Read A Temporary Ghost (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Series 2) for Free Online Page A

sandwiches and painting her toenails. I grabbed my clothes. Before going down, I checked the window again. Vivien was now sitting among the irises, hugging her knees, her head bent. She could have been in the grip of cosmic despair or a fit of pique. Ready or not, she was about to meet her ghost.
    When I stepped outside I noticed how cool the morning was despite the bright sun. The shawl hadn’t been a needlessly fussy idea.
    I approached through the scraggly olives. If she heard me coming, she didn’t look around. I was annoyed to think she might believe I was Ross returning for more punishment. When I was near enough I called out, “Hello!” with more cheer than I was feeling.
    She started violently and turned, her eyes narrowed, fear and suspicion in her hunched shoulders and the arms that drew close to her sides. Why would the woman react like a trapped animal to “Hello”? Standing over her now I continued, “I’m Georgia Lee Maxwell.”
    I shoved out my hand, and she took it. Hers was freezing, and the fingers hardly bent to grasp mine. I exerted momentary pressure and let go. She shaded her eyes to look up at me and said, in a throaty voice, “Ross was right. You are darling.”
    I’m not too bad, but “darling” would be stretching it. I doubted Ross had used the word. As Vivien sized me up, I reciprocated. She was striking rather than beautiful, pale with pronounced black eyebrows. The severity of her chignon wouldn’t have worked for everyone, but it suited her uncompromising profile, with its prominent nose and firm chin. Her green eyes had a slight upward slant. Her toenails, I ascertained from a glance at her sandaled feet, were cherry red. She was showing fewer facial sags than I’d seen in her photos, and I assumed she’d had nips and tucks by a skillful cosmetic surgeon. She would have projected an aura of drama whether or not you knew her story.
    I hunkered down and sat next to her in the midst of the irises. Chill from the damp earth quickly pervaded my rear end and seeped up my backbone. Down the hill, her shawl flapped on the bush.
    When it became obvious she wasn’t going to start the conversation, I said, “I hope your head is better.”
    She looked surprised. “What?”
    “Your head. Didn’t you have a migraine?”
    “Oh— yes, right. It’s much better.”
    More silence. At last she said, “I’ve been dreading meeting you.”
    “Why?”
    “Because” —she laced her fingers together and twisted them— “I don’t know if I can do the book. I don’t know if I can.”
    So much for her eagerness to tell her side of the story. “I thought you wanted to do it.”
    She looked at me in amazement. “Wanted to! Why would I want to?”
    Why would she, indeed? “I guess to set the record straight, to—”
    She laughed jerkily. “Setting the record straight is beyond my powers. The record is bent and will probably stay that way.”
    She was trembling. I saw goose bumps on her arms. “Why, then?”
    Her jaw jutted out. “Money. I need money.”
    Ross had told me as much. Since I was in it for the money myself, I couldn’t be disdainful.
    She went on. “This house was loaned to us. Carey’s estate is tied up in a lawsuit by his relatives, who hate my guts. We keep expecting a settlement, but it never happens. The book is— a necessity.”
    “Well, then—”
    She twisted her fingers again. “I’m afraid. Afraid I can’t.”
    Damn. I couldn’t work with a woman who constantly twisted her fingers and teetered on the edge of collapse. I was a ghostwriter, not a psychotherapist. I said, “We have a book to do. It’s a job. Think of it as a job, not a— catharsis.”
    “A job.” I wondered if she’d ever had a job.
    I was wishing I’d had a cup of coffee before launching into this when she rounded on me and said, “How do you feel about working with a killer?”
    My stomach lurched. “I don’t—”
    “Aren’t you afraid? What if I go berserk?” Her green eyes