Phantom's Touch: Sexy Paranormal (Book 2, Phantom Series) (17 page)

He slipped his hand between the folds of her robe again and unabashedly tweaked her sensitized nipple. “Like this?”

“It’s a start,” she said with a sigh. “A very delicious start.”

“Leave the towels by the door, will you?”

Paschal listened with half an ear while the maid shuffled across the plush carpet of the Crown Chandler penthouse suite, where Ben and Cat had left him to recover. Ignoring the luxury of having someone around to pick up after him, he typed another name into the search engine on his laptop computer and wondered why he’d waited so long to learn about the Internet. The information flowing through this remarkable wireless connection had been invaluable, even though Farrow Pryce had succeeded in keeping most of his activities on the q.t. Pryce had a certain amount of clout in the financial world, and his activities with the K’vr had, to the best of Paschal’s knowledge, remained carefully hidden. Paschal had always known the man’s name, always associated him with the K’vr—a group of Rogan worshipers who’d been nothing less than a pain in his patoot for over half a century—but he’d never known exactly how rich the man was. Now he could only wonder precisely how the K’vr had contributed to this fortune.

Pryce’s extensive portfolio wasn’t good news. Money equaled power, and apparently Pryce had plenty of both. Paschal now considered himself very fortunate to have escaped Pryce once, and though he doubted the man had any reason to pursue him again, he certainly had both means and motive to thwart Paschal in his quest to find Aiden—the brother he was now certain, thanks to his vision, was alive, though likely still trapped in his phantom state.

Paschal scanned a notation about Pryce in a stock trading magazine. Wasn’t much here. Just a vague reference about his net worth.

Suddenly he became aware of someone standing directly behind him, reading over his shoulder.

“That’s old news,” a sultry voice informed him. “Pryce is worth twice that by now.”

Paschal shifted his attention from the screen, but remained facing forward. The husky voice, the exotic perfume, the bold confidence told him that Gemma Von Roan had come for him, just as he’d suspected she would.

“So he finally kicked you out, and you’ve been reduced to cleaning hotel rooms for a living?”

She snorted. “That’s a nice little fantasy you’ve got going on. Farrow did not kick me out. Yet. And until he does, I enjoy using his hard-earned cash to bribe my way into your hotel room.”

“If Pryce is so wealthy,” he asked coolly, “why does he need an old sword of comparatively low financial value?”

Gemma grabbed the back of his chair and swiveled him around. She was just as striking as ever, slim and sleek, from her short, cropped hair to her stiletto-heeled boots. Her icy blue eyes sparkled from beneath lashes heavily lined in black. “Because the sword holds a piece of my ancestor’s magic. He knows you want it, and he’s going to get it first. He’s too close already. You need to act quickly unless you want to lose your advantage.”

“And what advantage is that?”

“Me.”

Paschal hardly had time to react when she moved to straddle him, but he managed a quick scoot backward and held up his hand.

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he admitted, torn between desiring to have her mount him and knowing the physical contact with her at this precise moment was not a good idea. He had been feeling his age lately, and though Gemma had fueled quite a few potent fantasies, he had to be realistic. Besides, he had suspicions about her latent abilities—magical talent he wasn’t even sure she realized she had.

She frowned prettily. “It’s only been nine months since I saw you last. Lost your taste for me already?”

“They say the taste buds are the first thing to go.”

He braced his hands on the armrests of the swivel chair and wondered if he should risk standing and revealing the full breadth of his current weakness. He didn’t have to decide when she laughed, ran her hands through her cropped black-and-blond hair and backed away.

“Nice suite,” she commented, looking around.

He shrugged. “It’s a room with a roof.”

“A room with a roof conveniently owned by Alexa Chandler. Where is the heiress? I’ve always wanted to meet her.”

“Don’t you know? Farrow’s having her followed.”

Her pout lasted all of a split second, but Paschal noticed it all the same.

“He’s left you out of the loop, hasn’t he?”

“Let’s just say that the unwavering trust we had before you came into our lives has. . . wavered. He’s found it impossible to believe that a man over ninety could overpower a guard, take his gun, shoot his security guard and force me to drive him off the property.”

Well, her story certainly had been inventive. “So why are you still with him?”

“He needs me. I’m a direct descendant of Rogan’s brother, Lukyan. Blood means a lot to the fellowship of the K’vr.”

“But not as much as gender.”

“It’s an old organization, mostly underground, but the wealth the followers have amassed over the years is substantial. They’re set in their ways. They’ve never had to consider a woman for leadership before.”

“You sound as if you think you might change their minds.”

“You never know until you try,” she replied.

“And since Farrow’s no longer keeping you under his wing, you’re going to betray him and take the leadership for yourself?”

“That’s always been my plan. And I suspect Farrow knows it, That’s why he’s in Los Angeles right now, negotiating with the last known owner of the sword. A man named Ross Marchand.”

Paschal shook his head. The name did not sound familiar. “Our information tells us that the last buyer of the sword was a South American weapons collector involved in the drug trade. Alexa and Damon were headed that way as soon as—”

“Tell them not to waste their time,” she interrupted. “You were led to believe that by a shady German antiques dealer whom Farrow paid a hefty price to throw any other collectors off the trail.”

Paschal considered her expression and her words. He’d worked with enough less than reputable antiques dealers in his lifetime to find her story entirely believable.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked, her eyes flashing. “I’m attracted to you.”

“Try again.”

She smiled slyly. “I’m trying to gain your trust. Apparently I’m not very good at it. Let me try again.” From inside a slim leather bag she’d slung over her shoulder, she took out a series of photographs. Taking her time and making sure she slid as close to him as possible, she laid out each picture on the desk behind him.

Paschal was almost afraid to look.

Almost.

There were ten pictures in all, each a high-quality image of an item, one as old as the next. Most meant absolutely nothing to him except that they appeared Gypsy-made. The seventh picture, however, grabbed his attention. It was a chalice—an adorned cup. He fought the instinct to immediately pick it up when his brain registered the symbol carved into the fine, wrought silver of a hawk holding a fiery red opal in its talons. He perused all the photographs a second time, forcing his expression to remain impassive, before he met her eyes.

“Are you opening an auction house?”

She cursed. “There’s no time to play games, old man. I know you’re looking for items associated with Valoren. Each one of these items was handcrafted by Gypsies in the early to mid-eighteenth century. Most were found in and around the region of Germany where Valoren reportedly existed. This one”—she slammed her red-tipped fingernail into the center of the chalice—“bears the symbol of Rogan himself.”

She turned and, in a move that nearly caused Paschal to rocket his chair across the room, tugged down her slim slacks. On the area just above her smooth pelvic bone was a tattoo—the hawk with the opal clutched tight in its claws.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen this symbol before,” she insisted.

He arched a brow. “Not presented like that, I haven’t. That secret passage where we were trapped all those months ago was quite dark.”

A red flush crept from her chin to her cheeks, surprising him. With a violent tug she pulled up her pants. “Tell me you’re not interested.”

“In which? You or the chalice?”

She smiled. “Either. Both. But I’m willing to show you more than photographs if you come with me. I have those items in a secure location. But you have to come now. Not later. Not tomorrow. Now. This is a take-it-or-leave-it offer.”

“Why the rush?”

“I can’t beat Farrow to the sword,” she explained. “That battle is lost. But these items are mine. Or, at least, they will be. If you show me how to unlock their secrets, we’ll both get what we want.”

“How do you know I can unlock anything?”

She frowned deeply, as if he’d just insulted her intelligence. “Because you have before. You found a way into the castle where we could not. You unlocked that secret pretty handily. And you traced the sword before we did. Farrow only beat you to it because he paid that antiques dealer in Dresden an obscene amount of money to reveal who the buyer was and to throw whoever you’ve got sniffing after it off the scent.”

Paschal arched a brow. He’d always suspected Gemma Von Roan possessed more than average intelligence. Now he was sure.

“What do get in return for assisting you?”

“Name your price,” she countered cockily, as if nothing were beyond her grasp.

“I so prefer showing to telling.”

She grabbed his hand. “Let’s go, then.”

“I’ll have to call my son.”

“No way,” she insisted. “That girlfriend of his has a bitch of a roundhouse kick. I’d rather this just be you and me.”

“They’ll come looking for me. And they’ll find me. You know they will.”

“You can leave a note.”

Paschal shook his head. “Neither my son nor Catalina Reyes is a fool. They’ll never believe I ran off with you willingly and only left a note.”

The act of considering his demand seemed painful. She wasn’t accustomed to compromise. Well, she’d learn.

“Fine. One phone call when we get there. But if you tell him what I have, the deal is off.”

Paschal retrieved the cell phone Ben had left him, but eyed Gemma suspiciously. “How do I know you’re not still loyal to Farrow?”

“I’ve never been loyal to Farrow.” She touched his shoulder. In that instant Paschal felt a tingle of something electric, something so familiar he winced in response. The reaction broke their tentative contact, but her eyes narrowed. She’d felt it, too. “And you know it. Don’t you?”

Her eyes widened. She took a step back.

“What was that?”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

She shoved her chin out defiantly. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be, my dear. You should be.”

“I am your slave.”

Lauren coughed, though it was more like a splutter than an innocent clearing of the throat. “Say again?”

Aiden glanced down at the parchment—er—paper, that Lauren had given him and rechecked the words he’d been instructed to recite. It was bad enough that the stage direction forced him to his knees in front of her. Then he had to declare his thrall as well?

He took a deep breath before speaking. “I am your slave,” he repeated. This time each word was clipped and curt. He was quickly losing his patience with this folly, no matter what incentives she’d laid out for him.

She pressed her lips tightly together, suppressing, he suspected, the impulse to laugh.
Damnable woman
.

With a frustrated growl he threw the script to the floor. “I did warn you, my lady. I pride myself on honesty and forthright speech, not pathetic drivel. You ask me to pretend I am someone I am not and deliver declarations that are anathema to me, yet you chortle at my expense?”

“You’re not trying,” she insisted.

He cursed. “Lord, you are delusional. The fact that I am allowing such tripe to pass my lips denotes the greatest effort on my part.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth, failing to cover her laughter. He had the sudden urge to break something. An actor! Ludicrous! The entire premise of her film lacked credulity. A warrior on par with the likes of Achilles and Agamemnon driven by sexual need to subjugate himself to a woman?

“This man is a toy. No real soldier would make such a declaration.”

She quelled her laughter. “He’s not real. He’s a figment of the writer’s imagination, and I’m betting this scene was written by a woman who understands women’s fantasies.”

Pouting must have been invented for lips like hers, but he would not be swayed. At least, not yet. He required more convincing than she had yet offered, though her enticements so far had been incredibly persuasive.

“The only woman whose fantasies I wish to fulfill is you,” he declared. “I suspect you need to find another fool to promenade like a lovesick peacock for all the world to see.”

She dropped to her knees and placed a soft kiss on the tip of his chin, then one on each corner of his mouth. He held tight to his resolve and remained stoically disinterested. Unless she touched his cock. The damned body part would give him away. Otherwise he’d discovered that he could be a tolerable actor when given the right incentive.

“You only have four words to master tonight,” she coaxed. “Then you’ll have the rest of the night to help my body clock adjust to the night shift. It wasn’t easy for me to convince Michael to shoot your scenes at night. He only gave in because he’s still freaked out over my accident.”

“Four inane wards,” he griped.

“You’re just not in the right frame of mind, but if you let me”—she pressed close to him so that her nipples grazed his chest through her insubstantial attire—“I can help.”

She snaked her hands around his neck, bracing her thumbs just behind his ears and pulling his face so that his lips had no other option but to crash against hers. Instantly she parted her lips and thrust her tongue inside his mouth, with no other goal than to arouse him completely. And as with every other time she’d attempted such a diversion with Aiden, she was wholly successful.

Boldly she pressed her pelvis against his, undulating so that the friction caused an immediate rise in both his body temperature and his lower regions. With her curvaceous flesh draped in little but a swath of silk secured with a golden cord, her pale curves made his mouth water and his muscles tighten. A rush of hot blood through his veins topped off a lust-induced delirium he could barely resist. Now, this was insanity he could appreciate.

On the one hand, he was quite regretful that he had refused to don the costume she’d procured. With nothing more binding him than a few straps of leather and a swatch of fabric, he could be inside her right now, feeling her hot flesh encasing his, rather than fighting over meaningless words spoken by people who did not exist.

Then the vibration of her laughter against his mouth alerted him to the instantaneous change in his attire. . .followed by a cool breeze around his arse and her hand wrapped tight around his sex.

“See?” she teased. “I told you I could make you love your costume.”

His brain battled between the pleasure shooting through his body as she stroked and the fact that he’d just changed into the costume with a single errant thought. Though he’d used Rogan’s magic freely on the night Lauren had freed him, he’d been reluctant to invoke the power since. Rogan’s sorcery was not to be trifled with. Like waves from a raging ocean, the sensations of the ebbing and flowing magic chilled him to the bone.

Luckily, Lauren seemed intent on stoking a fire that could melt steel.

“You’re wicked,” he teased her, turning his thoughts away from their dark direction.

She smiled. “You’re only now noticing?”

Mercifully, she’d released his manhood and had turned her attentions to his bared backside. “What else can you do with the magic?”

“I do not want to know.”

She pulled back, surprised. “Why not?”

Aiden considered her question and decided to answer honestly. “The magic stirs something within me that reminds me of war.”

Her bottom lip dropped slightly. “I can’t imagine.”

“No, my lady,” he said, an unfortunate snap in his voice. “You cannot. Men under my command died at my feet, their bowels torn open by the slash of a traitor’s sword. Infantrymen I’d broken bread with but the night before spent the morning slaughtering the children of our enemy. Unlike your films and Rogan’s magic, what I saw at Culloden, what I lived, was very real.”

Silence reigned while she processed what he couldn’t believe he’d said aloud. He’d never shared with anyone a single detail regarding the great battle at Culloden. Had time and distance given him the freedom to finally speak about what weighed so heavily on his heart?

Her hand shook as she slid her palm over his cheek. “Rogan’s magic is real, Aiden. It’s what brought you to me.”

“It’s evil.”

“Only in the wrong hands. You’ve possessed the magic for days now, and you haven’t turned into Rogan. He can’t change who you are.”

“You don’t know that,” he insisted. “With each day that passes, I feel a burning fire building within me. A rage and resentment that, if unleashed, could harm you.”

“But you haven’t harmed me,” she argued.

“Because when you touch me. . .” The hunger in his voice completed his thought. When she touched him, the memories faded and the burgeoning anger receded to a simmer he could control. But for how long?

She smiled sensually and slid her fingers into his hair. “Then I’ll have to touch you more often, won’t I?”

But a squeal from a box near the door waylaid her from fulfilling her delicious promise.

“Hold that thought,” she instructed, crossing the room quickly and pressing a button on the base of the device. “Yes, Gino? Let them through.”

Aiden closed his eyes and despite his increased ire, concentrated on restoring his waistcoat, breeches and shirt.

“And how am I supposed to explain eighteenth century clothing?” she asked, stalking across the room and scooping up one of the many fashion magazines she kept on her coffee table and shoving one into his hands. He thumbed through, found a look that wasn’t entirely foreign—slim slacks and a shirt that buttoned down the front—and invoked the magic so that he wore exactly the same combination. A bubble of tar-like darkness stirred in his belly, but she kissed him long and hard until the sensation subsided.

With a twinkle in her eye, she broke away. “I think I’m going to like keeping the magic in line.”

She turned toward the entryway, but as he had no idea who was coming up to the house in the dead of night, he changed her clothing as well.

She glanced down at the sufficiently modest frock and skewered him with a deadly look.

“You want a kiss for this? Not exactly Roberto Cavalli, are you?”

“Who?”

“My favorite. . .never mind. Look, why don’t you stick to soldiering and allow me to choose my own wardrobe?”

She flipped through the magazine, pointed at a snug jacket worn over equally revealing pants and tapped her finger impatiently.

“Who calls on you at this late hour?” he demanded, crossing his arms and ignoring her request.

“Helen,” she replied curtly.

He supposed he need not cover her completely for another woman. Unimpressed by her choice, he grabbed her hand, yanked her to him and kissed her soundly while he conjured the sleepwear she’d worn after her shower—loose-fitting drawstring pants and a cropped T-shirt. He’d found the combination casual, but sensual in a way that could, in his opinion, withstand public consumption.

She smacked her lips and spun around. “Once I get you trained, you’re going to save me a bundle in haute couture.”

Her laughter followed her into the hallway, but Aiden remained behind. His mood had instantly turned sour, and not because of the magic. If Helen, who’d planted the idea of Aiden’s becoming an actor into Lauren’s mind, could tend to her business without his involvement, his night would not be a total loss.

He glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized he had just shy of five hours of solid form left. He certainly did not want to waste such precious moments exchanging small talk with a woman who had absolutely no idea who he really was. She’d assumed—and Lauren had not corrected her—that he was simply some attractive lover Lauren had taken into her bed. Aiden saw no reason to challenge her assumption, particularly since she wasn’t entirely mistaken, though the breadth of his true identity, he guessed, she’d never truly believe.

Lauren’s recovery had progressed nicely. Three days at the hospital followed by four in relative seclusion at home had restored her to her former strength and vigor, as well as given Aiden time to adjust to this new century. She’d told him what she could about technological advances, from air-conditioning to computers, and had, the night before, taken him on a drive through Los Angeles, a city that fed on the night just as he did. He had not yet processed all he’d seen and experienced, but the more he learned, the closer he came to determining his next move.

Though he tried to deny the truth, he had begun to realize how the curse yoked him tighter with each dawn. In the daylight he returned to his prison within the sword, and each sunset it was harder to throw off the resilient ugliness that seeped into his soul. To Lauren he must appear entirely insatiable, with the sexual appetite of a starving man, but in reality he was simply attempting to hold on to what was left of his humanity.

In the shadow hours, he wondered if any of his brothers had suffered this same fate. He tortured himself with the possibility that Rogan himself had beaten death and still existed in this world. And if that were the case, Aiden had no choice but to find him and destroy him. The years had not lessened his rage—they’d fed it to all-consuming proportions.

But to achieve his revenge, Lauren had to free him entirely, and while her mind was preoccupied with her recovery and with her film, she was not motivated to do more than enjoy his company when darkness fell. If he took this role in her film, he’d be one step closer to freedom from the sword. Yet the longer he toyed with Rogan’s magic, the more lost to the darkness he feared he’d become.

With no other choices, he’d decided to do as she asked. However, giving in easily to her request would not elicit the unequivocal gratitude he might require from her. He’d never known a woman who needed him less. He had to balance the scales. He had no idea what sacrifices she’d have to endure to gain his release from the sword and the curse.

“Well, looks like you’re off the hook,” Lauren announced, strolling into the room with Helen on her arm, and behind them the man who’d pressed his lips against Lauren’s when she had been knocked unconscious by the electric shock. From what Aiden had heard from the hospital staff, the man had saved Lauren by breathing into her lungs when she could not, but Aiden could not forget how he’d touched his mouth to hers with a passion that defied simple lifesaving techniques.

When they reached the center of the room, Lauren waved her hand lazily at the man.

“Helen apparently has found a replacement for you,” Lauren announced.

The man smirked.

Aiden crossed the room in measured strides.

“An impossible feat,” he said, assessing the man boldly.

Helen slid in front of Lauren and slapped Aiden twice on the chest—the first time to garner his attention; the second with a whistle of appreciation.

“Yes, well,” she said, unhanding him after catching his disapproving eye. “We heard you weren’t exactly anxious to take to the screen, big guy, so I found someone who can’t wait to be with Lauren. On the screen.”

Aiden saw the challenge in Helen’s gaze and decided not to rise to her bait.

“You could have hired this man from the start,” Aiden assessed, folding his arms across his chest.

Helen arched a brow. “I needed convincing that he was the right man for the role. And trust me,” she said, conspiratorially quiet, “he’ll do the job just right. You, on the other hand,” she said loudly, her voice switching from secretive to sugary, “seem much better suited to looking after Lauren in a more private capacity.”