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  Praise for

  SPIRITED

  “Great! A real page-turner. Once you pick it up, you won’t want to put it down until you’re done!”

  —Lynsay Sands, New York Times bestselling author of the Argeneau Vampire series

  “Rich with mystery, hot romance, and sneaky humor, Mary Behre’s Spirited absolutely delighted me! The solid dose of supernatural thrills it offered—along with one of the hottest, most divine heroes EVER—had me curled beneath a blanket, shivering with the thrill of being swept up in the drama, magic, and unexpected fun of heroine Jules Scott’s paranormal encounters. Beneath the ghostly mysteries lurks a sexual chemistry between Jules and detective Seth English that sets fire to the pages. It’s been a long time since I’ve come across as unique a premise as Ms. Behre offers her readers in Spirited. No magic crystal ball is needed to foresee this writer is bursting with talent! I can’t wait for more from her!”

  —Shelby Reed, author of Games People Play

  “From the moment the heroine, dressed like a hooker, stumbles through the window of the cop hero’s bedroom, you know you’re in for an unusual story. Behre’s sweet, sexy, funny debut has twists and turns (and an occasional ghost!) to keep suspense readers happy, and a poignant love story that will have you grabbing for a Kleenex.”

  —Lena Diaz, author of the Nursery Rhyme series

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  SPIRITED

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by Mary Behre.

  Excerpt from Guarded by Mary Behre copyright © 2014 by Mary Behre.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-0-425-26861-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63024-2

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / March 2014

  Cover illustration by Tony Mauro.

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Praise for SPIRITED

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  EPILOGUE

  Sneak Peek of GUARDED

  For Donna Graham,

  who believed this was possible from the moment she read the first story I wrote.

  I miss you, every day.

  And for Valerie Bowman,

  who refused to let me give up on her book boyfriend.

  This one’s for you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many people influenced me, guided me, or just plain buoyed my spirits as I endeavored to put words to paper, it’s only fair to thank them here.

  My editor, Leis Pederson, thank you for taking a chance on me. Nalini Akolekar, I’m so grateful for your guidance and that you’re my agent.

  Elle Cosimano, your idea for writing retreat weekends was brilliant. I’ve never pushed myself harder or written more in one sitting than in those cabins.

  Kim Kenealy, you’ll always be my best friend. Too late to run now. It’s in print.

  The Berry Best Betas: Valerie Bowman, Elizabeth Clark, Jamie Disterhaupt, Kim Kenealy, Yvonne Richard, Chris Behre Sr., and Gayle Shlafer, thank you for the excellent feedback. Thank you, LaLaLas for being such an amazing writers’ group.

  Also, thank you KG YMCA staff for letting me hide in your offices and write while my children played or took classes.

  A quick shout of thanks to Lee Lofland for introducing me to Chief Scott Silverii at the Writers’ Police Academy. Any mistakes made in this book were purely my own and sometimes intentional.

  And thank you to Lynsay Sands, Shelby Reed, and Lena Diaz for the fabulous cover quotes. All three of you are brilliant authors and to have received your praise means so much to me.

  And finally, to Indy, the Captain, and Chris. You are the most important people in my life. I love you three so much, it amazes me when I wake each morning and discover I love you all a little more than before.

  PROLOGUE

  “WHAT DO YOU mean, she took the diamonds?” He tightened his grip on the cell phone.

  “She says she can’t find them now.”

  I’ll just bet she can’t.

  Little whore probably had this planned from the moment she found out what they were doing. She’d assured him he needn’t worry about her. Convinced him to trust her.

  And this is how she thanks me?

  The voice on the crackling line rambled on. “We’ll find the diamonds. You’ll get them back. I’ll fix this, I swear!”

  More broken promises. More lies.

  His fingernails dug crescents into his palm and he imagined repaying her for her betrayal.

  It wouldn’t take much. Just the right placement of his fingers on her throat and a little pressure. Then a little more. Her lovely swan neck would feel like silk beneath his fingers. He’d kill her slowly. Give her time to catch a wisp of breath before he strangled her again.

  The idea of making her suffer and beg him to spare her worthless life brought a smile to his face.

  “Okay?” The idiot stopped rambling.

  “Sure.” He didn’t know what he’d agreed to but didn’t care. He’d stopped listening. Tapping out a text, he chose his words carefully. The message was brief, but believable. She’d come out of hiding . . . and he’d make her pay.

  CHAPTER 1

  JULIANA SCOTT LOOPED the strap of her black Prada clutch over her wrist and imagined scaling her apartment building in five-inch stiletto boots.

  Where was a radioactive spider when you needed one?

  The fire escape ladder dangled about seven feet up. She’d just have to jump for it. Or she could continue to stand there like some kind of crazily dressed prostitute turned damsel-in-distress at three in the morning. Someone might come along and help her; then again, the way her night was going, she’d p
robably end up a statistic. Or arrested.

  But her heels were freaking five inches high. And she hated climbing, boots or not.

  “Come on, Jules,” she sang to herself as she plowed her hand through the contents of the bag for the third time. How could she not have her keys? She might be directionally challenged but she never forgot them. Ever.

  A nearby streetlight flickered off, then on again, casting a dull yellow glow.

  She shuddered; goose bumps rushed up her arms but it wasn’t cold. That could only mean one thing: she wasn’t alone. She listened for whoever—or more likely, whatever—it was to make its presence known.

  Nothing. Not a sound except the ocean waves washing against the sandy shore a block away. The gentle lapping water soothed her and a small, relieved sigh slipped from her lips.

  “Who, whoooooo!” A barred owl swooped low and she let out a small yelp of alarm.

  Crazy bird. Jules laughed softly at her own paranoia and rubbed her weary eyes. She hadn’t seen a ghost in six months. Why did she think she’d see one in Tidewater now?

  She refocused on finding her keys. She shoved aside the bags of dried lavender and oregano she’d picked up from the herbalist. Skipped over the Waitress Red lipstick she’d bought for tonight’s party. Dug beneath her first prize blue ribbon. And came up empty.

  She shook the purse. It felt oddly heavy, but it contained nothing else.

  Even her cell phone was gone.

  Dang it! Another fabulous blunder to add to an already freakish night.

  How was she supposed to find her missing sisters if she couldn’t even find her flipping keys? Finding lost things . . . now that would be a gift! Instead she’d inherited the freakish ability to talk to the dead. Unless a dead person could tell her where she’d left her keys, or help her find her lost sisters, she considered it more of a crift—cursed gift. She shook her purse one last time.

  Stupid ghosts.

  She glared at the ladder’s twenty rusted stairs leading to her bedroom window. Hitching the purse strap up to her elbow, she heaved a sigh and jumped twice before her fingers connected with metal. The ladder lowered with a screech. The sound echoed against the brick as she stepped one precariously high-heeled foot on the first rung.

  Man, tonight totally bites.

  First, Mason Hart, that overgrown jock, tried to cop a feel at their college reunion. Now, she was wriggling up a fire escape in a skirt and bustier so tight, they squeezed all the breath from her body.

  I’m burning this outfit tomorrow.

  Finally on the second level, she pulled up the ladder behind her and latched it in place. Every other step, her boots snagged in the grooves of the metal deck. She started past her neighbor’s partially opened window when the goose bumps returned.

  An incredible sense of anger and sadness swept over her. Someone else’s pain. The feelings smothered her sense of self and stole her breath. Bracing herself against the brick, she fought to erect the mental shields that she used to block out a spirit’s projected emotions.

  She visualized gray castle walls rising around her, the same mental image she’d used since childhood. Castles were strong and safe . . . impenetrable. With her mental shields in place, her breathing eased and she rested against the wall.

  Below, the street sat eerily quiet and dark. Even the owl stopped hooting. As far as she could see she was alone, but her senses screamed she had company.

  Minutes ticked past and nothing moved. A warm ocean breeze carried the sound of the rushing shore. Otherwise, silence.

  Home and her bed waited less than a foot away.

  “Help me . . . please . . .”

  The high-pitched voice grated against her senses.

  “Not now,” Jules whispered, wishing she could just ignore the girly-sounding disembodied voice.

  And a fresh one at that. New specters hadn’t yet mastered the ability to communicate without rubbing against the corporeal plane. The effect on her body was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Unlike the dead, living people didn’t make her skin crawl just by speaking.

  Jules tried to open her window. It didn’t budge. She eyed the lock but it was open. Why wouldn’t the darn thing open?

  “I . . . need . . . you . . .”

  Frustration tinged with a healthy dose of fear whipped through her. She shoved at the window again. It still didn’t move. Rubbing at her goose bump–covered arms, she turned to her neighbor’s window. It was open and dark inside. She dismissed the fleeting thought. She’d sooner scale down the building naked than . . .

  Her mind muddled. She shook her head to clear it. The scent of sandalwood filled her. Warmth suffused her bones and she couldn’t resist the pull to the open window.

  The aroma intensified. Never before had anything smelled so wonderful. A warm, gooey, just-ate-the-best-caramel-brownies-ever feeling filled her. She had to get closer. The urge to get inside was overpowering.

  The scent wafted through the open window and her body tingled, needing to get closer. The leather skirt hugged her thighs too tight as she tried to step through. Instead, she shifted and pushed through headfirst. Each movement dreamlike. Jules’s belly on the sill and her booted feet still outside, the scent drew her in until she tumbled to the floor. Breaking the trance, the specter whispered one word.

  “Finally.”

  • • •

  WAS HE DREAMING? Detective Seth English of the Tidewater Police Department rubbed his eyes. Nope, no question about it. Someone was breaking into his apartment.

  Criminals are just stupid.

  Of all the nights to leave his window open, Seth had to pick tonight. He damned his recent bout of insomnia. Stress always did that to him. The sound of the ocean usually soothed him. Not tonight. His much-needed peace was shattered by a felony in progress.

  He sat up. The blanket fell to his waist. Sliding noiselessly out of bed, he grabbed his gun and handcuffs from the nightstand. He slipped into the shadowed corner and waited.

  Damn. The last thing he needed was a trip downtown and a night full of paperwork. Lately, it seemed to be one thing after another: his daughter’s engagement, his new partner, their unsolvable case . . . and now this.

  Could his life get any more complicated without his head actually imploding?

  The window frame groaned then gave another inch.

  The streetlamp outside cast her in silhouette. And she was definitely a she. Delicate feminine fingers slipped into the opening and wrapped around the frame, pushing the window slowly upward.

  Seth watched, barely breathing, as she wriggled through the window. When she’d made it mostly through, her hands flew wide in front of her as if searching for leverage. Then she tumbled to the floor with a grunt.

  “Stay down!” Lunging forward, he planted a knee in her back. He pressed the gun into the base of her skull. His other hand twisted each of her wrists behind her and cuffed them together.

  “Ouch! Stop!” she screamed. “Help! Police!”

  “I am the police.” He ran his finger along her wrists to ensure he hadn’t snapped the cuffs too tight. “You’re fine.”

  In the dim light, Seth reached down to help her up. He couldn’t very well leave her on the floor, regardless of the temptation. Fumbling in the dark, his hand brushed the warm satin skin of her bared midriff.

  “Get your hands off me! Somebody! Help me!” She shrieked a banshee’s wail next to his ear.

  “What the hell are you yelling for?” He tugged her over to the bed and shoved her down.

  She thrashed and screamed incomprehensibly.

  “Enough! Or I’ll charge you with disturbing the peace too.” When she kept shrieking, he added, “You broke into my place, ruining the first night’s sleep I’ve had in a week. I don’t need you bursting my eardrum too. Now be quiet. I’m getting the light.”

  Her cries instantly died in the shock of blinding light.

  When Seth’s eyes focused, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  The hooke
r—she had to be a hooker—wore knee-high black patent leather stiletto boots, a black miniskirt that could have doubled as a headband, and a leather bustier. Her legs were long and lean and covered in fishnet stockings. And the swell of her breasts was, in a word . . . succulent. Her short, straight midnight-colored hair was too dark to be real. The woman personified sex, as was her obvious intention. But her green eyes made his pulse thrum.

  They were astonishing, as if emeralds were cut and layered around the pupils. The most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, in spite of the appallingly thick black eyeliner surrounding them.

  And strawberries? God, she smelled like strawberries. His mouth actually watered.

  Attracted to a hooker. I’ve sunk so low.

  Chalking it up to his sexual drought, he focused on dealing with the handcuffed home invader thrashing around on his bed. He tried to shove his sidearm into his shoulder holster before remembering he was shirtless. Stomping over to the bedside table, he yanked open the drawer and dropped the gun in.

  He hoped she’d think the heat creeping up his cheeks was from anger instead of embarrassment. Folding his arms across his chest, he asked, “Do you have any idea where you are?”

  • • •

  JULES SAT DUMBFOUNDED in the bedroom of a Greek god. He had espresso brown eyes, curly black hair, a long nose that had probably been broken a time or two, and a sexy, dimpled chin. His tan, muscular body was covered by a chest full of springy hair that begged to be touched. Dang! He even smelled good, like soap and the salty Tidewater air.

  Ohmigawd, he’s a walking condom commercial.

  He scowled at her, waiting for an answer. Although to save her life she couldn’t think of anything. Where was she? More important, what was she doing here? Then a mental switch flipped and it all became clear.

  That freaking ghost! Jules couldn’t very well tell a cop she stumbled into his apartment because a ghost made her do it. He’d haul her off to the loony bin.

  “Well.” Jules fidgeted against the cuffs and tried to adjust to a more dignified position on the bed. So not happening. “No, not really. I was trying to go home but, uh . . . locked myself out.”