by Julie Leto
“But the talisman?” Jacob asked, his voice shaky.
He could be such a twit sometimes. “We’ll find it later. This island has been uninhabited for sixty years. I doubt we’ll suddenly have a rush of interlopers in one afternoon.”
Jacob’s hesitation sparked a chill that ran along the edge of her skin. Why was he so attached to the necklace? Sure, he’d thought the charm would protect her, but his stricken look spoke of something deeper. Did he know the powerful magic that made the charm so valuable? How could he?
Either way, she had to get him out of here before Damon threw him down the stairs. She grabbed Jacob’s elbows and helped him stand. He hesitated, but then finally submitted to her tugging and followed her down.
As she reached the grand front door, blue, electric images from the night before flashed in her brain. She held her breath and reached for the latch, hoping the door would open.
It did, but not before a whisper blew across her ear.
You’ll be back.
Not a question. Not a request. Just a simple statement of fact.
“I own this place,” she whispered. “Of course I’ll be back.”
Jacob eyed her suspiciously, looking around to see whom she was talking to. “Alexa, are you all right?”
She glanced up at the landing. The distance between the door and the painting was substantial, yet though she couldn’t see the sneer of a smile on Damon’s face, she could feel it.
She could feel him.
A brush of her sleeve. A breath across her neck. A flick of a fingertip over her nipple and her body’s traitorous response.
“I’m fine,” she insisted to her brother. “Just lead the way out of here.”
She stepped out of the way and Jacob strode through the door unhampered. Alexa couldn’t resist peering at the seemingly clear blue sky before she attempted to put one foot over the threshold. When no angry storm brewed out of nowhere with winds that would knock her on her ass and slam the door closed, she smiled and strode into the warm Florida sunshine.
Then she realized she’d forgotten her backpack.
Jacob was halfway through the thick palmetto bushes that led to the stone wall surrounding the castle when she called out for him to stop.
“I forgot my pack.”
Jacob rolled his eyes indulgently as he returned to her side. “I’ll get it.”
She grabbed his arm. “No, I mean, you’re not my servant, Jacob. I can get it myself. Wait here.”
Since she hadn’t yet shut the door behind her, she slipped back into the castle and made certain to leave her exit unblocked. Jacob stood in the doorway peering after her, which inspired her to hurry across the entrance hall and up the stairs to where she’d dropped her pack underneath the portrait.
She grabbed the canvas bag by the strap and, as she spun to exit, spied Damon’s intense eyes staring down at her. Eyes that looked glossier than before.
She moved in closer. The whole of Damon’s body seemed glossier, as if the oils…
She reached up and swiped at his breeches, not at all surprised to find dark paint smeared on her fingertip.
“You’re quite the trickster,” she said softly.
“Only when I need to be,” Damon replied.
She looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. Not, at least, until she peered into a shadowed corner just a few feet away. There she saw the outline of a man. A large man, leaning against the cold stone with a cocky assurance that belied his transparent form, barely visible in the shadows.
After a quick wave to Jacob, she moved toward the corner, which was outside of her brother’s sight.
“Alexa?” Jacob called from downstairs.
“He watches me like a hawk,” Alexa explained to the shadow.
Damon chuckled, and the sound simmered through her body like warmed wine. “I can’t blame him.”
“Give me a second,” she shouted over her shoulder. She heard Jacob grumble in response.
“So you are still free?” she asked.
“I am free from the painting.”
“But not from the castle?”
The sense of his pushing through the space around her spawned a sensation not unlike a chill, but decidedly warmer. He moved into the light, and no trace of him remained except his scent and the remnants of his body heat. She remained facing the wall even though she guessed he was now standing directly behind her.
“I cannot leave the castle without your help,” he said, his voice skimming down her neck on a ghostly breath.
A wisp of a touch reached beneath her blouse and glided over her skin.
She swallowed deeply. “What makes you think I’ll help you after you tripped my brother?”
Pressure built between her legs, not from within, but from without. “Because I’ll return the favor a hundred times over. Remember? I told you this morning. In the room. You didn’t realize then that I was there, did you?”
“Telling me all the sexual things you want to do to me?”
“Oh, yes. I want, Alexa. And I will. Every single delicious sensation will be yours if you help me.”
She started when a jolt of stiffness crashed against her buttocks, as if he was pressing his sex right into the crease, snuggling his thickened cock against her. He might as well have magicked away her clothing, the sensation was so strong. In her mind, he’d stripped her bare. The buttons remaining on her blouse popped open, the fingers that manipulated the fasteners unseen. She looked down and watched her breasts undulate as he attended them with invisible hands.
The sensations were decadent and delicious and too tempting to ignore. She closed her eyes and cooed, even as a teardrop of need moistened her sex and blood rushed to the places he touched—and the places she wanted him to touch. For more of this, she’d do whatever he wanted.
The thought burst into her mind like fireworks, and she instantly spun around and stepped back, breaking the contact between her body and his intangible form. She grabbed her blouse and punched the buttons into place.
“You can’t seduce me into doing your bidding,” she insisted.
She gasped when a whoosh of warm air pushed her fully against the wall. Ensconced in the dark corner, she could see his outline again, right down to his fathomless eyes, now swirling with gray mist like angry storm clouds.
“Every woman can be seduced,” he claimed, his lips mere inches from hers.
“Not me,” she claimed. “Not if you’re going to be crass about it.”
He chuckled and backed away, blowing like a puff of smoke out of her path. “Then I’ll simply have to exercise more finesse.”
Alexa pushed off the wall and, with a swing of her backpack, marched to the staircase, excited and unnerved at the same time. “You do that.”
Before her foot touched the bottom step, she jolted as the sensation of an intimate kiss burst between her legs, right down to the tongue slipping inside and sucking her clit in one explosive pull. She nearly tripped, but instead fell backward into Damon’s invisible but waiting arms. He guided her to the floor, and by the time Jacob arrived, the hot surge of pleasure had subsided and Damon was gone.
“Are you all right? What happened?” Jacob asked.
Alexa shook her head. “Dizzy spell.”
“This place isn’t right, Alexa. Maybe you should forget about this for a while. Find a property that is more…hospitable.”
With a narrowed gaze, Alexa stood, dusted her pants and handed her backpack to her brother. “No way. Nothing’s changed, you hear that?” She spoke to Damon but knew her brother needed to register the message as well. “I know what I want. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get it. Makes two of us, right?”
Jacob’s smile was uncertain, but Alexa didn’t say another word. The message wasn’t for him anyway. It was for the phantom who’d become her lover and who’d just issued her a challenge she’d be a fool to ignore.
Thirteen
Gruff voices below, accompanied by the crack and whistle
of police radios, forced Ben to tuck the gun into a drawer in the guest room and head downstairs. He had a license to carry, but he’d rather not deal with questions. Once in the foyer, he found Catalina chatting with the cops.
“Ms. Reyes here says this is your father’s house?” asked a female cop with a ponytail.
Ben nodded. “There’s no sign of him upstairs. I hadn’t heard from him since yesterday, so I came to check on him. The security alarm by the driveway was destroyed.”
As the other officer went upstairs to verify his father’s absence, Ben repeated his conversation with the security company. After answering a few more questions, he found himself shuttled outside onto the porch with Catalina while the police called for backup and began an investigation. Evidence at the scene pointed toward only one possibility—kidnapping.
“He’s all right,” Catalina said, her voice gently melodic.
“You know that the same way you knew he wasn’t at home?”
With a shy smile, she nodded. “Yeah. Great parlor trick to have in the repertoire. Makes you very popular at parties.”
Despite her jokes, he knew she wasn’t kidding around.
“How long have you been psychic?”
She eyed him skeptically. “You seem awful quick to jump to that conclusion.”
Ben jammed his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been around the block. Seen things.” Weird shit, too. Shit most people blew off as hallucination.
“I could be a scam artist,” she warned.
“You could. But with Paschal gone, you’ll never get the one thing you claim to really want—the diary. So for now, I’m willing to take my chances. Seriously, what can you feel about my father?”
She shook her head sadly. “Not much. Especially not out here. Can you get me something of his? Something he cherishes?”
Ben leaned into the doorway and, without entering the house, saw a hand-carved flute lying among the debris near the door. A flash of a memory assailed him. He’d been four. Maybe five. He’d been treasure hunting, complete with pirate kerchief and cardboard cutlass. He’d followed the scribbled map he’d drawn himself to the trunk tucked into his father’s closet. Inside, he’d discovered the ancient musical instrument. Fine booty indeed. Of course, he’d no clue how old the flute was or how fragile. He’d only known it made funny noises when he blew into it, making his triumphant find all the more exciting.
His father had probably taken the stairs three at a time when he’d heard the trills and tweets coming from his room. But he hadn’t yelled or screamed. He’d taken the instrument away gently, explained how fragile it was—how special.
How Ben was never to touch the things his father kept hidden.
He snatched the flute from the floor and shoved it into Catalina’s hinds. “Best I can do on short notice.”
As if naturally sensing the flute’s age and delicacy, she handled it gingerly. “This is very old. Older than your father could be. Much older.”
“He told me he found it in an antique shop in Dresden sometime after he married my mother. Claimed the style called to him, like something from his youth. Only, he doesn’t ever talk about his childhood. I believe the flute is…”
“Romani, yes. Distinctive vibrations come off objects made by people who believe in magic.”
“Do you believe in magic?”
Doubt lilted his voice, but Catalina smiled, though whatever emotion hid behind the soft curve of her lips didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze darkened with an innate sadness—one he’d seen in his father’s gaze more times than he could count.
“Isn’t that a song?” she teased.
“Not from my era. Or yours.”
“Still,” she said, humming as she walked the length of the porch, the flute cradled in her hands.
Ben tried to ignore that he knew nothing about this woman except that she’d charmed Morton Gilmore, a known rapscallion, but otherwise brilliant man.
“He’s worried,” she said finally.
“Worried? Not afraid?”
She shook her head. “No, not afraid.” Looking up from the flute, she grinned. “Your father isn’t an easy man to intimidate.”
Ben stood up straighter. Man, she got that right. He supposed a man couldn’t reach the ripe old age of ninety-five without possessing a great deal of grit, which his father had in spades. He’d run with the French Resistance during the war. He’d traveled off the beaten path all over Europe. He’d moved his entire life, from France to Texas, and took up a whole new career when most men were wasting away in nursing homes. He could live through this.
Shutting his eyes, Ben willed away the wave of emotion threatening to break him down. He was made of the same tough stuff as Paschal. And his mother hadn’t exactly been a hothouse flower, either. Damn if he was going to lose it now.
“Can you find him?” he asked.
Catalina shot over to a bench, sat down and clutched the flute lightly. After a long, tense minute, she looked up and handed him the instrument.
“Not from this. I’m sorry. I have a natural ability, but I don’t practice much. If my grandfather were here, he’d likely be able to conjure a street address, but I’m not nearly as talented.”
“Can you call your grandfather?”
“Yes,” she answered ruefully, “but since he’s been dead ten years, I don’t think he’d be much help.”
Ben looked at her oddly, and the tiny smile on her lips revealed nothing about her level of seriousness. He couldn’t question her further, though, since the detectives had arrived. Their interrogation was much more thorough and took nearly half an hour. Ben answered their questions with as much honesty as he thought prudent. He told them about the phone message from Amber Stranton and the meeting on the quad. He provided the most accurate description he could of Amber’s mysterious cousin. With his laptop, he found Amber’s phone number on the class rolls. She was, right now, their only lead.
Or was she?
Catalina sat, quietly clutching the flute, the entire time.
Just as the detective was closing up his notebook, one of the beat cops poked his head out the door. “Detective, you need to see this.”
Ben stood, but Catalina caught him by the arm and kept him in place. After an interminable absence, the cop finally returned.
“Mr. Rousseau, we need for you to come with us downtown.”
“What?” he asked, enraged. The accusatory sound in the guy’s voice was unmistakable.
“Calm down,” the detective instructed. “We just found some evidence that requires further investigation.”
Ben’s insides clenched. “What kind of evidence?” The detective frowned and gestured toward the steps. “We can discuss the details downtown.”
The distinct scent of accusation hung heavy in the air. Cat sent him a fortifying smile and stepped forward. She wanted him to go. And she was going with him.
Ben pressed his lips tightly together, well aware that his actions were being scrutinized. He nodded to the detective and followed him to his squad car, Catalina touching him lightly on his arm the entire way. He pushed all supposition out of his brain and concentrated on one goal—satisfying the police so he could get back to the task of finding his father.
***
Blood. Four drops on the back porch near the driveway, fresh enough to have come from a wound on his father. Luckily, between Cat vouching for Ben’s whereabouts at the college campus (admitting that she’d secretly watched his car all day and then followed him home) and a neighbor reportedly seeing Paschal in his garden that morning, Ben was cleared of suspicion and immediately released. He and Cat didn’t arrive back at Paschal’s house until the next morning, but by then, the police had released the crime scene and they were free to venture inside.
Ben slid the remains of his father’s knickknacks and collectibles out of their way as they walked. The house echoed with emptiness. Paschal was gone, and it was up to Ben to get him back.
“Want me to help you clean up?�
� she offered.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Actually, I think I do. I’m a firm believer that life isn’t random. I think I’m supposed to help you.”
“Perhaps you’re the reason my father was taken.”
“Excuse me?”
He’d offended her, but he didn’t care. He was angry, scared and tired. So far, Catalina had been indispensable, but he had to know now if he could trust her completely—and this was the only way.
“My father lived a perfectly anonymous life until people came around asking about Valoren. You’re one of those people.”
She removed a collection of boxes from a velvet chair, then collapsed into it. “You’re right.”
“And maybe you know that he hasn’t been hurt not because of some psychic ability, but because you’re in on the whole thing.”
She nodded. “Makes sense.”
“So you don’t deny it?”
“Of course I deny it! You can check me out, Ben. You’ll find that the woman I’m working for is above legitimate and beyond reproach.”
“Who is she?”
“Alexa Chandler.”
Ben had to think. He’d heard the name before but wasn’t sure where.
“Of the Crown Chandler hotels?” she prodded.
“You work for an heiress?”
Cat rolled her eyes. “Alexa isn’t just an heiress. She’s more Ivanka Trump than Paris Hilton, I assure you. She’s also my best friend. Trust me, her interest in Valoren is completely legitimate, and while she’s widely known as a shark in the boardroom, she’d never resort to kidnapping an elderly man to get the information she needs.”
Before he’d become his father’s assistant, holed up in a tiny office poring over undergraduate research papers and flipping through maps and course material, Ben had lived an entirely different life. He’d learned then to rely on his instincts—and his instincts told him Catalina Reyes was telling the truth.
He stepped over the remnants of a collection of vases and sat in front of her on an ottoman. “You heard what I told the police. It can’t be an accident that some stranger in a trenchcoat came looking for my father to ask about Valoren, and then he’s kidnapped.”
