Memory Whispers Read online

  Memory Whispers

  Recurring, sensual dreams haunt Faith McCoy. The daughter of a minister, she’s uncomfortable with the sexy images. While on a trip to the colorful gambling town of Cripple Creek, Colorado, she is shocked and frightened to find not only the room in her dreams, but the man whose touch haunts and excites her. She might consider a modern-day relationship if it weren’t for the fact that the room—and her dream—are set in a former brothel.

  Casino owner, Cord Burke has his own dreams of the beautiful woman who seduces him. He never expected her to be real, but when he meets Faith, he’s drawn to her and the past that seems to threaten her. He refuses, however, to be drawn to the forevers and promises she represents. He’s been burned too many times in life to consider settling down.

  Suspecting that they may have lived and loved in a prior life, they face the ghost of an old enemy. But how can they beat a ghost who has no fear—not even of death . . .

  Also by Angel Smits

  Raging Spirits

  Memory Whispers

  by

  Angel Smits

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-038-1

  Print ISBN: 978-0-975965-33-7

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2004 by Angel Smits

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

  We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

  ImaJinnBooks.com

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Deborah Smith

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Saloon and Street © Philcold | Dreamstime.com

  Man © Vadymvdrobot | Dreamstime.com

  Woman © Victoriaandreas | Dreamstime.com

  Woman/Sky © Konradbak | Dreamstime.com

  :Ewmj:01:

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my parents, Hugh and Joyce Strong. Thanks for all the traipsing through Cripple Creek in years past. Your interest sparked mine, and I appreciate you always being there for me. I love you both.

  One

  Cripple Creek, Colorado

  FAITH MCCOY STARED at Bennett Avenue from the museum window. It hardly seemed possible she was finally here in Cripple Creek, a town with a history as colorful as the aspen groves that blanketed the surrounding mountains. Below, the wide street was uneven in places. The sidewalks ran at awkward angles much as they must have a hundred years ago. She felt the pull of history, as if she had stepped backward in time.

  Thanks to the legalization of gambling, the old buildings that a few years ago had fallen empty and to ruin, were now refurbished and reflected the grandeur of the late eighteen nineties. The spirit of the past mingled with the reality of the present and casinos and businesses crowded the street.

  The view soothed her. Beautiful buildings like these were the reason she was here. She’d come to capture the history through her camera lens. From the time she’d first heard about this project, she’d known she wanted to be a part of it. The buildings provided a new subject for her, and they played into her personal fascination with the past. Hopefully, she’d put together a photography collection that would benefit both the Colorado Historical Association as well as her own pathetic bank account.

  Cripple Creek was a good town. Solid, with roots. And yet there was something about it. Something that made her feel comfortable and reluctant to return to her house in Boulder. She’d never called any one place home—her father’s church work kept the family moving too often for that—but there was an undeniable familiarity to Cripple Creek.

  The only major problem she had was the dreams, and they were nothing new. They just seemed more frequent lately.

  “If you’ll follow me.”

  The tour guide’s voice broke into Faith’s thoughts and she turned away from the window. Single file, the small group made their way down the narrow hall. The air, already stifling in the close space, grew thicker and Faith dabbed at the perspiration on her brow.

  When the guide turned a corner and stopped, Faith could only stare at the door. Shock snapped through her like lightning, leaving nothing of her emotions but charred remains.

  Only this time she was awake.

  It was the same door, the door in the dream that haunted her night after night. But it couldn’t be. That was just a dream . . . wasn’t it?

  She reached out tentatively and grasped the antique doorknob. Fear dampened her palms with perspiration as she turned the time-smoothed metal. The door didn’t budge. The lock held solid.

  “I’m sorry, Miss. That room isn’t part of the tour.”

  Faith didn’t answer. The guide’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.

  “Miss?” The older woman’s voice rose in concern as she tapped Faith’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  Faith forced her mind back to reality, and she focused on the antique décor of the museum that had once been a brothel. “I . . . I’m fine.” Chills rocked through her as she turned to the guide. “Why isn’t this room part of the tour? What’s in there?”

  A flash of uncertainty and mischief sparked in the older woman’s eyes. “Perhaps not what’s in there, but what was done there. It was the observation room,” she whispered loud enough for only Faith to hear.

  “The what?” Faith whispered back. Her research had referred to such things, but she’d never actually seen one before.

  “An observation room.” Several other members of the tour moved closer, and the guide shrugged as if in defeat. “One of the girls would go inside, and the gentleman interested in purchasing her for the evening stood outside here.”

  The guide pushed aside a fabric wall hanging to expose a glass window between the two rooms, which had been painted over from the inside. “The girl disrobed, so he could see what he was buying.” She released the wall hanging, and it swished back into place, hiding the window once again. “The corset was a very deceiving device, hiding flaws such as a few extra pounds or too small a bust line,” she explained.

  Faith shivered. Revulsion slid through her, and she saw similar emotions mirrored on the faces of the others. How could a woman degrade herself like that? A warm flush spread across her cheeks as she recalled her own dreams—or rather nightmares—which frequently included such things as disrobing before a stranger. Her cheeks warmed, and she avoided the others’ gazes.

  The tour group moved on, but Faith lingered. Images flashed through her mind. Familiar images. Images she’d spent years denying.

  A sudden need to find the setting she saw in the shadows of her mind grew. Would seeing the room banish the dreams? Her hopes rose, but she quickly squelched them. Nothing else had worked. Yet she wanted—she needed—to know more.

  She ached to shake the old door until it fell from its hinges. It looked fragile enough. Glancing
at the guide’s retreating back, Faith pushed on the handle again. The lock remained solidly in place. The group turned the corner, and Faith stood there, the air around her growing heavy and warm with her uncertainty.

  She reached into her oversized purse and pulled out a credit card. She’d locked herself out too many times, she decided, as the idea came so easily. Carefully, to avoid damaging the old lock, she slid the card along the frame. A familiar, soft click signaled her success. She’d just peek, just for a second. She had to know if the room inside would match her dreams.

  She heard the group head downstairs, and the guide launched into an impassioned speech about how the museum depended on the donations of kind patrons to continue operation. Using the sounds of the woman’s voice, and the group’s footsteps to conceal her actions, Faith pushed the door open. The seldom-used hinges squealed in protest. She quickly slipped inside and closed the door.

  She leaned against the wood and gulped in several breaths, fighting to calm her racing heart. Dank, musty air clogged her lungs, and she muffled a reflexive cough with her hand.

  Dingy light seeped through the thin layer of paint covering the window. Where she had shivered before, she now trembled.

  It was the room in her dreams. A room she had never seen in reality before today. The objects were eerily familiar, though they seemed older and were covered in dust.

  A tall, wood-framed mirror stood in one corner, its surface surreal through a coat of grime. Beside the mirror sat a tattered fainting couch. Boxes of old papers covered the faded maroon horsehair. Dust cloaked everything.

  In the opposite corner sat a trunk. Earlier, the guide had explained how all the girls who had worked the line owned them. It made movement from place to place quick and easy. Inside would be all that was left of some girl’s life before she turned out.

  She eyed the trunk’s brass fittings. Who’d left this trunk here? Had she been one of the girls who had died here, as the tour guide had mentioned earlier? Was there even anything inside? At the thought, images from her dream flashed through her mind.

  A blue dress.

  A jeweled comb.

  Slowly, she stepped forward to the trunk, leaving telltale footprints in the thick dust. She knelt down. Dare she open it?

  She’d heard the tales of the soiled doves who had lived in this house nearly a hundred years before. She had cringed as the guide explained about each piece of furniture. The antiques were appealing, but what about the people who had spent their lives lounging on them? Were their stories left out on purpose or by accident?

  Either way, the rehearsed script seemed so distant, so impersonal, as Faith knelt before the remnants of one of those lives. No one would know if she took a little peek. Feeling only a slight twinge of guilt, she reached out.

  The gentle snap of the latch seemed loud in the tiny room. She froze, waiting to see if anyone came to stop her. No one did, and she pushed up the heavy lid. The cloying scent of ancient mothballs nearly overpowered her.

  A gauzy piece of old tissue covered the contents of the trunk. She lifted the paper. Her heart stopped and then pounded against her ribcage. A royal blue gown lay gracefully folded on top. Its bead and crystal bodice winked in the faded light.

  Just like the one she wore in her endless dreams.

  With growing trepidation, she caressed the soft fabric. The hard beads slid beneath her fingertips.

  So beautiful. So familiar. Suddenly, the world that had haunted her dreams for more nights then she cared to count flashed before her. She trembled as the dream played out once again.

  She stood facing the mirror. The warm velvet of the dress felt heavy and confining against her body and swept the floor. A long train weighed down the back and flowed behind her as she moved.

  The full-length mirror reflected a lovely creature. Long curls that normally fell past her waist were piled on top of her head. A jewel-encrusted comb held her hair in place, allowing a few strands to fall against her cheeks, as if to encourage a masculine hand to brush them away.

  Large leg-o’mutton sleeves helped accentuate the tiny waist that could only be the result of a well-cinched corset. A blush crept over her cheeks as she noticed how she filled and nearly overflowed the low neckline.

  The vivid blue of the dress accented the creamy whiteness of her skin, the copper of her hair and the hazel-green of her eyes. She looked the same, yet the reflection was different. The eyes staring back at her were different—lifeless.

  Something moved behind her, and she watched a man appear in the observation window. Shadows and wavy glass distorted his face, denying her a clear view. Dark hair and a mustache dominated his features. Broad shoulders filled his tailored jacket, and a proper white shirt barely disguised the muscles of his chest.

  With a deep intake of breath, she stopped her visual journey. Attraction was not important here. He was a client and nothing more. A rich client. He had to be to get past the front door.

  In one hand he held a crystal tumbler half full of amber liquor. From here she couldn’t tell what it was, but Madame kept nothing but the best. Between the fingers of his other hand rested a thin cigar. He lifted it to his lips and blew two perfect smoke rings into the air. A wicked smile formed on his lips, and she shivered.

  Fear warned her that this man had the power to break her.

  His gaze devoured her with its implied touch. Hot fire roared in her bloodstream, and she swallowed hard to relieve the pressure. It did little good.

  Surprised at the strength of her reactions, her hand flew to her throat. A cameo brooch hung from a blue ribbon. In fascination, she watched the woman in the mirror unpin the brooch, and released the ribbon, exposing a simple chain beneath that held a gold band. Her own hand mimicked the gesture.

  The man stood perfectly still, watching her every move through the window. Her gaze riveted to his reflection, and a new kind of shiver took hold. The room warmed along with her blood.

  She reached behind her back and released the row of pearl buttons running the length of the dress one by one. Cool evening air brushed her heated skin as she shrugged the gown off her shoulders.

  The rich fabric rustled as it slid over her full breasts, tiny waist and hips. She bent over, giving him a silhouetted view. Slowly, she stepped out of the puddled garment. The tap of her high heels on the floor shattered the tension of the air. She knew he heard nothing.

  Carefully, she lifted the dress over her arm. With slow, deliberate steps, she walked to the couch and draped the gown across the back.

  A straight wooden chair sat next to the couch, and she lifted her foot to the seat. She unhooked her shoe and slid it off, then removed the other. The black silk stockings caressed her skin, and she slid one finger beneath the garter. She unhooked the stocking and the fabric whispered down her leg. Daring to steal a glance at him, she felt the fire in his eyes, and she removed the other stocking with the same slow, enticing pace. Never once did she break eye contact.

  Her breath caught in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the confines of the corset or the passion emanating from him. She tore her gaze from his and unlaced the corset. It felt so good to be free and unbound even though her ribs ached. Rolling the fabric and whalebone, she slid it into the decorated bag lying on the couch.

  She turned to face him then, with only her chemise covering her. Deliberately, slowly, she pulled the jeweled comb from her hair. The heavy copper curls cascaded down, caressing her skin as they fell.

  He took a deep swallow of his drink. The lamplight gleamed on his brow, and her gaze traveled the sharp curve of his cheek, resting at last on his mouth. She imagined his taste. Whiskey and man.

  Gathering the hem of her chemise, she pulled the garment up and over her head. As she stretched her arms upward, to escape the last of the cloth, she saw him gulp the remainder of his drink.

 
She stood there totally nude. Longing seized her body. She wanted his hands—the fingers clasping that tumbler so tightly it threatened to shatter—to touch her instead. Suddenly, she knew she’d felt their touch before.

  He nodded. A key scraped in the lock. The door swung open. She stood there facing the man without the barrier of the window glass between them.

  His shoulders filled the doorway, and the anger in his eyes struck terror in her heart. She clasped her arms self-consciously over her chest, wanting to scurry into hiding. Pride made her stay. She met his gaze with a defiant lift of her chin.

  The words falling from his lips rocked the world’s foundations. “So, this is what you’ve become . . . wife.”

  Faith jumped. The trunk lid slammed down and caught her finger. She yelped and then clamped her jaw shut, suffering the pain in silence.

  The dream faded, and the dusty surroundings came back into focus. She closed her eyes, shutting out the all-too-familiar room. She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself, hoping to ease the familiar empty ache the dream always left behind. The ache that magnified the hollowness in her chest and the cold that settled around her heart.

  He’d never spoken before. This time he’d left words, but where had they come from? Her imagination? Always before he came to her, then vanished, leaving nothing but emptiness in his wake.

  She blinked the tears from her eyes. He’d made her cry too many times.

  She heard the sound of voices. The tour group? How long had she been here? Rising unsteadily to her feet, she backed up until she bumped against the closed door.

  She scanned the room again. Nothing had changed in the last five minutes, so why did she feel different? She looked back at the trunk. What else was in there? Should she look at the rest of the contents? Or should she run away from the images and their accompanying emotions? The latter won out.

  Afraid of answers to her own questions, she turned to escape.