in excitement. At least someone appreciates my Christmas decorating efforts, even if the living room is currently resembling a tinsel-covered disaster zone.
Daisy is the best thing about living in Lockwood Manor. She’s an adorable, smooth-haired dachshund who always has my back. All my life, I’ve wanted a dog. And now I have one. Kind of. Technically, Daisy died in 1898 and is buried in the side garden, but she has all the energy of a puppy. Like Richard, she can manipulate physical objects and move about town, but every night she has to come back to Lockwood Manor to recharge her batteries (at least, that’s my explanation).
“Don’t encourage her, Daisy,” Richard says to my little ghost dog. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into Anna about this holiday madness.”
“I heard that,” I say, finally managing to untangle one section of lights. “And, for your information, Christmas isn’t madness. It’s magic.”
“Magic,” Richard scoffs. “The only magic I see is how efficiently Christmas manages to separate people from their money and their reason.”
I step back to survey my progress and immediately trip over a box of ornaments sitting in the middle of the living room. My arms windmill as I try to catch my balance, sending the strand of lights flying in a spectacular arc across the room.
Richard catches them. Because, of course, he does. One second, the light strand is sailing through the air toward his gilt-framed portrait above the fireplace, and the next, they’re hovering in midair as if suspended by invisible hands.
“Show off,” I mutter, brushing tinsel out of my curly red hair. “But thanks for saving the lights.”
“I merely prevented you from destroying my portrait,” he says, placing the lights on the coffee table. “Though watching you attempt to decorate is rather like observing a natural disaster in slow motion.”
“Gee, thanks for the pep talk, Ghost of Christmas Grump.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Can you at least pretend to get into the Christmas spirit? Theo arrives tomorrow, and I want everything to be perfect. I want him to see that I’m doing okay and that I’m happy here.”
His expression softens slightly at the mention of my eighteen-year-old son. Richard has never met Theo, who’s in his freshman year at Duke—and, hopefully, he never will, at least not in any way Theo would be aware of—but Richard has heard enough of my stories to have developed a soft spot for him.
“I fail to see why hanging colored lights and placing an artificial conifer in one’s parlor constitutes perfect,” Richard says. “In my day, Christmas was a solemn affair. Church services, modest gifts, and, if one were fortunate, a goose on the table.”
“Yeah, well, you were raised a little more than just fortunate, weren’t you? Your father was a duke. Admit it, I bet your holidays were pretty lavish.”
“I won’t deny that,” he says stiffly.
“What about when you came to America? What was Christmas like in 1885?” I’m hoping to find some crack in his holiday armor, some hint that he once enjoyed Christmas.
Richard’s jaw tightens. “Emily was determined to keep up the English tradition, even here in Florida. She insisted on transforming this manor into some sort of botanical nightmare—holly and ivy draped from every surface, including the bedrooms. As if the guests might forget it was Christmas unless reminded by the mistletoe hanging in the water closet.”
I bite back a smile. “Mistletoe in the loo? That sounds interesting.”
“Then there were the dinners. Multiple courses requiring formal evening dress despite the humid climate. Christmas Eve meant standing around an enormous, candle-laden tree singing carols while slowly melting in our finery.”
“So, you were the original Grinch, huh? It all makes sense now.”
“The what?”
Note to self: Place The Grinch Who Stole Christmas at the top of our TV watch list. Maybe if Richard sees how the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes, he’ll get some ideas.
“Never mind. It sounds lovely. Emily was probably just trying to create some wonderful holiday memories for your son William.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he says grudgingly.
“Of course I’m right. And speaking of sons … I’ve been thinking about this. You’ll be happy to know that I just have one rule for you to follow during Theo’s visit.”
“Only one? How magnanimous of you.”
I ignore his sarcasm. “You know Theo has no idea that I see dead people, so I would appreciate it if you’d keep the spontaneous appearances to emergencies only. Or, better yet, not at all. It doesn’t matter that he can’t see you. I’ll see you, and it’s distracting. Plus, you know how you love to startle me or rile me into blurting something out when we’re around other people. The last thing I want is for my son to think I’m talking to an invisible friend.”
I put my hand up to stop him before he can interrupt. “And before you remind me, as you so often love to do, that this is your home, it’s my home now too. Besides, Theo is only going to be here for a week. Then he’s going skiing with friends. You can behave yourself for a week, can’t you?”
He straightens to his full height. “Madam, no one has ever accused me of ill behavior.”
I highly doubt that. “So do we have a deal?”
“We do.” He pauses. “A skiing trip with friends. That sounds rather expensive.”
“It’s a Christmas gift from his father. Now that our divorce is final, it’s amazing how much fatter my ex’s bank account has become,” I grumble.
“I see.”
I narrow my eyes. “Just say what you’re thinking.”
“Jerry Winters is a cad. He’s not worth my thoughts.”
“That’s one thing we can agree on.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Will Cunningham: Finished your manuscript. We need to talk.
My stomach dips. “We need to talk” is never good news. At my cousin Lucy’s urging, I sent the first draft of my Regency romance, Duchess in Bloom, to her good friend Will who writes international bestselling espionage thrillers under the pen name J.W. Quicksilver. Lucy thought Will would be the perfect person to give me an honest opinion on my manuscript, except, right now, I’m not so sure how honest I want him to be.
I text back: What’s a good time for you?
Will responds: About to jump on a plane to New York. How about Wednesday?
I gulp. Wednesday! That’s four whole days away. How am I going to wait that long?
Wednesday is great. Have a great time in the Big Apple! I toss my cell phone back on the coffee table in disgust.
“Bad news?” Richard asks.
“Not yet.” I shake off my disappointment. Whatever Will tells me, I’ll take it like a big girl writer.
Now that the first draft of my novel is completed, and I’ve had some free time to think, I’ve been reexamining my life choices. I don’t regret giving up my job at the library to write full-time. But the money I squirreled away is just enough to last me through two years of living expenses. Foolishly, I didn’t budget for any fun extras—like Christmas presents, so I’ve taken a part-time gig at Holly Jolly & Company, the holiday pop-up shop downtown. Between wrapping gifts and ringing up ornament sales, I should have enough saved to pay off Theo’s Christmas present.
I pluck out an ornament from the box when Daisy’s hackles rise and she emits a low, warning growl. In the four months I’ve lived here, I’ve learned that, when Daisy growls, it’s time to pay attention.
“What is it, girl?” I ask, but she’s already trotting toward the front door, her stubby legs moving with surprising speed, which means someone is about to knock.
“Could that be Theo?” Richard asks.
I check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed a text from him. “He’s not due until tomorrow afternoon.”
Three sharp knocks echo through the manor.
I step over the remnants of my decorating disaster to walk to the front door. Through the peephole, I can see a tall figure on the porch, but the afternoon light creates too much glare to make out any details.
I open the door to find a man in his early forties with hazel eyes and a handsome face that strikes me as familiar, though I’m certain I’ve never seen him before. He’s wearing jeans, a button-down shirt, and an expensive-looking leather jacket.
“Anna McGuffin?” he says, extending a hand with a smile that could charm a rabbit out of its hat. “My niece Laura has told me all about you. I’m Damien Lockwood.”
CHAPTER TWO
Damien Lockwood? What’s he doing at my front door? Behind me, I hear Richard’s sharp intake of breath.
I pull myself together and shake Damien’s hand. “Oh! Yes, um, Laura’s mentioned you.” Laura Lockwood, Richard’s great-great-great-granddaughter and a sergeant in the Lockwood Cove police department, serves as the local family representative for the Lockwood family trust, which technically makes her my landlord, but I consider her a friend as well.
“May I come in?” Damien asks in a formal tone that reminds me of his great-great-grandfather, who, unbeknownst to Damien, is standing right next to me.
“Yes, of course.” I step back and, in the process, walk straight through Daisy, who’s positioned herself directly behind my ankles in what I can only assume is a protective stance. Having an unexpected Lockwood family member show up on my doorstep has me rattled, especially since I’ve discovered that Richard’s descendants share a bloodline with a Victorian serial killer, although I’m sure Damien has no clue about that particular family skeleton.
Damien steps into the foyer, his hazel eyes drinking in the manor’s interior—the mahogany banister (which I polished to death yesterday) gleams in the afternoon light, and the aging, ornate wallpaper manages to look both shabby and elegant at the same time.
“Things are a bit of a mess right now,” I say. “I’m decorating for Christmas.”
“It all looks quite charming. It’s fascinating to be inside Lockwood Manor again. Laura told me you’ve been living here for a few months now.”
“I moved into the house in late summer,” I confirm, leading Damien into the living room. “Please have a seat. Do you want some coffee?”
“Thank you, but I can see you’re busy.” Although he’s declined the coffee, he sits down in an overstuffed velvet burgundy chair. “I understand your time here has been quite eventful. And then, of course, there was the live broadcast of that television show.”
Since I’ve moved to Lockwood Cove, I’ve stumbled across three murders and nearly died in a fire, so eventful is putting it lightly.
Richard materializes next to the fireplace with a pensive expression. “It’s been at least three years since Damien was in this house. What the blazes is he doing in Lockwood Cove? I thought he was off in Egypt digging up skeletons.”
I shove aside the Christmas lights and take a seat on the sofa. “Laura said you were an archaeologist.”
“I am. I just finished a dig, and I find myself with some free time.” His eyes narrow with curiosity. “I’d like to hear more about this television show—Ghost Trackers? The episode they filmed here in Lockwood Cove made international news. Quite the spectacle from what I heard.”
My stomach clenches just thinking about it. Two months ago, the Ghost Trackers crew filmed what they thought would be a simple séance in Lockwood Cove’s historical cemetery. Instead, they got a supernatural battle royale between Richard and the malevolent spirit of Alistair Hawthorne—a Victorian serial killer bent on getting revenge against the Scotland Yard detective who’d brought him to justice. The evening culminated in flying tombstones and the arrest of the show’s producer for murder.
You’d think having a live, televised supernatural smackdown would trigger federal investigations, or, at a minimum, some very uncomfortable questions from government agencies with too many acronyms. But Richard was absolutely right in his prediction about human nature: most people see exactly what they want to see. The majority of viewers dismissed the otherworldly chaos as special effects. Even the show’s network (advised by their legal department, no doubt) spun it as “groundbreaking entertainment technology.”
The rest of the population, however? Well, they’ve descended upon Lockwood Cove like pilgrims to a shrine. For the past two months, our little coastal town has been crawling with ghost hunters, paranormal enthusiasts, and thrill-seekers hoping for their own supernatural encounter. The local merchants couldn’t be happier—business is booming like never before.
Even Dax Montgomery, Ghost Trackers’ ridiculously vain and overly ambitious host, has managed to land on his feet. He walked away from the whole mess with no charges filed against him and somehow secured another TV gig—a baking competition, I think. Some people really do have nine lives—as well as an endless supply of hair gel.
“It was quite a night,” I say carefully. “Most of the viewers think it was all special effects.”
“Hollywood magic,” Damien says with a knowing smile. “I have to admit, some of the footage looked remarkably authentic. Almost too authentic.”
“You know how these reality shows are,” I say with forced lightness. “It’s all about the drama.”
“I imagine so.” Damien leans back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that makes me squirm. “So, how are you finding life in Lockwood Manor? Do you enjoy living in a house that’s supposedly haunted?”
“Don’t believe the rumors. It’s quiet as a tomb around here,” I say with a forced laugh.
He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Interesting choice of words.” He peers up at the formal portrait of Richard hanging above the fireplace, unaware that the subject of the painting stands just a few feet away, listening to our every word. “It seems impossible to believe that my great-great-grandfather’s portrait can’t be taken down.”
“Madelyn Foster—she’s the real estate agent who showed me the house—says the portrait can’t be moved due to a structural issue.”
“That’s the official story.” The way he says it suggests he knows better. “She also said you’d originally intended to rent a beachfront condo?”
I don’t like where this conversation is going. “You’ve spoken to Madelyn about me?”
“Laura is the local representative for the Lockwood family trust, but my brothers and I are the current executors. Ultimately, we’re responsible for the home.” Which is polite mumbo jumbo for yes, he’s spoken to Madelyn about me and my housing situation. And as much as I hate to admit it, he has every right to do so. The manor has belonged to his family for nearly a century and a half. I’m just a temporary tenant.
“Of course,” I mutter, getting more rattled by the minute. What is Damien Lockwood doing here? And, more importantly, what does he want? “The condo sustained some water damage after the last hurricane, and Lockwood Manor was the only property available. But since you’ve been in touch with Madelyn, I’m sure you’re aware of all this.”
He nods. “That must have been a disappointment. Giving up a gulf view in exchange for this musty old place. From what I understand, the local ghost tour even comes by twice a day. That must prove quite a disruption.”
“It’s not that bad. I’m actually kind of used to it by now.”
“What if I told you it was no longer necessary to get used to it?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’ve done some inquiries, and the condo has been repaired and is still available to rent.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “I’ve decided to take an extended sabbatical from my work, and I’d very much like to move into the family home.”
Beside him, Richard has gone completely still.
“Move here? To Lockwood Manor?” I say, stunned.
“Financially, I’d make it more than worth your while to move out.” His tone is polite, but there’s steel underneath. “After all, don’t you think it’s time a Lockwood lived in Lockwood Manor again?”
I stare at Damien, unsure of what to say. Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at Richard. His expression is unreadable, but I notice him adjusting his cravat in that way he does when he’s agitated. Daisy, meanwhile, has positioned herself between Damien and me, her hackles raised. She’s not growling, but her body language screams “suspicion.”
“I realize how inconvenient it is to move during the holidays, so I wouldn’t expect you to vacate the home until after the first of the year,” Damien says.
“Gee, that’s considerate of you.”
Damien frowns. “I’m sorry, but did I misunderstand something? Madelyn said you were disappointed when you couldn’t move into the condo, and only took the lease on this place because nothing else was available.”
“Sure, but that was—” I catch myself before I say something stupid like “before I fell for a dead guy and his adorable ghost dog.” Instead, I fumble for a reasonable explanation. “Before I got settled in. You know how it is—you put down roots somewhere and it becomes home.”
“Of course,” Damien says smoothly. “But surely you can understand my position. This house has belonged to my family for over 130 years. It feels wrong to have strangers living here when there are Lockwoods who are willing to maintain the family legacy.”
The way he says “strangers” stings a bit. After four months of living here with Richard and Daisy as roommates, I feel anything but a stranger in Lockwood Manor. I’ve solved murders here, been attacked by vengeful ghosts, and fallen in … like with a Victorian detective who’s been dead for over a century. If that doesn’t make me family, what does?
“I guess I can understand that,” I say grudgingly, even though every fiber of my being wants to tell him where he can stuff his family legacy.
“Excellent.” He leans forward, his hazel eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “And of course, I wouldn’t expect you to walk away empty-handed. What if I were to reimburse you for all the rent you’ve paid over the past four months? Plus an additional two months more as compensation for the inconvenience of moving?”
My mouth falls open. That would be a lot of money. More than enough to plump up my bank account and give me some breathing room while I wait to see if I can actually make a living off my writing. It’s the kind of financial cushion that would be hard to refuse.
“That’s very generous,” I manage to say, though the words feel like sandpaper in my mouth.
“I like to think I’m a fair man.” Damien glances around the living room in its current state of Christmas decorating chaos—garlands draped haphazardly over furniture, boxes of ornaments scattered across the floor, and a half-decorated tree leaning slightly to one side like it’s already given up on the holiday spirit. “This place clearly means something to you. But, Anna—may I call you Anna? This is my family’s heritage. Surely you can see why I’d want to reclaim it.”
Richard makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort. “Heritage,” he mutters under his breath, his British accent particularly clipped. “The man has spent his entire adult life gallivanting across the globe like some modern-day nomad, and now he suddenly cares about heritage?”
I shoot Richard a warning look, though, of course, Damien can’t see him. Daisy, meanwhile, lets out a soft whine and trots over to Richard, pressing herself against his legs in what looks like a comforting gesture.
My phone alarm goes off with the annoyingly cheerful jingle I thought so clever just a few days ago, but now feels flat, and I realize with relief that I have an excuse to end this uncomfortable conversation. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cut our visit short. I need to get ready for work.”
“Oh? I thought Laura told me you were a writer.”
“I am, but I have a part-time job for the holidays.” He stares at me like he expects me to elaborate, so I add lamely, “Holly Jolly & Company. It’s a little pop-up shop downtown.”
Damien stands gracefully. “Then I won’t keep you from your responsibilities. Retail work during the holidays must be quite demanding.”
I walk him to the door, acutely aware of Richard and Daisy following behind like some ghostly entourage. Richard’s presence feels oddly diminished somehow. Not weaker exactly, but less substantial than usual.
Before Damien leaves, he turns to face me, placing one hand on the doorframe in a casual gesture that somehow feels territorial. “I know you signed a lease, but it expires in eight months, so Lockwood Manor was never going to be a permanent option for you. I hope you’ll give my proposition serious consideration. I think you’ll find that it’s the right choice for both of us. I’m staying with Laura, so you’ll know where to find me when you’ve made up your mind.”
“Of course, yes, I’ll think about it,” I say, my stomach churning like I’ve just swallowed a live fish.
“That’s all I can ask, although I do hope you’ll make your decision soon. The holidays have a way of making everything feel more urgent, don’t you think?” There’s something in his tone that makes it sound less like a casual observation and more like a veiled threat, though I can’t put my finger on why.
I watch as Damien Lockwood walks down the brick-paved driveway toward a sleek black SUV parked in front of the house. The vehicle looks expensive and out of place against the weathered Victorian backdrop of the manor, like a shark among goldfish.
As he reaches for the car door, a movement catches my eye. Behind the towering royal palm near the street, a dark figure lurks in the shadows cast by its fronds. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman—but something about its stillness, the way it watches Damien, sends ice through my veins, making me shiver.
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