What's next from Reis Asher?

I've been working on a little project I like to call "Echoes". It's a paranormal M/M novel set in an abandoned English hotel where the spirits of the dead aren't resting in peace. Leland is tuned into these spiritual afterimages, but his husband John is skeptical. When John inherits the hotel from his father, he plans to sell it quickly to deal with their financial problems, but Leland soon becomes obsessed with the Echoes, living their past lives as an escape from his own.

Here's a little snippet from a very early draft:

Was this hotel a hookup place for gay men? He thought back to Tom and Aiden from the day before. They'd used this hotel to meet up in secret. There was the possibility the Grand Park had been an oasis in the desert for Shorehaven's gay community. London was only an hour away. Men of wealth and means probably traveled here to meet with others, and he'd strolled in taking notes like an idiot.
"What's your name?" Leland asked, trying to diffuse the tension in the air.
"We don't use names here."
"They must call you something."
"I go by Nigel." Nigel went behind a small bar and poured himself a glass of brandy. Leland caught the tremor in his hand and the way he gulped the drink down in earnest.
"I'm one of you," Leland said. "That's why I'm here. I was foolish for bringing a notebook; I thought if I pretended at being a reporter, I could see what it was all about before I dipped my toes in the water."
"That's what a journalist would say," Nigel observed. He poured himself another brandy and walked over to the couch, where he sat down. The couch creaked, even under his slight weight. "Have you ever enjoyed the company of men before?"
"Y-yes," Leland replied, realizing his nerves made him sound every bit the virgin. Nigel tapped the seat next to him and he realized he had no choice but to go along. If he backed out now, things could take a terrible turn. He sat down close to Nigel, feeling the body heat emanate off him. He smelled like sandalwood and cigarettes, a heady aroma that made Leland think of wealth and taste.
Nigel placed a hand on his leg, gently rubbing it up and down. "What should I call you?" he purred into Leland's ear. Sweat trickled down Leland's brow. Was this cheating? Would Nigel reach his crotch and realize he didn't have a cock?
Except he did have a cock, and he was stiffening under Nigel's teasing touch. He wasn't Leland, was he? He was Walter. He was living another life, an echo of a past long gone; an afterimage.
"W-walter," he stammered. "Walter--"
"Just Walter will do. As I said, no names, in case of a police raid. It is better if we cannot identify one another."