Phantom Pleasures

by Julie Leto

  He pressed down on the latch.

  Nothing happened.

  He tugged and pulled, bracing his arm on the doorjamb to create leverage. He buoyed all his strength against the lock, straining until sweat broke out on his brow.

  From across the hall, the cat hissed.

  With a curse, Damon stopped. Apparently, the witch on the landing had released him only so far. What magic did she brew that kept him entrapped?

  He crossed the hall in seconds, then took the stairs three at a time, catching her as she raised herself on her arms and groaned.

  A sensual sound, even when laced with pain.

  “Move slowly, my dear,” he said. “You’ve suffered a great shock.”

  She defied him instantly, spinning to face him with a decided bounce on her backside.

  A rather lovely backside, truth be told.

  “Who are you?” She winced as she smoothed her hand over the back of her head. “Or should I ask, what are you?”

  She slid her palm over her forehead, squinting beneath her fingers despite the dim light on the landing. Damon glanced at the torches, unlit for all these centuries. He wondered if there was a way to light them when, suddenly, they flamed to life.

  Interesting.

  “I could ask you the same question,” he said, extending his hand to her.

  She looked at him defiantly, her expression crisp with suspicion.

  “I mean you no harm,” he emphasized.

  “Then explain the knot on the back of my head.”

  “A consequence of the dark magic imbued in these castle walls, I suspect.”

  “Your magic?” she asked.

  He sniffed derisively. “Hardly. I wouldn’t have trapped myself here, would I?”

  Though her wary expression did not falter, she accepted his help in standing. Her hand was small in his, but her intrepid comportment compensated for her lack of size. The minute she regained her balance, she yanked her hand from his and stepped back to establish distance.

  “I apologize, my lady. As for what I am, I cannot yet say. As to who, I am Damon Forsyth.”

  She popped the tie holding her hair in place, releasing the red strands in thick, shiny waves. She sighed. Apparently loosening her hair alleviated some of the pain in her head. Her jaw relaxed, but only slightly.

  “So, Damon Forsyth, are you dead?”

  Damon glanced down at his body, examining the coarse texture of his breeches and the slick leather of his boots. “I do not believe so, madam. Quite frankly, I’ve not felt this alive for centuries.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “I’m quite certain I do not yet know. Previously, I was the son of John Forsyth, a British baron and governor of a Gypsy colony in a land called—”

  “Valoren?”

  Damon gaped. “You know this place?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t know it at all. Just the name. And you’re not in Kansas anymore, Sir Damon. Then again, neither am I.”

  Wavering on her feet, she reached out to find her balance. Luckily, Damon was the nearest solid object. Her hand gripped his powerfully, and for a split second he imagined those same fingers seizing his naked shoulders or raking across his back.

  He cleared his throat and shook the bawdy image from his mind. “What is this…‘can sis’?”

  She snickered. “It’s Kansas. Wizard of—oh, never mind. Okay. You’re not dead. And unlike when I saw you in the window earlier, you are now solid. Which means?”

  Damon took a second before he realized he was supposed to provide the missing information to her supposition. “I know not, my lady. My last memory includes a powerful anger toward a dark sorcerer. I must suppose that this anger led me here.”

  She blew out a breath and managed to stand solidly on her own. “So, you pissed off some magician who locked you in the painting?”

  Damon winced. Such language from a woman of breeding was wholly unexpected, but nonetheless intriguing. “What makes you think I angered him?”

  She broadened her stance in a pose that looked vaguely defensive. “He wouldn’t have trapped his best friend in here all this time, would he?”

  Damon thought of the cat. “I would not be so sure.” Eyeing her skeptically, he wondered at the breadth of their conversation. For a woman who’d just confronted someone whose presence could not be explained scientifically, she appeared mostly unruffled. Did such occurrences happen daily in her century?

  “You have no trouble accepting that I am a man out of time?” he asked.

  She laughed. Not a tinkling, genteel giggle, but an out-and-out guffaw. “I have a lot of trouble, believe me. But I can’t ignore what is right in front of me.”

  Nor could he. She was hauntingly lovely, with eyes the color of leaves in spring and skin that, despite a natural pale hue, glowed with life. But mostly, she possessed a fire he’d never witnessed in a woman so young, so lonely. She’d reacted to him too easily to be a woman who warmed herself regularly in any man’s bed.

  “Perhaps I am not real at all,” he offered, wanting to verify his suspicions, “but a figment of your powerful fantasy?”

  Her shock, followed by a quick flash of anger, told Damon more than she intended, he was sure. That she was lonely. That she was in need of a lover. And that she wasn’t happy about it. Not, at least, when someone else voiced her innermost desires.

  She pinched him on the arm. Instinctively, he stepped back and voiced his displeasure with a random curse.

  Her chuckle infuriated him, but he had to admit, she possessed a wealth of courage. She’d turned the tables, saucy wench.

  “You’re as real as the knot on my head,” she insisted. “At least, for my purposes. Question is, why are you here?”

  Damon took a deep breath, invigorated again by the rush of air into his lungs. This, coupled with his attraction to this beautiful, headstrong woman, was a sensation he never wanted to forget. “I have no idea, my lady, but I do intend to find out.”

  Her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist before he could react. He squelched his instinct to twist out of her grip, startled by the heat of her flesh. She turned his hand and pressed her fingers tightly on his palm. Satisfied by what she felt there, she quickly scratched her nails across his skin.

  He winced. “Is this a new form of greeting?”

  She pulled his hand closer and watched as nail marks swelled.

  “You feel pain; you have a heartbeat and blood flow,” she assessed.

  Damon attempted to gently remove his hand from her grip, but she held tight. With no need to demonstrate his power at the moment, he simply arched a brow.

  She released him but showed no repentance for her audacious behavior.

  “You have not yet reciprocated,” he reminded her.

  “Excuse me?”

  Absently, he rubbed the spot where she’d marred his flesh. “Your name?”

  “Oh.” She thrust her hand at him. “Alexa Chandler, president and CEO of Crown Chandler Enterprises.”

  He glanced skeptically at her hand. He gave her a sweeping bow, then stepped aside.

  She pulled her hand back. “You weren’t solid before,” she said.

  “I daresay you know nothing of who I was before, Miss Chandler. Or is it Lady Chandler?”

  She snorted. “I take it you’re from England originally.”

  “We are not in Britain now?”

  “You’re in the United States.”

  He searched his brain but found nothing. “Where?”

  “Sorry. The colonies. Only we’re our own country now. You are now in the United States of America. But,” she said, her eyes narrowed as she dismissed the information she offered as insignificant, “when your hand went through the window upstairs, you were not solid. Now you are. Care to explain?”

  Damon pursed his lips. This woman was incredibly observant and wholly single-minded, and didn’t exhibit the least indication of fear in the face of the unknown or supernatural. Either the world had c
hanged completely from when he last lived free, or else she was a remarkable woman of courage. From the painting, he’d watched her command the crew of sailors that had searched the castle for signs of his existence. He’d heard her negotiate and issue orders to the young man who’d shown concern over her safety, which she’d promptly dismissed. Clearly, this Alexa Chandler was a woman of importance and power.

  Just the sort of woman who might be able to set him completely free.

  “Yes, ’twas I in the window, but no, I was not solid then as I am now.”

  “What changed?”

  “You. You unlocked my soul from the portrait.”

  “Your soul? You said you weren’t a ghost.”

  “I do not believe I ever died.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He took a deep breath. “How can a ghost, whose body has perished, take solid form?”

  She nodded, chewing on her bottom lip charmingly while she pondered the situation. A thinker, this one. Practical and logical. He wasn’t sure he knew many women of her ilk in his day. Clearly, he was frequenting the company of the wrong women.

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one. Ghosts are not, to my limited knowledge, ever solid. Then what are you?” Her luminous eyes fixed on him, even as her voice pitched with desperation to understand. “Some sort of lunatic?”

  He smirked, though he supposed the possibility existed. The whole of the situation teetered on the absurd, but he knew enough about Rogan’s black magic to accept that this situation did not exist within a damaged mind. “I cannot say, but since you are presently the only person who can see or hear me, the onus of sanity would be on you, would it not?”

  She nodded. “Right. Can’t argue there. However you became trapped in the painting, you certainly aren’t stuck there any longer.”

  His gaze darted toward the door. The reins had loosened, but he was still trapped by Rogan’s curse.

  He’d emerged in a different era, but he doubted that outcome had been part of Rogan’s grand design. More than likely, the sorcerer had laid magical traps in his castle to stop anyone from interfering with his and Sarina’s escape. Rogan had known about the coming horde, just as he’d known Sarina’s brothers would come for her. The trap may not have been meant for Damon specifically, but it had been sprung nonetheless.

  “There’s so much I don’t understand,” she admitted.

  “I’m sure I’d be additionally fearful for your sanity, my lady, if you did comprehend my situation fully.”

  She snorted, but he found the sound quite charming.

  “Because of the Gypsy curse, I have stepped out of my time and into yours. When I was entrapped in the painting, the year was 1747, a year after the defeat of the Great Pretender at Culloden.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “What year is this?” he asked.

  She bit her bottom lip, drawing instant attention to the fullness of her mouth. “Oh, only 2008. I think I need to sit down.”

  Even as she made the confession, he saw no weakness in her. Her skin had bloomed with color. If she swooned now, he’d have to suspect her action was a weak attempt at gaining his sympathy.

  Yet why would she need to play such games? As far as he knew, she could leave the castle anytime, the same way she entered—unencumbered and free to move about at will. But if she left, how would he escape? He needed her. She’d already helped him breech one barrier. Chances were, she could help him progress further once he determined the means she’d used to get him this far.

  Unless, of course, her touching the painting had trapped her as well.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, gesturing to the empty landing, “there is no furni—”

  A chaise appeared a few feet behind them.

  She spun around.

  “Where did that come from?”

  He arched a brow. “I’m not entirely sure,” he replied, glancing at the flames flickering in the sconces.

  Rogan had built this castle. On more than one visit, Damon had suspected that a common magic allowed the sorcerer to keep the place running with only a small number of servants. Perhaps the magic still existed, now at his beck and call.

  What did that mean about Rogan?

  What did it mean to the curse?

  Anger and confusion surged through him, but Damon held his emotions in check. First, he had to ensure that Alexa Chandler didn’t leave until he was able to follow.

  “The chaise looks comfortable enough,” he assured her. “Why not have the seat you so desire.”

  He allowed his voice to deepen at the word desire, and he could tell from the indignant flick of her eyes that she felt the effects of his suggestive tone.

  Sharp, this one. And sensitive to sensual hints. She’d prove either woefully easy to seduce or ridiculously resistant. Either way, he didn’t doubt his ultimate victory. He was, after all, the Forsyth heir. Challenges fed the men in his family with as much nourishment as meat and wine.

  At the thought, a table appeared beside the chaise, laden with steaming brisket, a pewter decanter and two matching goblets.

  “Stop that,” she ordered, spinning on him with fire in her decadent green eyes.

  He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “I’m afraid that is easier said than done.”

  She matched his stance, tilting her chin in a valiant attempt to mask her lack of height. “Why?”

  “Because, my dear lady, I have no idea what, exactly, I am doing.”

  Alexa Chandler narrowed her gaze, assessing him with cunning worthy of a man, but incredibly alluring when coming from a woman. “I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

  His gaze locked with hers in a battle Damon knew could have serious repercussions.

  For both of them.

  “Then I’ll just have to convince you.”

  5

  “Clearly, you’re a man who likes a challenge,” she assessed. “Should make life in this little dreamworld of yours very interesting.”

  His chuckle echoed off the bare stone all around them, then injected directly under her skin. The sound skirted the edge between sinister and genuine mirth. Perhaps she should have heeded both Cat’s and Jacob’s warnings for caution. Maybe—just maybe—for the first time in her life, she was in over her head.

  “I assure you, Miss Chandler—”

  “Alexa,” she corrected, ignoring the sudden acceleration of her heartbeat.

  “Yes, of course. Alexa.”

  He exploited every vowel, his accent emphasizing the keen feminine sound of her name even as he stepped an inch or so closer. Her instincts battled between running like hell and leaning in those last few inches, to see if his skin was indeed as warm and his muscles as hard as she imagined.

  “I assure you that this dreamworld, as you call it, can be very real if you so wish.”

  She locked her feet in place, determined to remain unaffected by his proximity. And yet, anticipation thrilled through her, electrifying the space between them with a raw, natural magic that she understood very, very well—even if she hadn’t experienced it firsthand for a long time.

  To cover her attraction, she eyed him with as much skepticism as she could muster. “A moment ago you told me you didn’t know how the magic worked here.”

  “’Tis true,” he said, “but I did not say I would not attempt to manipulate the magic to my advantage.”

  His curve of a grin emphasized the sharp angles in his cheekbones and square jaw. His snug breeches, loose-fitted sleeves gathered at the wrist and finely embroidered waistcoat conjured images in her mind of Jason Isaacs in The Patriot—or better yet, from the richness and quality of his garments, of Richard Chamberlain in The Slipper and the Rose. She remembered swooning over that particular video during her incredibly romantic and tragically lonesome youth.

  Well, she wasn’t a starry-eyed Cinderella wannabe anymore. This castle belonged to her. And she wasn’t going to let some superhandsome ghost or whatever he was trick her into believing this situati
on was anything less than real and, therefore, primed for her control. She was here. He was here. And he was not from this time.

  Not. From. This. Time.

  The realization struck her hard and she dropped onto the chaise, her brain spinning. With a tilt of his head and a practiced gesture with his hand, he asked permission to sit beside her—which she granted after scooting over to provide a safe distance.

  “You have no reason to mistrust me, Miss Chandler.”

  “Please, call me Alexa. I like to be on a first-name basis with all the…phantoms I free from cursed paintings.”

  He chuckled again, the sound no less effective the second time around. “You have a sharp tongue.”

  “You have no idea,” she quipped. “Look, I’m not afraid to admit that I’m feeling a little bit foggy. Maybe we need to take a deep breath and back up and try and figure this all out.”

  He leaned across her to the table and retrieved the goblet and decanter. His linen sleeve brushed against her skin, injecting the air with a tantalizing scent that was decidedly male and inherently intoxicating. Before she could stop herself, she’d inhaled deeply.

  He smelled exactly as she’d expect of a man of his time and station. Like leather and spices and pure maleness. No designer fragrances or masking colognes. Once he took a draft of the wine, his kiss would return the full-bodied flavor of the vintage, with nothing minty or artificial to impair the taste.

  “Perhaps this will help,” he said, pouring the scarlet liquid into the goblet.

  She eyed him skeptically. “I don’t think drinking magic wine is the answer to my problem. Water will suffice.”

  He took a long sip from the pewter cup himself, humming with pleasure. Her mouth watered, then, with a swallow, quickly dried.

  “You’ll not trust any water I conjure, true?”

  “I have some in my bag. Just there.”

  After a pause, he moved to retrieve her backpack. Clearly, this wasn’t a man accustomed to fetching items for anyone, much less a stranger. He placed the pack at her feet, and while he sipped his wine, she fished the bottle out and unscrewed the plastic cap.