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“My feet hurt. Too much dancing.”

“Dancing?” he said wistfully.

I lifted my arm and turned to look at him. “Yes. A lot of dancing last night, at the party.” I paused, feeling shy. “I’d like to dance with you.”

“I’d like that too,” he said, and his lips turned down with regret.

“We can in my dreams.”

He nodded and gave me a sad, bittersweet smile. “I’d like to do it here, though. You know, hold you. Dance with you.”

“I wish we could,” I whispered.

“Alas. It’s not to be,” he said. “Oh, baby, what I wouldn’t give to be alive.”

His voice was a soft whisper as he leaned over to gaze at me. My heart leaped at his endearment, and I stared up into his darkening eyes, sure that mine matched the longing I saw there.

“Have you ever… um…” I stopped, not quite believing I’d almost voiced this question.

“Have I ever what, Beauchamp?” he asked, and the corner of his mouth twitched up in amusement. My face turned scarlet, and Tristan laughed. “You want a body count. Well, not for a long time,” he scoffed, and his smile was dazzling.

“Not even with some other ghost?”

“No,” he murmured, more serious now.

“Before you were dead?”

“Yes. A few.” He lay back and stared at the ceiling.

I flushed. A few? How many is a few?

“Anyone special?”

His eyes flickered from mine for a moment. “No one as special as you,” he said. “You?”

“Oh, no. Never.” My flush deepened. I hadn’t thought that he might be curious about me too.

He grinned and looked relieved. “Thought as much.”

“Why do you think that?” My tone was sharper than I intended.

“Beauchamp, I know. That’s all.”

“From your gross invasion of my privacy?”

He laughed. “No. I just figured you’ve been concentrating on your music and not messing around with the opposite sex. You play so well, and that only comes with a shitload of practice. Don’t stress.”

“I thought there was something wrong with my kissing,” I whispered, voicing my real fear.

“Nothing wrong with your kissing. Believe me.” He smirked. “It’s certainly resurrecting the latent hormonal bastard in me. Shit. The son of a bitch is on his way.”

What?

There was a knock at the door. I scrambled to sit up, and Tristan chuckled. Dylan opened the door without waiting for permission.

“Hi. I wanted to tell you I was going out—” Dylan paused, gazed at me, and sniffed the air. “He’s here, isn’t he?” he said, his eyes scanning the room.

Hell!