by Julie Kenner
Suddenly exhausted and light-headed, Eve dragged herself to her bedroom, blew out the candle she’d left burning and fell onto the bed face-first. Maybe this was all a huge mistake. Maybe this time, she’d taken on more than she could handle.
Or maybe, she was in for the ride of her life.
CHAPTER TWO
I CAN TOUCH HER!
Viktor Savitch peered through a pane in his prison of glass and watched Evonne Baptiste drop onto her bed, her dark blond hair falling like a curtain over her face. Exhaustion and shock had played a sinister game with her delicate features, but as she drifted into the serenity of sleep, he imagined her a creature of light and magic.
And he’d touched her! The experience had apparently sapped her energy, but he hadn’t felt this alive in one hundred years. A great trick, since he was still very, very dead.
Despite that fact, he could almost feel his hands thrust onto his hips as he threw his head back and laughed. He didn’t have a body for such an action, but the impression remained the same. Blood surged through invisible veins. His nonexistent chest rumbled with mirth. His vision, cloudy before, now stood blocked only by the curve of the glass. For the first time in ages, the essence of life swelled around him.
An essence he would harness. Soon. To live again, he’d do whatever he had to do, knowing that some tasks, like seducing Evonne Baptiste, would be more pleasant than others.
When he’d first died, the phantom presence of his physical self had been strong and vital, just as he had been. But over time, he’d faded. Slowly. Painfully. His punishment for a life of arrogance exacted a precise toll. But now, had the powers of the ethereal world decided that he’d done his penance? Had they gifted him with the means to escape?
To hell with them, Viktor cursed. He’d get out, and he’d do it on his own.
Nearly.
Evonne stirred, a soft murmur spilling from her wine-tinged lips. Once again, Viktor reacted, as if a heart slammed beneath the imaginary ribs of his chest. Even the crick in his thigh from where he'd been stabbed so long ago throbbed again.
He’d deal with the pain if he had to. After all this time, he’d found a means to communicate with the world outside his prison. And he couldn’t have ordered a more perfect medium. This one, this Evonne Baptiste, not only possessed the ability to speak with those who had died, but she was haunted by an unsatisfied hunger for those intimate needs Viktor had once commanded above all other men, dead or alive.
Passion. Lust. Desire.
Could he find the means to satisfy her? Of course. He could feel his power increasing, even as she slept. For her part in his rejuvenation, she deserved the greatest gift he could bestow. A woman so beautiful, so responsive, so open to the possibilities of the magical world deserved more than just his gratitude. He would grant her whatever she wished, whatever he had the power to give.
Not for a century had he felt so strong and aroused. Had he ever experienced such an intense craving in life, when seduction had simply been his means to attain power? He’d twisted so many Romani traditions to keep his family together. And he’d paid the price—with his life, with a long, torturous and painful death. With denied entry into the Otherworld.
He hadn’t been dead long enough to forget his final living moments. His murder at the hands of the witch was as clear in his mind as the supple curve of Evonne’s backside as she lay prone on the bed. But he wouldn’t think about his death now. The possibilities for revenge had long lost their sweet flavor, especially when the chance of life was just a concentrated touch away.
Outside, he’d manipulated the breeze, calling on Bavol, spirit of the air and wind, something he’d accomplished only once as a young man when studying with his shaman grandfather. After the great Chovihano’s death, Viktor had been sent away, forced to live in the gaujo world of the English aristocracy, where he’d forgotten his shaman magic and instead learned other means to attain power. At twenty, he’d returned to his tribe, keen to use non-Romani methods to rule as sherrengro, as chieftain. As gypsy king.
After a decade of rule, his skills to call upon the elements, to foresee attempts on his life, had been so unused in his adulthood that he hadn’t been able to block the blow that killed him. But tonight, he’d tapped into that long-dormant power. Could he do so again? Could he convince the woman on the bed that she was the key to his release?
He sensed a breeze in the room, soft and gentle, flurrying from the fan that swirled above her bed. Another whisper of air blew out in intervals from the grate above the dresser. He concentrated. A ripple fluttered her silk robe aside, exposing her long, naked leg, the curve of her buttock.
Yes, he could use the air, but he needed more.
She stirred, but still slept. He’d been in her house for only two days, but he already knew by heart the soft little noises she made when she dreamed. With every owner of the perfume bottle so far, nearly all female, he’d watched and listened and learned. Just in case one of them released his essence, he’d sought to remain ready, prepared to do whatever possible to retain his corporeal form.
But until this evening, he’d gotten no further than watching and wanting from inside the bottle. Not that observing the conquests of other men—and in one case, other women—excited him, but at least he’d been entertained. Those who possessed the perfume bottle nearly always stored it in their bedrooms, giving Viktor much to observe over the past century.
Now, it was time for him to have.
As far as Viktor knew, he had no face, no body. When he smiled, the action was more a shift in his aura than anything else, but he enjoyed the emotion all the same. Nothing fired him quite so powerfully as a hearty dose of desire.
Across the room, on Evonne’s bedside table, water trickled over the sides of the small fountain she had turned on before her first attempt at sleep. She’d extinguished the candle at the center of the water, but with a thought from Viktor, the wick flared to life. A flickering flame, centered amid glossy, wet stones, threw erotic shadows on the walls, covered in a verdant green fabric that looked like silk. Viktor chuckled, amazed at how the gaujo always sought to steal the peaceful perfection of the outdoors and trap it inside their homes. Had Eve ever slept under the stars, with only a fire to warm her and the sound of a bustling stream to lure her to her dreams?
He doubted so, but he was glad for her attempts tonight. He could use the water, the fire, the wind. Tradition barred him from calling on the spirits for seduction, but Viktor had shunned those customs years ago when his people had betrayed him by giving him to the gaujo. He would use whatever power he had at his disposal to free himself of his prison.
Including Eve’s power—the ability to speak to the dead.
Evonne?
His voice echoed. Tinny. Contained. He concentrated, hoping to contact her while she remained bound by dreams.
Evonne.
She stirred, rustling the sheets as she turned so that half her face caught the glimmer from the candle.
With a single shot of thought, he doused the electric lamp beside the bottle. Yes, she looked delicious in candlelight.
Eve, my love. You’re so beautiful. How can I resist you?
She whimpered.
How will you resist me? I’ll pleasure you beyond all pleasure, if you want me. Show me you want me. Show me.
Viktor directed a stream of the breeze and coiled it up her bare thigh. She curled her legs closer to her body, loosening the knot of her robe.
He repeated his plea. Show me.
With drowsy clumsiness, her hands pulled the robe aside. Her knees partially hid her, but her breasts, which he’d seen before as she’d dressed and undressed over the past forty-eight hours, sapped his breath. Aroused, her nipples were tight, hard and long. Had he a mouth, moisture would have filled it. Oh, to taste the sensitive flesh against his tongue!
Moisture. Yes.
He concentrated again, muttering the charm he’d learned by rote as some children learned nursery rhymes. He focused
on the trickling fountain beside her bed, watching with anticipation as the water, a gentle stream skittering down the stones, now gushing with large, fat drops.
Yes.
He combined the spells. The wind he commanded grabbed a suspended orb of water and dropped it on her breast, then twirled around the wetness in a tight eddy of air. Like fingertips squeezing.
She gasped, but didn’t wake.
Why would she? To wake would mean to stop this luscious dream. He told her so, soothing her with words only she could hear as he stimulated her with his magic.
He repeated the charm twice, then three more times until her skin glistened with streaks of wetness and her silk robe clung to her skin. She turned onto her back and with her knees still drawn against her, he could see shadows of her yoni—the tight dark curls, the plump pink lips.
The atmosphere inside the perfume bottle tensed and for a moment, the object that contained him shook. He shook. To the very core of what remained of him, imprisoned in the glass.
Sweet Eve. You are too tight. Too tense. Enjoy the sensations against your hot skin. You are beautiful beyond reason. Beyond this world.
With a soft sigh of surrender, she relaxed her legs. Her knees hung over the bed and widened, her toes tickling the carpet below. When Viktor caught full sight of the treasure between her thighs, the water flew from the fountain so furiously, he nearly doused the candle.
He looked away and broke contact, determined to rein in his irrepressible lust. This wasn’t about his satisfaction, his need. This was about her. Seducing her. Enticing her. Proving he could give her what no other man could—if only she would release him from his prison. He didn’t know how she could accomplish this feat, but with all that remained of his soul, he knew that if anyone had the power, she did.
Again, he focused on the fountain, this time warming a droplet with the candle before placing the moisture in a gentle puddle on her belly. She shifted and a drizzle of wetness worked downward through the curls into her sweet center.
She cooed.
Yes.
He warmed another droplet, then another, and another, splashing them in soft intervals on her nipples, her lips, her stomach, her thighs. Still captured by sleep, she writhed against her sheets. Except for her sash, a strip of silk across her stomach, the robe had nearly fallen away entirely. Then her hands began to wander.
Feel me on your body, sweet Eve.
He splashed another steaming drop on her nipple, then twirled the wind around her, imagining his own breath on her skin. Her hand drifted to her breast, her fingers reaching out as if to capture his ghostly caress.
Touch where I touch. Eve, the pleasure is yours to take.
He repeated the command several times, and for a moment, he felt a weakening of his connection to her. But when she tweaked her own nipple with one hand, then allowed her other hand to drift between her parted legs, his essence surged.
He sent no more commands into her mind, but instead communicated nothing but the intense eroticism that her actions played on his phantom body. He wove fantastic tales, worthy of his Romani blood, of how her fingers, now dipping deep inside her, mimicked the hard thrust of him, pressing inside her, giving her everything she wanted, making her every wicked sensual fantasy come true. Oh, how he adored her. How he wanted no one other than her. Forever. How he begged to hear his name upon her lips as she came.
She panted, tossed her head from side to side as pleasure battled with sleep, which still held her captive. She drew her knees up again, and when she touched that secret spot deep within her body, a rush of a cry spilled from her mouth.
“Viktor, please,” she pleaded and the reverberation of her desperate voice sent the bottle toppling over.
And with a flash of light, Viktor’s essence expanded and then like a night mist, completely faded away.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WASN’T A DREAM.
At least, not completely. Even before Eve opened her eyes to the pale blue light of the impending dawn, she accepted that the sensual thrum beating through her body was real. She stirred. Her muscles cramped and the damp sheets sent a quick flash of cold over her skin.
She reached for the comforter, but couldn’t stretch that far. She struggled with her robe, but the tangle of silk was wet and uncooperative. Drawing her hands to her face, she rubbed the sleep away, blinked long enough to find one corner of the comforter still clinging stubbornly to the edge of her bed. Despite the intense ache constricting her body, she grabbed, grunted, then twirled the soft downy fabric around her and decided to go back to sleep.
Then she felt a man’s hot stare.
She sat up, her eyes slits, and patted the bed beside her as if she might find a sleeping lover on the mattress. But as it had been for the past year, the bed was empty except for her. She touched her forehead, half expecting to find her skin hot from a temperature. She hugged the comforter tightly. As consciousness completely beat heavy sleep out of her system, she realized what had happened.
She’d had a real live wet dream.
In her sleep, a ghost had made love to her, prodding her with silken words, pleasuring her with warm drops of water, then inspiring her to indulge in some major self-gratification. Not that she hadn’t masturbated before, but never at a man’s suggestion—and certainly not when the man wasn’t alive.
“Viktor?” she asked cautiously. She called his name again, concentrating as much as her muddled mind could. “Viktor?”
No response.
She shook her head, her craving for coffee battling with her need to stay huddled beneath the comforter. When the phone rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She forced her hand out of the tangle of bedclothes and grabbed the handset, shaking as she answered it.
“Eve? What’s wrong?”
Eve let out a strangled sigh, both happy and shocked to hear her sister’s voice at—she squinted at the clock—five fifteen in the morning.
“Nothing. I don’t think.” A long yawning moment elapsed before Eve put all the pieces together. “Wait a minute. How did you know something was wrong?”
For a split second, Eve indulged in a surge of hope. She’d been damned annoyed all these years that she was the only Baptiste sister to have inherited strange abilities from their grandmother, a reputed clairvoyant who had died before either girl could meet her. From an early age, Eve had had the ability to communicate with the dead. Her younger sister, Lacey, however, seemed content with speaking only to the living, particularly those who caused other people to be dead. She was a top-notch FBI agent currently assigned to FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C.
“You called,” Lacey explained, slowly, as if she was fighting a big yawn herself. “You left a message on my machine.”
Eve closed her eyes. Did she call? When? And what had she said? She growled. Why was her brain so addled?
“I did?”
“Does ‘Lacey, call me. I have a problem’ ring any bells?”
“Vaguely,” she admitted, not entirely truthful. She really didn’t remember. “I’d probably think more clearly if you’d called after the sun rose.”
“Replay that message in your mind again, sis. Like I was going to wait for dawn when you might need me. I’ve been out on assignment for a week. I just got back five minutes ago and the way your voice sounded worried me.”
“Oh,” Eve said, once again disappointed that nothing remotely psychic had inspired her sister’s call.
Just once, Eve would have liked to discuss her strange ability with a kindred spirit who understood firsthand what it was like to communicate with ghosts. And preferably, she’d like said confidante to be alive, too. The dead understood, but they weren’t much help with sorting out the difficulties that often arose for the living when they were trapped between two worlds. Eve had devised her own defense mechanisms to block out the voices—some simple, some complicated, but they usually worked.
Until last night.
“Eve, what’s going on?” her sister
asked, this time sounding much more like the FBI agent than the little sister who, at eight years old, chained garlic around their bedroom window in case Eve decided to expand her communication talent to vamps and ghouls. “You sound funny. And don’t deny it because I’m trained to ferret out liars, remember?”
“Something strange happened last night.”
“Something strange is always happening at your house. You should move.”
“It wasn’t them,” Eve insisted, but for the first time since she’d purchased her cottage outside Marietta, Georgia, she wasn’t so sure it had been the smartest move. The ghosts of the dead gypsies buried in her backyard where an old plantation used to stand had never acted malevolently toward her. Not that what she’d experienced last night had been the least bit evil, either. In fact, it had been nothing short of deliciously erotic.
Still, a tiny part of her felt intruded upon. And the presence, the voice that had whispered into her mind and made the bawdy suggestions she’d been all too quick to follow up on, had been definitely male. Viktor Savitch? Could he have manifested inside her home? He’d disappeared and likely died nearly a century ago and on another continent. How could he be here, with her?
The only male ghost hanging around her house was the prankster, Nicholai. He couldn’t have seduced her. He wouldn’t have.
He didn’t.
With a squeal, Eve dropped the phone. She spun around, knowing she’d heard a voice here, in this room. At least, in this house. Very loud and very male.
And not just in her head, either.
The tiny echo of her sister shouting on the other end of the phone brought Eve back to the problem at hand. She grabbed the discarded handset, wincing. “Sorry, I dropped the phone.”
“Eve, what’s going on? You’re not a jumpy person and I can’t remember the last time you called me to ask for help. Do you need me? Because I can get on the next flight to Atlanta.”
