Ghost of a Chance by Dee Lloyd

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Bret's well-ordered life is already off the rails when the lovely but bloody ghost confronts him on a dark, deserted road. His body is almost fully recovered from the attack that nearly killed him but his nerves must be in worse shape than he thought. Seeing ghosts?! He must be losing his grip on reality ... Milly spots the tall, attractive blond man the moment he steps into the piano lounge. As she spins her web of magic on the audience, she is intensely aware of the stranger's unwavering gaze. She doesn't realize she is the woman Bret saw on the road--or is she?

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He turned off the air conditioning and opened his window. Maybe the warm, moist Florida air flowing in and whipping around him would soothe some of the tension out of his muscles.

The quiet blackness of the night and the aggressive music therapy seemed to be doing the trick, but Bret felt the back of his neck tighten again as he approached the abandoned construction site. Resolutely, he kept on thwacking the steering wheel in time to the music. Mind over matter. That's what he had to concentrate on.

But it didn't work.

And it hadn't for almost a week. The moment he hit the property line of the projected retirement community the temperature in the cab plunged and, no matter what kind of music he was playing on the stereo, the wailing of a saxophone sliced through the air. Piercing and sad, it replaced every other sound. It silenced the rumble of the pickup's engine and Bret could swear that his own breathing was soundless. The saxophone sang alone ... and stopped when he reached the far property line. Once or twice he thought he'd caught a glimpse of someone walking along the side of the road. A woman, he thought. But that was only imagination. He'd allowed himself to be spooked by some kind of freaky radio waves that seemed indigenous to this spot.

Bret sped up. He shivered. The chill was deep and intense. It didn't dance on the skin like a cooling breeze, but rather began at the marrow of his bones and radiated outward. This short stretch of road always seemed endless, the piercing wail of the saxophone interminable. He had almost reached the end of the long curve in the road that edged the site when he saw her.

This time she was right in themiddle of the road--not twenty feet in front of his truck--a gleaming white figure in the headlight beams. In the split-second he was able to focus on her, he thought he recognized that slender build and dark hair. Then he was too busy swerving onto the shoulder to avoid hitting her to get a really good look.

But what on earth would Yvette be doing out here?

The moment his wheels skidded and sank into the soft, loamy shoulder of the road Bret flung his door open and leapt out. Vaguely aware that the air was even colder outside the truck, he verified his first impression. It was Yvette, all right. Apparently she had been in some kind of accident. That was definitely blood on her white jacket and she was missing one shoe. Even from a distance he could see scrapes on her bruised face.

What the hell had happened to her? Her features were so battered he could barely recognize the pretty maid of honor who had smiled at him last week at his cousin's wedding.