Phantom Series Boxed Set

by Julie Leto

  Alexa smiled, relieved. Okay, so she wasn’t the twenty-first-century equivalent of Leona Helmsley. Her usually guarded employee was gushing. Gushing was good. Still, there was so much she didn’t know.

  “Do you have family in Chicago? Someone we should consider bringing down here while you work?”

  Rose shook her head and finally lowered herself into the chair. “No, just my cat. I have a friend watching her while I’m away.”

  “Cat? I like cats,” Alexa said. Even ghostly ones with spooky amber eyes and a master who despised him. A master who’d threatened her and her workers with enough conviction that she was chatting with an employee rather than confronting the man, er, phantom, who could waylay her.

  “I’m sorry you had to leave your pet,” Alexa lamented. “Please let me know if you need help with a pet sitter or boarding. It’s really not fair that I dragged you down here with no notice.”

  Rose’s smile was shy but genuine. “I don’t mind, Ms. Chandler. I think this project is extremely exciting. A castle! Imagine. What little girl doesn’t pretend she’s Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty at some point?”

  A jolt of enthusiasm shot through Alexa, reminding her of why she’d originally set her life in Chicago aside to fly to Florida and explore this dream. This…fantasy.

  “Let’s hope scores of people will be willing to pay premium rates to stay in an old castle without having to whip out a passport.”

  Rose had leaned forward, her tone eager. “Ooh, I think they will.”

  Ambition glimmered within the soft blue depths of Rose’s eyes, and Alexa wondered how much else she’d missed about her assistant. “Let me ask you, Rose. Where do you see yourself with Chandler…in the next five years, say?”

  Suddenly, Rose’s posture snapped straight. She didn’t answer immediately, which even Alexa noticed was completely out of character.

  “I’m blindsiding you with these questions, aren’t I?”

  Rose swallowed deeply. “No, I mean, yes. I mean…I’ve always wanted to have this conversation with you. I really love working for you, Ms. Chandler—”

  Alexa coughed to hide her snort. She couldn’t imagine anyone loving anything about working for her. She supposed she was a fair employer who paid well, but she was also distant and unobservant. She’d never realized. Not truly. Not until Damon had forced her to feel things she hadn’t since her accident. Not just sexual desire and pleasure, but empathy and fear. Even the triumphs she’d experienced at work and the loss of her father had been dulled by the walls she’d built around her heart. She hated to admit, even if only to herself, how this phantom of a man had somehow invigorated her hunger for life.

  She’d been so sure after her accident that her love of living had pushed her through the surgeries, the therapy, the pain. Now she realized she’d simply been too programmed for success to do anything besides live.

  Now she wanted more. She wanted love. In all forms.

  “—design really interests me.”

  Of course, she could start by listening attentively to her employees when they were finally pouring out their hopes and dreams at her urging.

  “What perfect timing, then,” she declared. “We’ll only have a skeleton crew on this project for the time being, until the logistics and materials are in place. Mainly, we’ll be planning the furnishings and the layout. If you’d like, I’ll have you work closely with the design team.”

  Rose’s face blossomed, and she managed—barely—to contain a squeal of delight. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”

  “No, Rose. Thank you. This project, if handled correctly, will be magical. I’m sure of it.”

  Alexa glanced out the ceiling-to-floor picture window behind her and realized the sky was darkening. Soon, Damon would be solid again. She had no idea if he was still in the same foul mood as he had been this morning, but she couldn’t imagine letting a night pass with such animosity between them. Besides, she had a little more than a week to calm him down before the first team of workers descended on the castle. She understood his anger, felt for his dilemma—but she still had her own goals to fulfill.

  “Let’s meet tomorrow morning around ten,” she told Rose as she stood to leave the office. “I’ll tell you what I envision and you can bring my ideas to the designers.”

  Rose practically floated across the room, the vividness of her smile rivaling the colors now streaking across the sky. “Thank you, Ms. Chandler.”

  “Please,” she said, wondering why she hadn’t insisted on less formality sooner, “call me Alexa.”

  Rose’s ears perked. “The document is finished printing,” she announced, beelining toward the outer office.

  Alexa stood and listened while Rose retrieved the papers from the printer. “What document?”

  “The one Ms. Reyes sent in the encrypted file.”

  Ten minutes later, Alexa held a spiral-bound copy of Sarina Forsyth’s diary in her hands. And two hours after that, she was headed back to her island, the leverage she needed to assuage Damon tucked tightly in her backpack.

  ***

  With a flashlight clutched in her hands, Alexa pushed her way through the palmetto bushes that blocked the path from the wall to the front door of the castle. She’d just had the plants chopped aside the day before, but apparently, they regrew rather quickly. Either that or Damon was manipulating the magic in order to keep her out.

  As if some ancient Gypsy curse could stop her.

  She kept her flashlight aimed directly in front of her, focused on the front door, ignoring all the creepy crawlies inside the plants and vines around her. Behind her, the buzz of the retreating boat engine competed with the whine of the mosquitoes swarming through the air. She quickened her pace, cursing the fact that she hadn’t thought to include bug spray with her supplies. Oh, well. She wouldn’t remain outside for long.

  She jogged up the steps and pulled the latch, yelping when the lock did not yield.

  “Damon!” she called, banging her fist on the thick door. “Let me in.”

  Silence whistled into the trees and rolled off the palm fronds, then echoed into the ocean swirling on the other side of the wall. Darkness had descended all around her, though jewel-toned light glowed bright behind the castle’s stained-glass windows. He was inside, of course. Denying her entrance.

  Well, she’d just see about that.

  She put down her backpack and from the pocket withdrew Sarina’s necklace. Only Rose could have gotten the chain fixed so quickly. Alexa fastened the jewelry behind her neck, took a deep breath and tried the latch again.

  Nothing.

  “Damon!”

  She banged on the door, but then realized that even if he wanted to let her in, perhaps he could not. In fact, judging by his last attempt at escaping his prison, he’d likely stay as far away from the exit as possible.

  So, how did she get in the first time? And the second?

  Closing her eyes, Alexa concentrated on the night before. She’d been drawn to the castle because of Damon, because of a powerful lust that drove her to ignore all reason, all logic. All caution. She’d craved entrance to the castle more than anything else.

  And on the morning she’d first come in, she’d also been driven by the intense need to find the man in the window, the ghost whose hand had passed through the window without cracking the glass. Both times, she’d wanted not just entrance to the house but access to the man inside.

  Tonight, her motives had been skewed away from wanting either Damon the man or Damon the phantom. She’d simply wanted entrance to her castle. Her anger with him over his attitude this morning had tempered her desire, forcing her to focus more on manipulating him rather than seducing him.

  Maybe that’s where she went wrong?

  Alexa dug deeper into her bag, this time retrieving the filmy lingerie she’d purchased in the hotel’s boutique. Without a thought to the blood-sucking bugs buzzing around her, she undressed and slipped into the gown. The slinky silk slid down her body, i
gniting every nerve ending with anticipation for when Damon spied her in this sleek black confection. The dark color highlighted her pale skin and the cut emphasized the curves in her breasts and hips. She ran her fingers through her hair, which she’d loosened during the trip from the mainland, and loved the windblown feel of it. How would Damon resist a woman whose entire body thrummed with need?

  Licking her lips expectantly, Alexa touched the latch. This time, it pushed open with oiled ease.

  She dragged her bag inside, retrieved the diary, and then slammed the door behind her. She looked up and gasped.

  While she’d expected Damon, she’d been wholly unprepared to see him standing in the archway to her left, scarlet banners edged in shimmering gold unfurling behind him from the beams crisscrossing the forty-foot ceiling of the dining hall. He was breathtaking in his snug breeches, polished boots and stark white shirt. She swallowed deeply even as her body shook with intensified arousal.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his volume low but his voice thunderous.

  She crossed the distance between the entryway and the hall, the copy of the diary hanging loose at her side, as if unimportant.

  “This is my castle,” she replied. “I’ll come here whenever I damned well please.”

  With nothing but a sideways glance and a smirk, he turned back into the hall. “Then you are a fool.”

  Well, that wasn’t the greeting she was expecting, was it? Nonetheless, she followed him deeper into the room, which he’d clearly been rebuilding with the aid of Rogan’s magic. On the wall between two room-sized fireplaces, a thousand tiny tiles scrambled in the air, adhering to the stone randomly or hovering and darting, as if searching for their proper places.

  They were creating a mosaic. She watched until a picture emerged—a Gypsy marketplace, complete with artisans, musicians and scampering children running underfoot with the chickens and cats.

  Though the unfolding creation was utterly fascinating, she focused on Damon. “You’re a big jerk,” she announced.

  He spun and faced her. “I am what?”

  She didn’t flinch. “A jerk. A git. A prat. I’m not sure what era or country you need the words from in order to understand. In my century, ‘asshole’ would be the common term.”

  His eyes narrowed. She caught a glimpse of the stormy darkness in his gray irises, but his jaw twitched, as if he was fighting to keep his response to himself.

  “Do you want me to define it?” she asked, infuriated at his silence.

  “While not in general usage in my time, the word is self-explanatory,” he muttered.

  “So, do you care to explain why you’re acting like a first-class bastard, or shall I guess?”

  With a sweep of her hand, she gestured toward the progress he’d made in re-creating the hall. She had to admit, the result was stunning. Long tables dominated the space, with enough chairs to easily seat one hundred people. Or an entire village of Romani, at the very least. Huge fireplaces roared with heat on either side of the nearly completed mosaics, emitting smoky scents into the air and fighting off the strange chill that seemed to leech from the stone.

  The remorseless look in his eyes verified her fear. “Stop it,” she said.

  “I cannot.”

  “Yes, you can.” She whipped out the diary and tossed it on the table. It slid over the polished oak and came to rest when he slammed his hand on the plain black, faux-leather cover. “What is this?”

  “Your sister’s diary. She knew Rogan best, didn’t she? Perhaps the answer to unraveling the curse is within those pages. Stop using the magic, Damon, before it corrupts you.”

  Damon chuckled ominously. “Too late.”

  Twenty One

  Despite the flash of fear in Alexa’s eyes—or perhaps because of it—Damon pressed his hand against the thin book and opened it to the first page. The handwriting looked familiar, but the pages were so white, he was nearly blinded. He tossed the book back at her. “This is not Sarina’s journal.”

  “Not the original, no,” she replied, pushing the oddly bound book back at him. “It’s what we call a copy. But the words are hers, Damon. Read it.”

  He grabbed the journal and marched to the head of the table. Even without his attention, the mosaic tiles continued to fly into place. Throwing himself into a chair, he tore open the book and started to read.

  Word by word, the fire of resentment burning within him lessened. His breathing came easier. His stomach no longer cramped from pent-up rage. As if Sarina sat beside him at the hearth, some random fairy tale he’d brought her from London clutched to her chest as she recounted to him the adventures of the hero within, his sister sprang to life. Wide-eyed. Naive. And for the most part, lonely.

  He saw his name. He recognized the Romani word for “brother.” And then the one for “sad.” She described him through her eyes, and the assessment stabbed at him just as violently as the sword he’d thrust into Rogan’s portrait centuries ago. Never around for long. Never sparing her more than an hour’s time. And though he brought her fine presents, he never, ever gave in to her entreaties to return with him to England. She longed to see the estates their father held and meet the glorious lords and ladies of the king’s court.

  Such optimism and yearning turned his stomach. She’d had no idea how rejected she would have been, simply because of the dark hair and olive skin that marked her as a Gypsy.

  Halfway through, he closed the copy and placed it gingerly on the table. At that moment, Alexa slid her hands onto his shoulders.

  “You don’t need to use the magic, Damon. We can find the answer another way.”

  He shook his head, even as her fingers dug into his muscles and worked the tension from his neck. “My sister’s words are a welcome respite.” He smoothed the barren cover with his fingers, regret swelling within him. “Yet they only remind me of my objective on the night I rode with my brothers into the storm, trying to save her from the sorcerer I’d brought into her life. How much did you read?”

  “Not much. Her handwriting isn’t easy to decipher and she uses a lot of words I don’t understand.”

  “Romani words,” Damon told her. “Shortly after my father arrived in Valoren, a beautiful widow named Alyse captured his heart. My brothers and I rebelled against their union…until she bore him a son. What a wastrel Rafe was. And then, Sarina.” He swallowed thickly, casting off the sentimental memories. “She had a sharp tongue in any language. She wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t take her to London. Even now, I can hear her tirades. She accused me of trying to keep her prisoner…”

  The irony slammed him hard. Hadn’t he done just that? Hadn’t he denied, over and over, each of Sarina’s heartfelt requests for freedom from Valoren and her mother’s ever-watchful eye? Hadn’t she begged him to recount, in painful detail, each and every ball and soiree he’d attended?

  Had she, thus denied, entreated Rogan to conjure the curse as retribution for his cold denials?

  Suddenly, Alexa’s hands were upon his, her palms flat over his knuckles.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

  Forlorn regret gripped his insides. “No, you do—”

  “You think she asked Rogan to do this to you. To make you pay for the way you treated her.”

  “I loved her,” he admitted.

  “Of course you did. And you were protecting her. You knew what would happen if you brought a Gypsy girl, particularly one half British, to court. Your father would have been reviled. Likely, no one in England even knew he’d taken a Gypsy wife, did they? Sarina would have been marked as illegitimate. Or worse.”

  He stared at her, amazed at her keen understanding.

  “Don’t be so surprised,” she said. “I can read some of the diary and I do know a little about history, remember? And better than anyone, I understand the yearnings of a young girl bound by her position and birth. You told me enough about Valoren for me to put the pieces together. I understood enough of the diary to know that
her feelings for you weren’t any more vindictive or hateful than the swipes my stepbrother and I toss at each other all the time. I might not like Jacob sometimes, but I love him. He’s my only family. I never want him hurt. I know he feels the same way about me.”

  Damon marveled at her even tone, her quiet confidence. Truth be told, Damon knew very little of the workings of a woman’s heart, be it sister, wife or mistress. Even his mother, a slave to her station, had spent little time with her children preceding her death, and his stepmother, though open and loving to Rafe and Sarina, the children she’d borne, seemed afraid to truly love her husband’s British sons. Could Alexa know more about these matters than he?

  “You’re so certain?”

  She smiled softly. “I’m not certain, no. But I can’t imagine that the young girl who fell under the spell of a man you yourself admit was charming and charismatic harbored the hatred it would take to banish her own brother into a painting. She was angry with you and your brothers, Damon. She didn’t hate you.”

  Pulling away from Alexa’s touch, he pushed the diary aside. “Then the journal is of no use. The only way to unravel this curse is through the magic itself.”

  “At what price?” She leaned down and retrieved her bag from beneath her chair. “I have a better idea.”

  Out of her haversack, she pulled a slim black case.

  A grin, devilish and cocky, tilted the corner of her mouth. For the first time since this morning, his anger surrendered to desire. He instantly noticed how the bodice of her gown dipped nearly to her navel, and his entire body tightened in carnal response. If using the magic made him forget his own needs, he clearly needed to find another way to accomplish his goal.

  She laid the case gently on the tabletop and flipped a lever that opened the top. After she pressed a button on the side, a green light sparked, and then suddenly, the inside of the top glowed bright blue.

  “What is that?” he asked, genuinely curious.

  “This, Sir Damon, is a little bit of magic we in the twenty-first century like to call the Internet.”