by LETO, JULIE
Or was she?
“Aiden?”
He did not reply. She closed her eyes and concentrated as she’d done before, conjuring his scent in her mind as she attempted to find the leathery essence lingering around her. She smelled nothing but the cold crispness of newly recycled air.
Though Cinda had already dumped Ross’s pictures out of the now-empty frames, Lauren realized she’d been married the last time she’d used this space. The other pictures were candid shots of her with costars, crew and fans who’d won trips to the set. Still, the gaping holes made a statement. About loneliness. About betrayal. About lies.
Aiden’s sudden appearance, however, had torn away the veil she’d kept over her emotions for so long. She was lonely. She was starved for intimacy and sex. Lauren needed those things in her life—and preferably on a regular basis . . . preferably with a man like Aiden: Strong. Honorable. Not entirely real.
Which made her wonder . . . was she going from an earthbound, human Svengali to an ethereal one? Over the course of her life, she’d gone from depending on no one to relying on Ross’s money, Ross’s contacts, Ross’s advice and approval. Now she was finally on her own again. Did she really need another man in her bed, even one who was solid and visible only during the night?
Actually, she couldn’t think of a better way to ease into her life as a single woman again. Aiden needed her more than she needed him. He wanted his total freedom, and she could, once they figured out how, give that to him. Maybe he could give her the same.
On that hopeful note, she pushed into the bathroom at the back of the trailer and tore off the rest of her clothes. She really did need a shower. And a nap.
If she hadn’t watched part of the video, she might have believed that her rendezvous with Aiden had been nothing more than a very hot dream. Or maybe—what was the word her therapist would use— a “manifestation” of some deep-seated, unfulfilled desires. Well, if that was the case, Aiden put the “man” in “manifestation.”
But despite everything she knew about reality and dreams, Lauren believed Aiden was real, a phantom of his living self, trapped by an ancient curse in the blade of a magical sword. The evidence on the recording was incontrovertible. He’d seduced her last night, just as she’d seduced him. The heat they’d generated could have started a California wildfire during the rainy season. She knew all this, and yet she wasn’t afraid. Why should she be? In her life before she became the famous Lauren Cole, she’d certainly dealt with greater dangers. So far the only risk Aiden had brought into her life was the risk of orgasmic overdose.
The shower door was stuck, so with a grunt she tugged it open, reached in and turned the lever, allowing the water to run through the long-unused pipes. Steam instantly blossomed, so she opened the door to the living area and turned on the vent. For an instant she glanced longingly at the sword nestled on the table and wondered whether Aiden would come out to play again anytime soon. Just the thought sent a gentle throbbing between her legs. God, how long had it been since a flash of erotic memory had wound her up so tightly? How long since she had had anything remotely erotic to remember?
Lauren tested the temperature, found the scalding water irresistible and stepped beneath the stream. She was so caught up in the delicious way the heat eased into her stiff and constricted muscles, she didn’t bother to close the door completely. She wasn’t entirely surprised when the chill of its falling open blasted her bare backside.
Then the feel of Aiden’s hands against her skin nearly sent her flying.
She spun.
“Aiden?”
A sensation began at a precise spot between her inner thighs and knees, much like the tips of fingers tracing over her skin. Primal heat immediately suffused her body from every direction: Inside, from the needfulness. Outside, from the water. She leaned forward against the tile and concentrated on the sweet pressure rising higher and higher up her leg and then disappearing into the tawny curls at the juncture of her thighs. Somewhere between a breath and a probing touch, the invisible finger parted her feminine lips and slipped inside, slim at first, teasing the tip of her clit, then broadening, stretching, touching every sensitized part of her. She gasped, choking down water as her heart sent needful pulses through her veins. Her hands itched for someone to touch, someone to cling to, even as she tripped on to the edge of a climax. With no male flesh to hang on to, she grabbed the showerhead for balance.
Her breasts made exquisite contact with the chilled tile, adding to the explosion of sensations detonating across her body.
She was panting, moaning uncontrollably as pleasure built to the pressure point. Then the contact disappeared.
“Aiden?”
“I’m here,” he said, his whisper barely audible over the shower, his form entirely unseen, even amid the steam.
Though her body throbbed for him to finish what he’d started, Lauren forced herself to breathe. Not to sound anxious. Or worse—desperate. “I hoped it was you and not some other phantom haunting my trailer.”
“I am not dead,” he replied, his voice deep and throaty and decadent. “I cannot haunt you.”
“You’re sure?” she asked.
Once again the sensation of having a man inside her—and yet . . . not—threw her body into extrasensory overload. She gasped, then cried out when an added force tightened around her nipples. She squeezed her eyes tight as an orgasm rocked through her, prolonged and exquisite and maddening.
“Why are you,” she asked, spinning around, “doing this to me?”
“Do you not enjoy my attention?” Aiden teased.
She swiped water out of her eyes. “You know I do.”
A slither of a touch snaked across her neck and shoulders. “You found me, my lady. Fate drew you to me.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” she argued.
“I’d venture to guess that less than a day ago, you did not believe in phantoms, either.”
She couldn’t resist laughing. At him. At herself. She pushed the water out of her eyes again and decided she’d better get lathered soon or risk running out of hot water. She loved her luxury trailer, but it was a trailer, not a suite at the Crown Chandler Beverly Hills.
“You’ve got me there,” she agreed.
Suddenly he was surrounding her again. In front. In back. Over. Beneath. Inside. She gasped for breath, sputtering when water flooded her mouth and nose.
“I want you everywhere,” he admitted.
She forced herself to move to the other side of the shower stall. “Slow down, phantom boy. You’re going to drown me. Unless,” she said, suddenly suspicious, “that’s your intention. Take me into the afterlife with you?”
His presence rushed at her in a wave, but the change in atmosphere remained inches away.
“I told you,” he said, “I am not dead.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Suddenly all she could feel was the cold draft from the opened shower door and the hot sizzle of the water against her skin.
Was he gone?
Had she insulted him?
She had no idea what constituted a faux pas in the world of phantoms and ghosts, but she did know she had to get out of the shower. She made short work of lathering her body with a squeeze from a fresh bottle of her favorite aromatherapy wash, courtesy of Cinda, no doubt, and then took the time to wash and condition her hair. After doing a quick check to make sure all necessary parts were sufficiently buffed and clean, she shut off the shower and reached for a towel.
Stepping into the cold bathroom, she wondered how far Aiden had wandered. Still dripping, she closed the shower door behind her and began to call his name.
But the instant the metal trim touched the stall, the lights above her flashed. A hot spire of electricity shot through her body, seizing her muscles until she dropped, unconscious, to the ground.
Aiden waited for Lauren to emerge from the tiny room where he’d left her bathing beneath a shower of water with soap suds on her skin and in her hair
. The scent of vanilla and lavender drifted on the steam, reminding him of his childhood, when flowers had bloomed heartily in his mother’s cherished garden. He’d been so young when she died. Unlike his brother Colin, Aiden was not a religious man. He wasn’t sure he believed in an afterlife of any kind. But this place where he’d emerged, this California, shared qualities with both heaven and hell.
Despite Lauren’s misgivings, Aiden was sure he was still alive. Ghosts or cursed spirits did not experience the rapture he’d felt last night, nor the torture of being unable to join with her now beneath the cleansing water.
No longer willing to torment himself with the sounds and smells and tastes of her sensual delight while he could not fully feel his own, he had watched her bathe for as long as he could stand the agony. Aiden had never seen anything like the contraption that rained water down on her hot and hard, but he longed to experience the sensations while in his solid state. There would be time enough, he mused, willing himself into the other room. He had no idea how yet to break the barrier between his phantom state and true life, but he knew the wall between worlds existed, just as certainly as he knew he was not dead.
Contact with the sword all those years ago had brought him quick pain, yes, but he’d been aware of his entrapment just as immediately. Somewhere in the recesses of his memory, he recalled raging against Rogan, knowing he’d been bound by a curse the dark sorcerer could have conjured. Over the course of two-hundred and fifty years, any moment of awareness had been dominated by the desire to run the bastard through with his own cursed sword. Now, part of Aiden wanted to thank the black-hearted liar for setting in motion his meeting with Lauren.
Suddenly the lights around him flickered. He heard what sounded like a feminine squeak from behind him and then a thud that was unmistakably the sound of a body dropping to the ground.
“Lauren!”
He whirled back into the room and froze. Lauren. Naked. Wet. Unconscious.
And there was nothing he could do to help her.
11
David Drake, as he was calling himself these days, scanned the increasingly busy set for signs of the casting director he’d been told was somewhere inside the soundstage. He glanced at the portfolio he clutched in his hand and refamiliarized himself with the stats printed on the back of the professionally produced eight-by-ten glossy. He supposed his agent’s insisting that his height was six feet when he was only five-eleven and three-quarters wasn’t so much of a lie, but the rest seemed to have come out of the ether.
Hometown: Boise, Idaho. Sure, he’d been born in the potato state, but he hadn’t lived there for more than the week it had taken his mother to break out of the hospital and hitchhike to L.A.
Eyes: blue. Thanks to contacts.
Hair: black. Gotta love that L’Oréal Men.
He supposed his weight was accurate. He worked out three hours a day to make sure he never tipped over one eighty. Lean and hot as he was, he was primed for the role as the goddess Athena’s lover du jour. He’d watched the first four movies long before he’d been in a position to audition for a role. He’d memorized most of the dialogue, even though he wasn’t wonked-out enough to actually recite them in tandem with the actors, like some über-fans he’d met. But since the series had had the same team of writers for all four films, he’d learned the cadence and rhythm of their words. He was going to nail this audition. And then he’d get exactly what he’d come for.
“Can I help you?”
He turned to face a striking woman in a bold blue blouse. Matching eyes flashed against porcelain skin. Thick, dark blond hair. Thin waist. And the mouth . . . Good thing she chose such a light shade of lipstick or the luscious lips would overpower. Her confident smile threw his thoughts in a lusty direction that took him by surprise.
“I’m here to see Helen Talbot.”
The woman crossed her arms tightly over her chest, and he couldn’t help but watch how her breasts rounded from the tension.
She cleared her throat, but when he met her eyes again she didn’t seem offended by his blatant stare. “I’m Helen Talbot.”
He flashed his best bad-boy grin and offered his hand. “David Drake.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I’m here for a read with Lauren Cole? My agent told me to be here at two o’clock.”
After taking a quick glance at her watch, she slipped her hand into his. But instead of giving it the hearty, “I’m a woman but I can do business rougher than any man” shake he’d become so accustomed to in Hollywood, she just held his hand, as if she were determining the size and texture of it. After a moment, a satisfied grin turned those plump lips into the stuff of erotic fantasies.
“The audition has been canceled, Mr. Drake. Last-minute decision. The role has been cast. Your agent probably missed you.”
He took his cell phone out of his pocket, and though he’d turned the device to vibrate, there was nothing indicating a missed call. “Sorry, my agent must not have gotten the message.”
She took a step to the side so she could get a better view of his backside. There was no slyness. No pretense. After a few high-profile guest roles on the New York soap scene, he’d been auditioning in Hollywood for over a year. And yet he couldn’t remember ever being so audaciously assessed. At least, not by a woman. Despite the urban legends about casting couches, David’s experience so far ran along the lines of movie executives so harried and single-minded, they barely had time to look up from stacks of résumés and scripts, much less seduce the stampede of wannabe actors and actresses called to each audition. He was lucky to get one glance before he heard a yea or nay.
Clearly this woman liked to take her time.
Clucking her tongue, she glanced over to the trailer behind her. The one with the gold star on the door.
Lauren’s.
“Crying shame,” she lamented. “You would have looked very nice next to Ms. Cole.”
He shifted his stance to better accentuate his . . . assets. He’d done worse to get jobs before, though not usually as an actor. But now that he knew how close he was to Lauren, it was time to put his theatrical skills to good use. This woman wanted to be seduced, though her motives seemed entirely more personal than professional. Not that he cared. He smoothed a fingertip along the curve of her elbow. Intimate and yet . . . not. “Then maybe you should rethink your casting decision,” he suggested.
She nibbled on her bottom lip, and David couldn’t help but feel a twitch of arousal as he imagined her teeth grazing his own mouth. He pressed his lips tightly together and glanced aside. It wasn’t like him to get the hots for a woman after only a few seconds of conversation. In California he’d learned that barracudas operated mostly on land. Since he had his own prey to hunt, he had to remain out of this one’s clutches. He could tease and toy, but nothing more—no matter how much the deprivation might hurt.
“Hmm,” she hummed wistfully. “Wish I could.”
“Any smaller roles not yet cast?” he asked.
Her gaze drifted up from his chest and met his. “Bold as brass, aren’t you?”
“This is Hollywood. Can’t survive otherwise.”
Without warning the lights above them blinked, then went off. The power tools sputtered to a halt. Cursing echoed all around them while dim emergency lights clicked on near the exits. Then, just as quickly, the power came back on. “Wait here. Let me consult with my leading lady. It might be a good idea to have backup.”
As Helen Talbot curved around him, brushing his arm even though there were yards of empty space on either side of him, he turned and watched her walk away. Either she was swinging her ass especially for his perusal, or the woman had a walk that could stop traffic. On the L.A. freeway. At rush hour.
Even with the carpenters and scenery technicians working their table saws and forklifts with screeching accuracy, he heard Helen’s knock on Lauren’s trailer intensify to an insistent pounding. He walked closer. She was calling out the star’s name with a definite tinge o
f concern in her voice.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
Helen waved her hand dismissively. “She’s probably in the shower. But where the hell is that assistant of hers?”
She dug into her pocket and extracted her phone, tapped a few times until Lauren’s picture flooded the screen, and then held the device to her ear. Seconds later they heard Lauren’s phone ringing inside.
“Maybe she’s not there,” he offered, though the tight worry on Helen Talbot’s face kicked his instincts into overdrive. Helen was more than a little concerned. Why?
“She’s in there. She hasn’t left her trailer.”
“You think something’s wrong?” he asked, trying not to sound too anxious to get involved.
Helen skewered him with a look that made him feel like a complete idiot. Wow. The woman had clearly honed that expression to a fine point.
“Move,” he directed, giving her a gentle push to get her out of the way and digging in his pocket for the tool he kept there. Always.
He had the sharp end inserted into the door lock before Helen could say, “Let me call security.”
The click was hard to hear amid Helen’s warnings that she had to go in first and that he should stay outside and that if anything he might or might not see inside the trailer made it into the tabloids, she’d make sure he never worked in this town again. Obediently he swung the door open for her and stepped aside. She called out Lauren’s name, and despite the threat to his career, he couldn’t help but glance into the small but clearly plush trailer.
Helen burst through an open door at the other end. She screamed, swung around with a pointed finger and ordered him to call 911, then disappeared through the door.
He did as she asked, waving over two of the crew who’d stopped dead at the sound of Helen’s shout. He handed the phone to one of the guys, told him to order an ambulance and dashed inside. He found Helen in the back room, dragging a towel over Lauren’s naked body, the star’s flesh wet and the distinctive smell of smoke and singed flesh lingering in the air.
