by Julie Leto
A loud beep from the perplexing instrument Alexa spoke into drew his attention. She’d tossed the phone on the bed and now raked her hands through her mussed hair. When she looked up at him, her eyes reflected dire circumstances.
“She won’t bring the diary.”
His chest tightened. “I heard you order her.”
“Unfortunately, Cat isn’t one of my employees,” she explained with a sigh. “She’s a friend. A good friend who is doing me a favor. But the good news is she found your sister’s diary. That’s a huge step forward. She will send a copy, though. That’s something.”
Pressure built behind his eyes, and only squinting alleviated the strain.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “I suppose I need more sleep than I wish to think,” he offered, though the explanation seemed hollow. Something was happening. Something that had nothing to do with the coming dawn, but was related to the magic nonetheless. He could feel the currents surging through him, even though he’d done nothing to call the magic into his body.
“Where did she find the diary?” he asked, hoping to deflect his attention from the tiny pinpricks of power poking through his skin.
“With a Romani expert named Paschal Rousseau. He had the book very well hidden, which suggests it’s much more important than just a young girl’s personal thoughts.”
“Sarina fancied herself in love with Rogan, and he worked quite diligently to gain her trust. He may have told her things…”
A dizziness swept through his body. Damon clutched the wall to keep from toppling onto the bed.
Alexa crawled across the bed and placed her hand gently on his arm.
A rush of warmth swirled beneath her touch, then slowly eased through his veins, dispelling the magical sensations so that suddenly he felt normal again.
For a phantom. He glanced out the slim window and spied a glow across the horizon.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.
He took a deep breath, then patted her hand. “I think breakfast is in order. Tell me more about this man…Paschal?”
“Rousseau. He was kidnapped yesterday and his house ransacked. He did, however, own several of your paintings. Were you an artist?”
Damon shook his head. “A hobby. I cannot believe any of my works still exist. And why would anyone track them down?”
She shrugged. “No idea. Clearly, his interest in your family runs deep. Cat said something about a curse?”
“The few Londoners who knew of Valoren thought it cursed. I sidestepped many such rumors when I returned to court, but I never saw evidence of any dark magic until Rogan settled there. I suppose the disappearance of the Gypsies and the mystery of what became of me and my brothers might have set tongues wagging. I was not there to know.”
“Well, that’s the scoop now. Apparently, Paschal didn’t speak openly about Valoren, even though he researched the place quite thoroughly. But since your sister’s journal was hidden so well, Cat suspects the diary is at the heart of Paschal’s kidnapping. She wants to keep it but will get us copies of the pages as soon as possible.”
Damon’s mind swirled. He remembered Sarina sitting in a corner of the family drawing room, her fingers stained from the quill she used to scribble in the leather-bound journal their father had given her. She’d guarded the tome with her life, and while Damon had never had the least interest in the journal of a wide-eyed child, Sarina’s full-blood brother, Rafe, had made it his mission in life to not only find her hiding place, but expose all the secrets Sarina poured onto the pages. As far as Damon knew, Rafe had never accomplished his goal. Had he found Sarina’s diary, Damon had no doubt their youngest brother would have been dead, or at the very least, maimed.
Sarina might have been impressionable, romantic and naive in the way only a girl raised in a household of men could be, but she had a formidable streak, thanks in great part to her dominant Gypsy blood. Like her mother, Alyse—Damon’s father’s second wife—Sarina understood well the power of the feminine. She’d never been afraid to use that strength when the situation warranted—even against her own family when planning her escape. He could only hope her wiliness had ultimately saved her from Rogan and his black magic, even if she died. He preferred to hope her soul had moved on, free of evil, rather than imagine her trapped, like him, in a web of vile sorcery.
Alexa toyed with the necklace she’d bound by the broken chain to her wrist and Damon experienced a second surge of warmth at the sight of her cradling the gold close to her pulse point.
“So,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her. He heard her stomach rumble and knew he should conjure food, but the residual effects of the magic and the odd way the vibrations had clung to his insides made him reluctant to act again so soon. Perhaps in a few minutes. After he’d had a moment to clear his mind. “Tell me more about this Paschal Rousseau.”
Alexa released a breath he hadn’t been aware she was holding. Had she expected his temper to flare as it had the day before or even, though she hadn’t been aware, a few moments ago? He couldn’t understand his extreme behavior. He’d always been intense and passionate, but he’d never been one to lose control.
“He’s a Romani expert,” she explained. “A professor at a university in Texas. It’s a state. Remember, we talked about states?”
He waved his hand, unwilling to broach the topic of politics yet again. Right now, he only wanted to know about the diary.
“Well, he’s the one who knew about Valoren, and he owned your sister’s diary and your paintings.” A shy smile curved her well-kissed lips. “I didn’t know you were a painter. Is that how you put your image back onto the canvas?”
Damon felt an itch in his hand again, this time in the center of his palm. He rubbed the skin over the sheet, but the sensation didn’t subside. A ringing began in his ears, and no manner of shaking would free him from the sound.
“Yes,” he answered, then stood in the tight space between the wall and the circular bed. More than anything, he wanted to whisk the mattress out of his way. But the magic—he couldn’t risk it. He needed the power to rebuild the rooms within the castle and find the secrets he sought. He needed to be free. Free of this castle. Free of his imprisonment. Free of his anger and hatred toward Rogan, who had effectively destroyed his life.
Outside, the sun’s glow turned the edge of the sky deep plum with streaks of lavender and pink. Perhaps this was what he was feeling? The dawn erasing his corporeal form from sight?
Alexa stretched to take his hand, but he moved out of her reach. Instinctively. Without knowing why.
“You need to go,” he ordered. “Come back when you have the diary.”
She sat up straighter. “I think you forget whose castle this is, sir,” she said teasingly. “I can come and go as I please. And besides,” she announced with a playful bounce on the mattress, “I’ll have a houseful of workers here in a few hours. When I make up my mind about something, I don’t mess around. I’m going to have this castle opened as a hotel within a year if it kills me?”
Damon couldn’t contain the seething anger that shot through him like a bolt of fire. In a flash, the bed disappeared and Alexa dropped to the floor in a naked heap.
“Hey!”
He stepped back, but reached out to her with his hand. Not surprisingly, she didn’t take it, but stood on her own accord.
“What was that about?”
A bright streak of pink glowed across the horizon outside. He’d used too much magic the night before. He needed rest. His daylight transparency could be the symptom of rejuvenation. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he was the one who was dreaming, not Alexa. Perhaps his punishment in the castle was not that he could not go free, but that he could not be the man he’d been in his previous life—honorable, resourceful and, above all else, kind.
Though he anticipated a shock of pain, he used the magic to return Alexa’s clothes. But he didn’t feel weaker. He felt stron
ger. And that frightened him to his core.
“You must go,” he ordered again. “And no one else can enter here until I am free.”
She threw up her hands. “That’s impossible! There’s too much planning to do. The measurements the architects took yesterday, were just preliminary. The foundation needs to be tested, the walls explored and mapped so we can install plumbing and electricity. The roof needs a good once-over. The renovation needs to start as soon as possible, so I need my experts—”
Fury flooded through him. His freedom was vastly more important than some silly hotel. “I forbid it!”
Her eyes widened to bright green circles of outrage. “You what? Someone is forgetting what century this is again and whose name is on the deed to this castle.”
He stepped forward until he was mere inches from her. His hands tingled again and his arms felt as if someone had poured lead into his veins. “I’ve forgotten nothing. Be forewarned, my lady,” he said evenly, “if one of your workers sets foot inside this castle, they’ll have me to deal with. What I did to your brother on the stairs was child’s play. Cross me and you’ll suffer much, much worse.”
The sun broke the horizon and Damon saw his body fading under the light. Never in his life had he been so relieved to simply disappear.
Eighteen
For a man of advanced age, Paschal Rousseau wasn’t entirely unappealing. In fact, unless Gemma’s eyes were deceiving her, there was no way in hell this man was over ninety years old. Seventy was pushing it. Even unconscious, his face possessed a wealth of fascinating planes and angles. His hair might have been shock white and his skin shaped by deep furrows and lines, but an inherent strength radiated off his sleeping form. Maybe Farrow’s thugs had shanghaied the wrong guy?
Gemma eased to the side of the bed and more closely examined Paschal’s profile, defined by a strong, square chin and a perfect nose she was certain had never been broken or even bruised. The hollows around his eyes were deep and she wondered about the color of the irises beneath his thin lids. She drew a finger along his temple, marveling at the thickness of his hair. Would Farrow age so well? Would she still be acting as his handmaiden in their so-called golden years?
Hell, if her plan progressed as she hoped, she wouldn’t be his handmaiden by the end of the week.
Farrow Pryce thought her an insatiable hanger-on. The fool would soon learn that the Von Roan bloodline was more powerful than any man’s sexual-appeal. And Paschal Rousseau was the key to her success.
Gently, she laid her hand on Rousseau’s shoulder. He didn’t move. She plied her fingertips over the surprisingly sinewy muscles of his arm and glanced furtively around the room. As she suspected, a surveillance camera was embedded in a vase on the top shelf. Farrow was quick and wily, she’d give him that. They’d procured this hideaway less than a day before they’d grabbed Paschal Rousseau and spirited him outside Austin to this Hill Country fortress, to the previous home of a Texas oil baron with dicey Venezuelan ties. If Farrow wasn’t always so paranoid, she might have thought him exceedingly clever.
“Monsieur Rousseau?”
She gave him a little shake. He didn’t move. Bending down, she timed his breathing. Slow was an understatement. Fools. The man had been unconscious since yesterday. Farrow’s followers had likely given their captive a larger dose of the sedative than necessary. Just her luck if the man died before she had what she wanted. To secure her place as the leader of the K’vr, she needed not the diary that Farrow initially wanted, but the Queen’s Charm—Rousseau’s most prized Romani find.
She leaned close to his ear. Her voice was barely a whisper. “If you are playing dead, monsieur, please continue for a few minutes longer.”
As she turned to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, his breath fluttered the hairs along the nape of her neck. Well, well, well. Paschal Rousseau was alive. And she’d keep him that way…if he cooperated.
She wandered around the room with seemingly aimless purpose, as if waiting for Rousseau to wake. Designed in a southwestern style, colorful curtains fluttered through the open window, the breeze hampered only by the iron bars on the other side. Tiny collections of hand-painted pottery and a shelf full of skillfully woven baskets provided the sparse decoration. From what she knew of Paschal Rousseau, the decor would not please him. He preferred to surround himself with items purchased, pilfered and pawned from across the greater European continent.
In a panel beside the door, she found the intercom system access. With a twist of two knobs, she connected to the stereo she’d left on downstairs and turned the volume up high. Rousseau stirred. Not only would the music drown out any listening devices; it would help her wake Rousseau out of his drug-induced sleep.
With a groan, he moved again. She wasted no time, swinging a leg over his midsection on the bed and buoying herself just above him. Leaning forward, she braced her hands on either side of his head and pressed her lips hard against his mouth.
She expected him to wake with a start. To bolt against the restraints Farrow’s men had banded around his wrists and secured to the bed. To, at the very least, protest against his capture or shout in shock.
She didn’t expect him to kiss her back.
And with such an expert tongue.
With a start, she flew backward.
Eyes still closed, the wrinkled rake had the nerve to grin like a schoolboy.
“You’re awake?”
He peeked one eye open. “I may be old enough to be your grandfather, but I’m not dead. Drugs or not, no man can sleep soundly when a woman mounts him so boldly.”
Her wits recaptured, Gemma leaned forward again, hoping that all Farrow saw in his monitor was the actions of a woman hell-bent on seduction. In truth, she had so much more in mind.
“I simply know what I want when I see it,” she explained.
“And you expect me to believe you want a man who will have been alive for an entire century in just a few years?”
So he was still claiming to be in his nineties. She had swampland in Florida she’d sell him if that were true. “Everything still works, doesn’t it? It’s common knowledge that a man can perform until the day he dies:”
He snickered. “Or he can die trying.”
“Is that how you envision your final hours?”
With a flick of her gaze, she noted that he was tugging at the wrist restraints. Not hard enough to be a waste of energy; just enough to test the strength.
“You aren’t going anywhere, Monsieur Rousseau. Not without my help.”
His eyes, which she noticed were a clear, silvery gray, narrowed. “And why would you help me?”
“You fascinate me.”
“My dear, you do not know me. The moment you figure me out, which won’t take long, you’ll toss me aside for someone more interesting. And decidedly younger.”
He’d just described the pattern of her dating habits since age fourteen. Smart man, this one.
“You’ve lived a long life,” she countered. “I’m drawn to you in ways I can’t explain. Perhaps we met in a previous incarnation.”
“I have no reason to believe in reincarnation,” he scoffed.
She shifted her weight, pleased by the thick hardening of his sex beneath her. If all men were in Rousseau’s shape, Viagra’s makers would go out of business. “And yet, you believe in Gypsy magic, don’t you?”
“I’m a renowned Gypsy researcher. I’d hardly be worth my salt if I didn’t acknowledge the existence of supernatural phenomena attributed to the Romani. Their knowledge of herbs, roots as well as—”
“Spare me the lecture, Professor.” She speared her red-tipped fingernail against the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple, then drew her touch downward, across his chest. “I’m not interested in the magic that can be traced to a strong knowledge of natural remedies or the power of suggestion that fueled many a Gypsy curse. I’m talking about the real thing.”
The clock by the bedside alerted her to the duration of her stay. Far
row wouldn’t expect her to close the deal quickly, but he was not a patient man. Sooner or later, Paschal’s son would realize his father was missing. That could only mean trouble.
Farrow had indulged her so far, but she had one, maybe two more encounters with Rousseau before Farrow expected her to produce the information he so desperately wanted. His men had searched Rousseau’s house from top to bottom and had not found the diary or the necklace. If Rousseau had the golden talisman and the journal—and all of their intelligence told them that he had been the last one to possess both—he’d hidden the objects very well.
“How can magic be real? It defies the laws of nature,” he argued, though she suspected he was faking the sincerity in his voice—blatantly faking, which in her mind, was the equivalent of a taunt.
Wily didn’t begin to describe this man. Her respect for him elevated a notch.
She pressed her sex against his crotch. “This defies the laws of nature, too, but you don’t see me denying what’s happening. In fact,” she said, grinding mercilessly against him, “I’m rather enjoying the fact that you want me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, his voice dripping with dangerous intensity that belied both his advanced age and his prone position on the bed. His eyes, pale and silvery, flashed with contempt. “Purely biological functions don’t reflect any power you have over me.”
“I have the power to decide whether you live or die,” she told him, then swung off the bed and headed toward the door. When she turned, he was yanking against his restraints, clearly infuriated.
Good. She exited without another word. Maybe if he was frightened enough, desperate enough, he’d cooperate. Because only through a double-cross with Paschal Rousseau at her side and the Queen’s Charm in her custody would Gemma take her rightful position in the K’vr—the organization that had bound her family for centuries with promises of ultimate power.
Too bad the empty promises had lost their luster for her when her gender had cost her direct ascension to the leadership. Now she’d have to take the power that was rightfully hers—and Paschal Rousseau would either help…or die.
