I could only nod. This time he pushed the dish toward me and said, “Help yourself.”

Somehow the second oyster didn’t have the same effect on me, but it was delicious, and I polished off three of the smaller ones before my clam chowder arrived.

“So,” Jagger said, after finishing his second beer. “What about Lydia’s aunt?”

I set down my spoon in case he said something to upset me, and I had the urge to fling a dollop of chowder in his direction. “Why do you keep harping on her? The aunt?”

He turned to the waitress, who was a few tables over, and lifted his beer bottle. She nodded as if she recognized the universal sign for “hit me again.” Then again, reading Jagger was something I sure wasn’t very good at. Hopefully this waitress was better at it than me.

She must’ve been because within seconds-or so it seemed-she had set another bottle in front of Jagger. Poor thing, I thought, he’s gotten to her too. I’m sure she’s never moved so fast in her waitstaff career.

Jagger took a sip and looked at me. He had this way of pulling words from my mouth with those damn dark eyes. Sometimes, I noted, they took on a deep brown-very much like my favorite chocolate. Other days and only in a certain light, they appeared more black with specks of gold. Then there were times when I saw a hint of hazel.

Today was a chocolate day and no wonder the waitress was falling all over herself.

“Well, I’ve only met Lydia once at The Market. Man, they have the best clam chowder-”

Jagger glared at me. “I’ve had the chowder in every place imaginable around here, Sherlock. I don’t need a Zagat’s rating review.”

“I…um…so…where’s the best?” I took a long sip of wine, which emptied my glass. The guy had my dander up, so I looked toward the waitress and held up my glass.

She turned away without a glance.

And I knew she saw me.

I curled my lips and looked back at Jagger. “Get me another one.”

He smirked and waved at the girl, who didn’t even have to come see what he wanted. Soon I had my third glass of wine in front of me, and as much as I told myself to go slow, that I wasn’t used to so much wine, the thing was half gone in a heartbeat.

Yikes.

“Show…so…” Oh, boy. Was the dock moving? I inhaled the fresh ocean air to clear my head. “So, why are you so interested in the aunt?”

He shook his head-twice.

No one ever wanted Jagger shaking his head at him or her-especially me. Then again, I think I was the only one he ever shook at. I’d scored the number of shakes from one to three with one being merely annoyed and three…suffice it to say, no one wanted three shakes.

I got to buy some time when our dear waitress who just about threw my lobster in front of me (okay, the wine was blowing things out of proportion) went to help Jagger with his bib. She fussed and fussed tying and retying all the while I’m sure she was suffering-make that enjoying-some pheromone-induced episode.

Jagger suddenly took her hand. “Fine. That’s fine, honey.”

I’m sure she wouldn’t wash her hand that night.

I stuck my bib on-crooked-while Jagger yanked his off and grabbed a claw from his dish. When he went to crack it with the tools set before us, he said, “Olivia Wheaton-Chandler owns…Highcliff Manor.”

Olivia owned Highcliff!

I hadn’t had a chance to find out who the “money lady” and Lydia’s aunt actually was.

I bit into a chunk of lobster, chewed but swallowed without thinking since the bombshell Jagger had just set off took all my attention.

In seconds I couldn’t breathe and grabbed at my throat-the universal sign of choking. Jagger flew out of his seat, grasped me from behind and did the Heimlich maneuver. The piece of buttery lobster popped out of my mouth and onto my dish.

Thank goodness it didn’t land on Jagger’s or I’d have been so embarrassed.

I’d gotten pretty used to being humiliated in front of him (actually by him), so having it on my dish and having my life spared was no big deal.

I pushed at his hands before he cracked a rib and breathlessly said, “I’m fine. Thanks. I owe you one.”

He sat down and looked at me then grinned again.

Yikes!

I had to see if the adult ed classes back in Hope Valley offered a quick course on reading body language. Because in my book that look said “sex,” but probably in Jagger’s it was more like “you’re going to have to wash my laundry” or some stupid guy thing to do with housework in order to pay him back.

I took a sip of water this time and gently pushed the wineglass away. One episode of near-death per night was my limit. “Okay. How do you…is she really? Mrs. Wheaton-Chandler is? Is the owner of Highcliff? Lydia didn’t say…I mean she would know that-”

Jagger touched my lips.

I chose to “read” it as sensual; however, my logical mind knew it was out of exasperation to shut me up. Forget the course. I was going to read him how I wanted, or I’d never be able to work with him, knowing the truth.

“She owns it,” he said, very matter-of-fact. He lifted his fork and stabbed at the tail end of his lobster, recovering a gigantic piece. Jagger didn’t even dip it in butter, which didn’t surprise me-however, it did annoy me.

I would probably gain anywhere from ten to thirteen pounds at this one meal tonight. Oh well, at least I was sticking Jagger with the bill. That gave me some justification for all the calories.

After my chocolate mousse dessert-with whipped cream-I decided we-at least I-needed to walk a bit. No, a lot.

“It’s such a nice night, let’s take a walk,” Jagger said.

Amazing, yet not surprising. The guy had some kind of power to read minds. My mind, that was. I only hoped he hadn’t suggested the exercise because he’d noted I’d already started to gain a few pounds.

At the end of the wharf area we had to wait for the light to change before we could cross the street. America’s Cup Avenue was always busy with fast-moving traffic. I turned toward a lamp pole and noticed a sign.

“Oh, Jagger!”

He swung around-looking very much like he thought he was going to have to do some kind of emergency procedure on me yet again. “What the hell?”

I waved at him. “I’m fine. That sign. Can we take it?”

“You want to take the sign?”

I groaned. “No, silly. What it says. Can we sign up for it? We have about six minutes before it starts.”

He looked at the pole and remained silent a few seconds too long.

Made me start to get nervous. “Jagger?”

“I’m not going on some goddamn ghost tour around Newport. I can tell you all you want to know for free.” With that he started to cross the street, leaving me, with my mouth agape, in his wake.

“Oh no you don’t, buddy,” I said, hurrying after him. Normally I was a jogger, but after three glasses of chardonnay, I wouldn’t make it a mile. Thank goodness I didn’t stumble as a Maserati sped past me and Jagger turned to yank me up onto the curb.

“Damn it, Sherlock. You wanna get yourself killed?”

Not while you’re holding my arm like that, I thought. Yikes. Then I pulled away. “You walked away from me, and why can’t we take the tour? I’ll bet it’s a hoot.”

His chocolate eyes melted into me. Wow. Before I knew it I was on the other side of the street, standing on the sidewalk of Thames Street in front of the old Trinity Church. Tall white steeple. Set on the hill and very New Englandlike.

I poked at Jagger’s chest. “Come on, Jagger. Live a little.”

He growled at me. “Walking around Newport looking for ghosts is not living, Sherlock.” With that he swung an arm around me, pulled me closer, leaned me backward and pressed his lips on mine.

Oh…my…God.

“This,” he murmured, “is living.”

Then I never want to die.

If I thought three glasses of wine made my knees weak, they’d actually been like steel compared to how this guy made me feel. In a few seconds he had me upright and our lips were no longer in contact, but the feelings surging throughout me kept right up-thank goodness.