Dark & Dangerous: A Collection of Paranormal Treats

by Julie Kenner

  He slipped one hand between her thighs and the other reached around her and caressed her breast, plucking at her nipple. His fingers worked in tandem while he pressed kisses along her back. She couldn’t hold still and tried to move, but he pinched her nipple, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

  “John, please. While I was touching you, I could feel your need…as well as mine. Ah…oh, my…I still can feel what you feel…. It’s like a…double whammy.”

  “Good.” He sounded way too satisfied. He released her breast and stretched back onto the hammock. Then he guided her hips off of his erection, pulled her back toward his mouth. And then his mouth found her heat. She buried her head in his sex, but she didn’t dare use her mouth on him. With the sensations rocking her, she feared she might bite.

  With his hands clasped on her hips, he kept her right where he wanted her. And when his splendid tongue drove her right over the brink, she shook, her muscles clenching. But he didn’t stop. He just kept going. She had no time to recover from the explosion before the next one came, this one more intense. She didn’t know if she cried out. She didn’t recognize the whimpering sounds coming from the back of her throat. And still he didn’t stop. The bursts kept coming, until she thought her body couldn’t possibly take more. But when another spasm rippled through her, she began to buck.

  John’s hands remained firm, and his mouth stayed on her intimately, his tongue flicking over her until she lost track of how many times she exploded. Her thighs trembled, her body shook and her heart quivered. She couldn’t take one more climax. And yet she did.

  And when he finally let her take him back inside of her, she was so limp, she could barely move. He guided her until her back lay against his chest, and then he began to move his hips from beneath her. And all the while he kept one hand on her nipple, the other between her thighs. The hammock swayed, his hips pumped into her and when they both exploded together, she knew the Fourth of July fireworks had come early this year.

  She had no idea how long it took her to recover. But with him pressed to her back, she was in no rush to move. In fact, she considered sleeping right in the hammock all night and using John for her pillow.

  He cupped one hand over each of her breasts, lightly stroking her. Warm and snuggled against him, she looked up at the stars and the crescent moon and wished she could wrap this moment up and keep it forever.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I was thinking about how life has wonderful surprises waiting for us if we’re only open to them.”

  “Like multiple orgasms?” He sounded so pleased with himself that she chuckled.

  “Like finding a man who enjoys giving them as much as I enjoyed receiving them. Like finding a man who trusts me, who believes in my gift.”

  “What else do you want from me?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Her heart tripped over the way his tone had turned serious and his aura had changed from red to a steady blue flame.

  “I was hoping for more than a two-day fling.”

  “Are you asking me for another day?”

  “No. I’m hoping that being together might go from a fling to something steady. I’m not willing to give you up and simply recall this weekend as the best of my life. It wasn’t just great sex—it was much more. All my life I’ve roamed the world, searching for something I couldn’t name. When I’m with you, I no longer have the need to search. I’m content. What about you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  “I can live with that.” He kissed her temple.

  “You can?” Spending more time with him opened up entirely new possibilities. John’s trust in her, his open-mindedness about her gift, allowed her to be herself with him. She’d never had that kind of freedom with a man she adored.

  “My work for the Shey Group is on a mission-by-mission basis. Right now I’m owed several months of R and R. I’ve thought about retiring, but now that I’m healed I’m not sure what I want to do with my career. However, I am sure that I’d like us to be together as much as possible.”

  “Kincaid came through as promised. The suspension of my medical license is suspended. So I guess my work and home are in Tampa.”

  “I like Florida.” He teased her nipples. “The heat has lots of advantages.”

  She teetered on the brink of pulling back, of walking away. Yet his steady inner blue flame, as rich in color as the hues in the perfume bottle’s crystal, dared her to accept his offer. How could she turn down a man so honorable? So sincere and charming…and so good in the sack? She’d have to be crazy to say no to him. In fact, if she said no, she knew she’d regret it.

  If she let John into her life, she’d be much better off than she was right now. Her world would become more complex, richer, broader. “Promise me that whatever happens between us that we won’t end up hating one another,” she whispered.

  “I promise.”

  And he meant it. She could hear his sincerity in his tone and feel it inside him, too. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Let’s spend some time together and see where it takes us,” she agreed, her heart light with happiness.

  “That’s the answer I was hoping to hear.” He crossed his arms over her chest and together they rocked in the hammock, gazing up at the stars.

  “We’ll have fun, John. Count on it.”

  Surrender

  Julie Leto

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?”

  Evonne Baptiste ran her fingertip from a swath of crimson velvet to the rigid center of her prize. She finally had what she wanted. After all this time, all this expense. She expected a cold sensation from the thick shaft as she smoothed her finger up the jutting curve, but instead, a tingle of warmth teased her skin. Before she could react, a splinter of fire jabbed her. With a gasp, she withdrew her hand.

  Just what are you?

  Cradled beneath the bright light of her Tiffany lamp, the two-hundred-year-old perfume bottle flickered and shined as if reflecting a dangerous flame rather than the glimmer of a sixty-watt bulb. Fashioned from cut crystal and entwined with an intricate lace of fine silver, the bottle evoked a million impressions at once—most of them innately sensual. The facets of the glass seized the color around it—from the lamp shade, the velvet, the light—then threw back a reflection that Eve couldn’t tear her gaze from. The bottle mesmerized her and, reportedly, had had the same effect on anyone who spent more than an instant admiring its exquisite artistry.

  Well, not the same. Yes, the decorative phial intrigued everyone who saw it, but the full breadth of its purported magical properties remained the secret of a privileged few.

  The perfume bottle had a small date etched on the bottom. Only Eve, an expert on all things associated with Romani legend and lore, would have recognized the significance of the year. 1905. The year he disappeared. No way could that be a coincidence, not when she’d seen the diaries, too—the diaries that corroborated the legend passed orally from gypsy clan to gypsy clan for the past century.

  The bottle was historically tied to Viktor Savitch, a notorious Romani clan leader from the early twentieth century. As an anthropologist with an expertise in Romani cultures, particularly those in Great Britain, Eve had run across the tales of this gypsy king many times. Little by little, the man and the myth had seeped under her skin, into her fantasies. His story brimmed with dramatic highlights, but so
much was missing. The details, the reasons—the truth. He was a desperate, driven leader, a man devoted to keeping his wandering clan intact. She also knew he’d been a notorious charmer, with whispers regarding his prowess in bed.

  She’d been fascinated by his story from the first breath about him. She couldn’t explain the instantaneous connection she’d felt to this man she’d never meet and, though she tried to attribute her response to simple scholarly curiosity, she knew better. Viktor Savitch appealed to Eve not as a subject of study, but as a man.

  Eve wouldn’t define her interest in Viktor as an obsession—yet. But with the purchase of the bottle, she drifted closer. Even before she’d cleaned out her savings account in order to own a reputed piece of his illustrious history, she’d done all she could to know everything about him. She’d traveled to England, walked the same forest trails, explored his unique culture—something that separated them more than death or a century of time ever could. She’d never know him, but with the bottle, she now had a chance to put together all the pieces of the puzzling story.

  If she figured out how to work its magic.

  Any number of her colleagues could have easily translated the words on the base, a Romani phrase that loosely meant, “The strength of the gift.” But few would have suspected there was more to this bottle than aesthetic beauty. If the rumors were true—and she had every reason to believe they were—the bottle was a powerful conduit for paranormal activity, an amplifier for any supernatural gifts the owner already possessed. Eve couldn’t imagine her particular talent growing any stronger, but she hoped.

  Eve had the power to communicate with those who had passed on, but had not crossed over. With their spirits trapped on Earth for a thousand different reasons, the ghosts often reached out to living people who were sensitive to their voices. Like Eve. But where were her friends?

  For nearly forty-eight hours straight, she’d tried to unlock the secret. She’d utilized all her knowledge, and still remained in the dark. But her fascination never wavered, not since the bottle had arrived via special courier, trussed in dark red velvet edged with ruby-colored beads and cradled in a sturdy wooden box. The box had sealed Eve’s suspicion that she’d bought more than a fancy knickknack for her vanity table. Underneath the tattered satin lining, she’d found another etched symbol—faded and nearly imperceptible—but her trained eye recognized the unmistakable seal of the Dulas, a Gypsy clan whispered to have dabbled in black magic.

  She put the bottle on her dresser, then lifted the box from the floor, running her fingers over its smooth grooves. “Just what happened to my gypsy king?”

  With a deep breath and deliberate swallow, Eve closed her eyes and concentrated. She cleared her mind and lowered the tentative walls she’d learned to erect long ago to keep the voices at bay. The voices of the dead.

  Though she’d been communicating with ghosts for as long as she could remember, she rarely invited contact, except with the ghosts that haunted her garden. And even then, most of the time, they slipped into her mind without warning. The souls of the dead could be very persistent. What else had they to do, trapped on Earth between planes of existence?

  Besides, on a night like tonight with the wind howling through the mournful willows surrounding her house and flashes of deceptively silent heat lightning slicing the night sky, Eve could use some company. Even the kind that wasn’t alive, wasn’t solid and apparently wasn’t to be relied on.

  With a sigh, Eve tossed the box onto her unmade bed, the sheets tangled from her unsuccessful attempt to go to sleep early. With no summer courses to teach at the university, Eve had planned to fill her break between semesters exploring her pet project—Viktor. She’d told herself she would write a book, combine the many legends and stories and myths into a dramatic tale of adventure, seduction and loss. A high-profile success on the publishing front could aid her professional standing. That rationalization had tipped the scales in her decision to buy the bottle, no matter the cost.

  But mostly, she’d cleaned out her savings so she could finally have a piece of Viktor Savitch to call her own. She didn’t exactly know how the bottle tied into Viktor’s life, but she’d heard a variety of legends. Yet, so far, the exquisite perfume decanter remained as much a mystery as the man who’d reportedly once owned it.

  Her gaze slid back to the bottle just as a knock sounded on her kitchen door.

  Three hard raps in quick succession.

  Eve smiled. With a quick tug on the sash of her robe, she dashed to the door. From the counter, she snagged the unfinished glass of wine she’d poured earlier to help her sleep. As she sipped, she tore aside the curtain that covered the window panes in her door.

  She saw no one. But her visitors had finally arrived.

  For as long as she’d lived in this centuries-old cottage on the fringes of modern Marietta, Georgia, the souls that wandered the grounds had never entered the house. Well, almost never. Mainly, they haunted the garden and yard, keeping close to the three weathered grave markers in a far corner beside the fence—the markers that had convinced Eve to buy the property on the spot, despite a perpetually leaky roof. One of the entities—a young woman, from what Eve could gather, likely named Alexis if impressions were correct—sometimes sneaked into the parlor while Eve watched television, especially when she screened a film of a sexy or lurid nature. Alexis couldn’t resist 9 1/2 Weeks or Chocolat. Then again, neither could Eve, so she didn’t mind the intrusion.

  But tonight, she needed more from her ethereal friends than company and she only hoped they could help. They too had been gypsies, immigrants to the United States. From where exactly, she didn’t know. But there was a slight chance they may have known her gypsy king.

  The minute Eve stepped off the screened porch and onto the back step, the wind whipped beneath her silk robe and tossed the material aside. She clamped the edges tighter, nearly spilling her wine, then sat on the bottom step and tucked the silk beneath her. She sipped more wine, knowing from experience that she received messages from the dead more easily if she relaxed.

  In July, the air outside Atlanta brimmed with stifling heat. Lightning burst and streaked behind slim gray clouds, illuminating the sky at uneven intervals and with eerie silence. Still, as the breeze flurried across her skin, trickles of a chill tapped her. They were here. Quiet Alexis. Her cousin, the mischievous Nicholai. But Eve didn’t sense Jeta, the old woman. The wise soul. The one who likely had the answer she needed.

  Eve took another long draft of wine. The explosion of rich flavor warmed her mouth and throat, then eased down into her belly, settling the quivers that always snaked through her whenever she sought contact with the dead. She formed the question, then watched with closed eyes as the letters and words formed in her mind. With one sweep of thought, she translated the phrase into Romani and pictured the query again. She had no idea if the dead were bound by the barriers of language, but she wasn’t taking chances. She needed an answer. She needed it now.

  Do you know the gypsy king?

  The wind kicked up and Eve sought to warm herself with another mouthful of wine. Whispers of words teased her ears. After a moment, she understood.

  Which? Which? Which?

  She cleared her mind of the first question. When she pictured his name, the letters were blocked and bold.

  VIKTOR SAVITCH.

  The wind blasted the walls of her cottage, the weathered wood groaning, the wind chimes clanging like a discordant alarm. The cold threads of air slicing through the wind injected her with iciness and all at once, Eve was inundated with an eruption of emotions.

  This was how she most often communicated with the dead—not with full sentences, but whispered words and impressions. But these burst at her, exploding in her brain, attacking with an intensity she’d never experienced.

  Cursed!

  Fear.

  Black magic.

  Anticipation.

  Excitement?

  Legendary.

  And then…arou
sal.

  Eve shot to her feet. A burst of warmth raked across her breasts, caressing her nipples, erect from the cold. Another tendril of heat slithered up her bare leg, teasing her thighs before dipping into a sudden pool of moisture in her panties. Eve stepped back, forgetting about the porch behind her. Her balance lost, the wineglass slipped from her hand, drenching her in crimson. But before she toppled to the ground, a final blast of air scooped behind her, buoyed her, and settled her down on the porch swing.

  Eve gasped, then scrambled toward the door. They’d touched her! She shook her head wildly, fumbling with the doorknob as reality slammed down.

  They’d touched her! Not like usual. Not with tiny pinpricks of iciness. But with warmth. With potency! With intimacy.

  Eve wrenched the door open, threw herself into the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. Her heart pounded against her chest and her eyes had trouble adjusting to the bright indoor light. Sapped of breath, her body flush against the wood and curtains, she panted, desperate to fill her tight lungs.

  What had happened? And why was she suddenly afraid?

  Never in all the years that Eve communicated with the lost spirits of the dead had she ever experienced real fear. Once or twice, she’d been spooked a little, maybe. Distressed, sometimes, when exposed to an angry or malevolent entity, but never terrified. They couldn’t touch her. They couldn’t hurt her.

  Only that wasn’t true anymore, was it? Outside, she’d been touched. Intimately. And her body had reacted in kind, stirring with need that even for the briefest instant shocked her with its intensity. Yet she didn’t feel violated in the least. Instead, she felt intrigued.

  She swallowed and remembered the bottle settled inertly on her bedroom dresser.

  The rumors were true.

  The bottle must have strengthened her gift to communicate with the dead. Her possession of the magical object had broken the boundary between the two planes of existence—allowing stronger impressions and, more shocking, physical interaction.