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She stalked into the drawing room, then into the library. Both rooms were empty.
"Dammit, Matthew, show yourself!"
Were they going to play games? Jaw set, Kathryn marched into the kitchen. There was a shortwave-band radio over the stove. She had no idea if it worked but now she switched it on, hoping against hope it would play and fill the mocking silence!
Static hissed from the speaker. She fooled with the dial, sweeping past a station playing reggae and another playing tangos until she picked up some station in the midst of a commercial.
"...from sunny St. George on Grenada," a booming voice said, "your favorite station playing nothing but the best of the oldies."
The best of the oldies. That, plus an afternoon of keeping busy until the estimable captain decided to show himself, should do the trick. Kathryn filled the sink with hot, sudsy water. Then she took the coffee pot from the stove, tossed the grounds into the garbage can, and dumped the pot into the sink.
The fruit salad she'd prepared had begun to wilt in its bowl and it went into the trash, too. It was a waste of perfectly good food, yet another reminder of what a mess the weekend had turned out to be, courtesy of Captain Matthew McDowell. The pantry and refrigerator were full of still more stuff, butter and eggs and all kinds of goodies, stuff she'd never use with Jason gone.
Well, at least one thing had come out of his visit. He was right about not trying to cover up the fact that the house was haunted. The right buyer would probably lap up the tale of a man who'd been so in love he'd given up his life for a woman.
A woman who had not deserved him.
Kathryn made a face.
"Oh, stop it," she muttered. She snatched up the coffee mug she'd been drinking from hours before and lifted it to her lips. The coffee was cold and bitter, and she shuddered as she swallowed it.
It was all nonsense. There was nothing romantic in any of this. She'd let her emotions get out of hand, that was all, and it was Matthew's fault.
"Oh, hell!" she said fiercely, and flung the mug at the wall.
The mug and the wall never connected. Matthew appeared before she could blink and plucked the mug out of the air.
"A temper is not becoming in a woman," he said primly.
Kathryn's heart did an untidy little two-step at the sight of him, which only sharpened her anger.
"Where have you been?" she demanded.
He grinned at her. "Ah," he said, "I am touched. I didn't think you cared."
"I know you think nothing of materializing at will, but I find it infuriating!"
"That's unkind, madam." His tone was still proper and formal but she could see that his green eyes glinted with laughter. "It is not my idea to make such dramatic entrances but being a ghost leaves me with little choice in the matter."
Kathryn glared at him. "Give me that," she said, snatching the mug from his hand and dropping it into the sink. Then she wiped her hands on her bottom, turned and glared at him again. "It's time we had a talk, Captain McDowell."
"Such formality, and after all we've shared together."
"We've shared nothing," she said, her eyes snapping.
"You call sharing living quarters 'nothing'?" He frowned at the radio. Elton John was complaining about candles in the wind. "What is that noisy thing?"
"A radio."
"Another peculiar invention of your time?"
"Does it bother you?" Kathryn said sweetly. "Because if it does, I can always make it louder."
Matthew's brows arched. "I see you are not in a good mood today, Kathryn."
"My goodness, but you are perceptive!"
He moved past her, his arm just brushing hers. It sent an unnerving tremor up her spine.
