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about it, he just might admit his wife was haunting him.
    Too many dreams plagued him and very few of them made sense. Well, the ones where he got his hands on Bree—those made sense. The dreams where he stripped her long, sexy body naked, dreams where she wrapped those strong, sleek thighs around his hips and took him inside. Those made plenty of sense.
    There was something exotic about Bree, but there always had been, even back in school. He hadn’t ever told Alyssa, but there had been a couple of months in high school where quite a few of his wet dreams had been centered on her best friend.
    Bree was built—1940s movie-starlet built—with round, ripe breasts, hips, a tight, sweetly curved ass and a mouth that always looked just a little bit swollen, as though some guy had just kissed her. The way Colby too often dreamed of doing. She had serious gray eyes that tilted up at the corners, glossy black hair—worn short and smooth—olive-toned skin, and long legs that would wrap around a man’s waist and ride until he begged for mercy.
    Back in high school, he had quietly enjoyed those dreams without ever acting on them. Then, much like now, he was pretty much an introvert and the thought of asking Bree out would have been enough to have him stammering and tripping over his tongue. So he had dreamed about her, watched her, blushed when she looked his way, and that had been it.
    But then Alyssa had started flirting with him , teasing him , and he’d been lost. The dreams about Bree faded and he’d been just fine and perfectly content to have Alyssa start taking the starring role.
    The problem was that the dreams had started coming back and only hours after he’d buried his wife.
    That was one serious problem.
    Why is it such a problem?
    A cold chill rushed over him and goose bumps broke out on his arms. Going crazy. He much preferred to think he was going crazy than being haunted.
    Over the past month, it had steadily gotten worse. At first it was just early in the morning or late at night when he was exhausted, but now it happened almost around the clock and it didn’t matter if he was tired or not. He heard a voice and he didn’t need some shrink to explain why the voice sounded an awful lot like Alyssa’s. He missed her and he felt guilty because maybe he didn’t miss her enough—after all, he wasn’t dreaming about her at night.
    Blocking the voice out, ignoring the questions, he moved through the quiet house. He frowned, finding the entire place spotless. There was nodust, no stacks of mail, nothing. He hit the kitchen for a glass of water and automatically, he stopped in front of the refrigerator and opened it. It wasn’t exactly stocked. Most of what was in there were staples—a carton of eggs, soft drinks and bottled water, a half-empty gallon jug of water.
    The sight of the jug had him frowning. It was the same kind of water that Bree took with her while she worked. He glanced out the window toward the gardens.
    They were pristine. Perfect. They looked better now than they had the entire time he had lived here and that was what clued him in. One look at the blooming flowers and carefully cultivated shrubs and trees, and Colby knew why the house looked so damn good. Why there wasn’t any dust, why the house was clean, the grass was cut and the mail wasn’t piled up to the ceiling and back.
    Bree had been taking care of everything.
    Everything—well, maybe not everything. She couldn’t be paying the bills. But he realized, less than ten minutes later, that she had been doing that too.
    Not just taking care of the house, the mail, the gardens. She’d taken up accounting too. Skimming his accounts, he saw that regular mortgage and utility payments had all been set up to automatic payments and his royalty checks were being deposited into his account. Bree was the only person who could be doing it. He couldn’t think of another soul who would take care of the landscaping, the house…and his bills. Not