Hearts Through Time

THREE

Abigail held her breath and closed her eyes, focusing on feeling his hand. She had to feel him! For so many years, loneliness had filled her heart because of her uncertain future. Nicholas Marshal must be the one to save her from the unknown.

As he drew near to her, his musky, masculine cologne created a sensation inside her unlike anything she'd experienced before. Between that and his overwhelming powerful good looks, her stomach was in a constant flutter around him. Still, she'd met too many men in her lifetime that looked like perfection but were far from it. By now she knew the true beauty of a person came from within. She would watch carefully to see if Mr. Marshal was as beautiful on the inside as he was on the outside.

"No...way," he muttered. "I can't believe this."

Abigail's heart sank to her stomach. It had been a long time since she'd felt the warmth of another person's touch, and right now she wanted that more than anything. She wanted to experience the rush of heat from a mere stroke of a person's fingers on her skin. Feeling alive was on the brink of her memory, and she craved that again even knowing it would never happen.

Tears spiked her eyelashes, so she blinked them away. "Believe it, Mr. Marshal. I'm a ghost."

He stepped closer and swept his hands over her arms. Nothing solid touched her, not even a faint breeze. His hands kept moving as if to find a connection, but she knew he would feel nothing. "You can stop now, Mr. Marshal. You are not going to feel a thing."

"I know, but...it's so unbelievable."

When his hands moved in the direction of her chest, she gasped and crossed her arms. "Mr. Marshal, I can assure you that you will not feel anything there, either!"

He dropped his hands as a roguish smile broke across his face, making his green eyes sparkle. "Sorry. Guess I got carried away." He inhaled deeply and shook his head. "I still don't believe this. I don't believe in ghosts."

He loosened his tie a little more and unfastened the second button on his shirt. He stretched his neck as if something tight squeezed around it.

Feeling helpless, Abigail asked, "If you don't believe in ghosts, how do you explain your hands passing through my body?"

"Easy. I'm hallucinating. For some reason, I've conjured up a beautiful woman from the past. I still don't know why the woman in question is wearing clothes from the early 1900s, though..." he mumbled.

He thinks I'm beautiful? His statement surprised her, especially because she didn't dress as the women of his time. She looked nothing like that lady who had her hands all over him yesterday.

Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. "The stress over the past couple of years has caught up to me, and I'm going loony. That's the only explanation for all of this."

Abigail tapped her foot and huffed. "Mr. Marshal, you are not very humorous."

"I happen to think differently."

He turned and sank into his chair, threading his fingers through his thick black hair. She wished she could touch his locks—they looked so soft. She fisted her hands by her side, reminding herself she would never be able to touch anyone or anything again. Nervously, she chewed on her bottom lip, a bad habit she'd had since she was a little girl.

He lifted his gaze, and she noticed the deep lines etched around his eyes. So adorable!

"I must still be dreaming," he said. "I woke up this morning from a weird dream, and now I don't think I'm really awake."

She scooted to the edge of the desk and leaned closer, reaching out to touch him. Then, realizing the gesture was futile, she stopped her hand in midair. "I wish I could convince you this is not a dream."