After receiving a long weekend at an elegant hotel beside the majestic Niagara Falls as a Christmas gift, Jodie Gibson is determined to do nothing but relax and enjoy the scenery. And, okay, just maybe meet someone who makes her toes curl.
Sebastian is sophisticated, tall, dark and gorgeous--everything a woman fantasizes about. But he's also an 18th century ghost. He haunts the halls of the hotel, seeking the one true love that can help him find peace…
As she peered into the reflective glass, a face appeared behind her. Jodie whipped around and fell back against the window.
Oh my fucking God!
Before her, in what looked like a shimmering bubble, stood the most breathtakingly beautiful man she'd ever seen. Dressed in a white shirt and black pants, he had dark unruly hair and striking, magnetic blue eyes that held her in place.
Jodie blinked, uncertain, scared and breathless.
How was it possible? She'd read the newspaper clippings, yes, but it was unimaginable to think ghosts might actually walk among the living.
Not everything made sense. She only believed in things that could actually be seen, felt and touched. This seemed surreal.
Stunned by the apparition before her, dressed in what looked like centuries-old clothes straight out of Esquire, he seemed to look straight through her, and his smile warmed her clear to her toes. Lord, she was in trouble.
“Hello.” Soft and gravelly, his voice alone seduced her…all the way to her toes. Her body quivered and her center tightened.
Whoa. What the hell am I thinking? There's a ghost in front of me and I'm ready to jump his bones. Not bloody likely.
“What are you doing here? Get out. I don't care who you are, you're leaving, right now.”
He frowned. “No need to be frightened. I've been here for centuries.”
Jodie laughed, and not one to wilt like a scared little girl, stood tall. “This is all a joke.” She looked around, up and down, and all over the room. “Are there hidden cameras somewhere? Hey, Ashton, if you're behind the camera, you can come out now. I've been Punk'd good. Thanks and all, but I'd like to get on with my evening without you.”
“Who is this Ashton? What is a punk? A rake, perhaps?” he asked.
Jodie squinted. “A rake?” She hadn't ever heard that term spoken, but had read it in historical romances. No one talked like that these days. “No. Never mind, it's not important. Listen, I just want you to go. I want to enjoy my evening.”
His smile was gentle. “I'm sorry, my dear, but this evening every decade is the only time I am visible to the human eye. I never miss a chance to watch the Falls.”
“You're telling me you do this every ten years? How old are you?”
“I was born in 1781. That makes me--”
“Two hundred thirty-one,” Jodie whispered, legs weak. She grabbed the back of the chair nearby and sat down. Were such things even possible?
An eighteenth century ghost stood before her.
Merry Christmas to me.