Chapter One
When Sierra Brennan opened the door to her new house in Chicago, she didn’t expect to find a naked man standing inside. A very hot, sexy, well-built, and well-hung man who looked like he was hungover. He made no attempt to cover up while she made every effort to keep her eyes on his face and not his privates.
“Thank God you’re here,” a woman wearing a corset and little else said from right beside Sexy Naked Guy. Sexy Naked Trespassing Guy. “What took you so long?”
“What do you mean what took me so long?” Sierra said.
“Who are you talking to?” Sexy Naked Guy asked. His voice was low and rough.
“Your girlfriend,” Sierra said.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said.
“Look, I don’t care what your relationship is with her, but you are both trespassing so you need to leave right now. As soon as you get dressed, I mean.”
“I’m the only one here,” he said.
“Clearly that’s not true as I am here as well.” She punched 911 into her smartphone.
He moved closer and looked deep into her eyes. He had chocolate-brown eyes and thick lashes. His chiseled cheekbones made his face as sexy as the rest of his chiseled body. “You don’t want to do that.”
“You really don’t want to do that,” the corseted woman said.
Sierra already knew what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to screw up her chance to inherit this house. Several others had tried and failed to fulfill the thirty-consecutive-days residency requirement. She’d only met her great-uncle Saul Brennan once yet he’d listed her in his will. Yeah, he’d listed two older cousins before her, but here she was anyway. They hadn’t stayed in the house. She would. Because she had a huge advantage.
Sierra was not afraid of snakes or spiders or things that went bump in the night. Especially things that go bump in the night. That was her specialty.
Sierra saw things most people didn’t. Yes, maybe it was a cliché, but she saw dead people. Ghosts. Spirits who for one reason or another didn’t or couldn’t move on to the other side.
Which was why she was able to write such good paranormal novels. Write what you know. That’s what all the pros said and it was what Sierra did. Her S. J. Brennan books featured a vigilante ghost hunter and the challenges she faced in finding justice and punishment where needed.
Yep, she saw ghosts and she was seeing them now as the corseted woman moved closer and shimmered with translucency. She had short dark hair styled à la the Great Gatsby era, wide brown eyes, and a curvy figure. But she was definitely a ghost. Which meant Sexy Naked Guy was a ghost too, right? She put out her hand to check. Her fingertips rested on his bare chest. His solid, muscular bare chest.
“Why aren’t you leaving?” he growled.
She yanked her hand away as if burned. “Because this is my house and you are the squatter.”
“The house is mine,” he said.
“In your dreams,” she said. “Who do you think you are?”
“I know who I am,” he said. “I’m Ronan McCoy. Who are you?”
“Sierra Brennan, the owner of this property.”
“Since when?” he said.
“Since yesterday.”
“Forget him. I need your help,” the ghost said. “My name is Ruby, in case you were wondering.”
“One thing at a time,” Sierra told Ruby. “Get dressed,” she told Sexy Naked Guy. Wait, his name was Ronan.
He looked deep into her eyes once more. “Get out.”
Sierra shook her head. “No way.”
She saw the confusion there before irritation took over. “Leave!” he bellowed.
“You leave,” she bellowed back at him. She’d driven her rental U-Haul van nine hours across three states and she was beyond exhausted.
“How long has he been here?” Sierra asked Ruby.
“Who are you talking to?” he demanded.
“He’s been here a few days,” Ruby said. “I’ve been here for decades and decades.”
Sierra frowned. If Ronan was a recent arrival, then he couldn’t be the reason Ruby hadn’t crossed over. He obviously couldn’t see Ruby. She should have realized that Ruby was a ghost faster than she had, but Sierra chalked that up to the fact that she was so tired. Usually she could tell a ghost from a human, but nothing about this Saturday had been usual.
She’d done a book signing at nine this morning in Ohio. There had been a good turnout, but a majority of the audience had wanted her to pass on a message to their departed loved ones. Sierra had to tell them that she wasn’t a clairvoyant, she was a writer.
Yes, her books revolved around ghosts, but that didn’t mean they were real. That was her story and she always stuck to it. The rest was between her and the ghosts she helped to the other side. She wasn’t about to reveal her ghost-whisperer side to the general public. She knew all too well the stigma that carried, the mocking laughter when she’d told friends as a child that she saw ghosts. She’d been labeled weird and was ostracized. Ever since then, she’d been careful not to reveal her hidden talent.