Phantom Pleasures

by Julie Leto

  8

  Damon knew he shouldn’t laugh at her, but to survive the excruciating agony of having his shoulder dislodged, he’d take what jollies he could. A thousand colors swirled in his eyes, each more sickeningly bright than the last. His skin burned. The act of breathing scorched the inside of his lungs.

  Unfortunately, laughter hurt nearly as much as being thrown fifty feet by a wild bolt of lightning. He remained conscious by focusing on how Alexa had been so sure of herself, issuing threats as if her paper deed to this castle somehow gave her true ownership. She would learn. The rights and title to this structure belonged only to Lord Rogan and his evil magic.

  He’d learned that the hard way himself, hadn’t he?

  “Shut up,” Alexa ordered, the strange, wide-barreled gun aimed accurately at his midsection.

  Perhaps she should shoot him. Maybe with a gaping hole in his belly, he could forget about the torturous separation of his shoulder from its socket.

  “You’re trapped,” he coughed out. “This magic won’t release you. Not until it is ready.”

  “When will that be?”

  He shook his head, trying to remain conscious even as his vision blurred and his instinct for breathing faltered under the increased pain of his inhalations.

  “Your shoulder is dislocated.”

  He managed a nod. Damned horse-riding accident. Since being thrown by a skittish mare at age thirteen, he’d suffered this residual condition more than once. His brother Aiden had become incredibly adept at popping the joint back into place. But what could a wisp of a woman like Alexa do except shoot him and put him out of his misery?

  She tossed her pack to the ground and threw the gun atop it. “Let me take your hand.”

  “What?”

  She held out both of her hands to him, palms up. “Let me take your hand. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “A moment ago, you threatened murder,” he reminded her, trying to squelch the agony in his voice. What he wouldn’t do right now for a shot of brandy. Hell, a whole bottle.

  A flagon appeared beside him, and he wasted no time using his good hand and teeth to tear off the cork and imbibe a fortifying swig. The fire of the alcohol barely registered after the pain of the blue flame.

  Her scowl faltered, revealing a flash of a grin. “I reserve the right to shoot you later if you piss me off again. Now, let me take your hand.”

  With no other immediate options at his disposal, Damon complied. Perhaps he had acted too hastily in accusing her of somehow procuring Sarina’s necklace through evil means. He had been the last person to possess the chain and charm. While he was certain the jewelry had not come into Alexa’s ownership coincidentally, he’d had no real cause to accuse her of witchcraft. Not when he was the one who controlled the magic.

  “Wait,” he said, just as she was lifting her foot against his chest to use as leverage in what he anticipated to be a horribly painful way of restoring his shoulder.

  She nearly stumbled. “I said you can trust me.”

  He nodded. “I know. I just…want to try. Shoulder, heal.”

  Since she hadn’t released his hand, he could feel the tension in her touch. And the warmth. How could he have tossed her aside so callously? He truly was a cad of the first order.

  But before he could offer recompense for his callous behavior, he had to be able to think straight. Channeling all of his concentration, he called to Rogan’s magic again.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  Pain still throbbed through his arm, accompanied by a growing numbness that would only lead to a deeper pain. “No. Apparently, I cannot use the magic to heal myself.”

  “That’s what you get for yanking that chain off my neck and calling me a witch.”

  “A justified consequence,” he admitted.

  “Paybacks are hell. Now, brace yourself. This isn’t going to tickle.”

  With her foot pressed against his chest, she used the counterbalance of her body weight to pull his shoulder fully forward. Surprisingly, the pain did not increase, though nausea flooded his insides and turned his stomach into a roiling mess. Little by little, she rotated his arm, pushing gently until the ball of the joint slipped back into the socket. The pain spiked, then subsided to a dull ache.

  “Better?” she asked.

  He managed a nod. He really was a complete idiot.

  “You didn’t have to help me,” he added.

  “No kidding. You certainly didn’t deserve it.”

  He watched her gingerly touch her hand to the back of her neck and then glance at the broken chain in her hand.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her eyes bored into his with venom, then quickly softened. “But it could have been worse. Are you truly certain this necklace belonged to your sister?”

  She handed him back the gold chain and triangle charm and he stared at them cupped in his palm. Knowing that moving his injured arm immediately after repair wasn’t wise, he shifted the jewelry in his hand until it dangled from his fingers.

  “Yes, I’m certain,” he assured her. “My father gave Sarina this necklace on her twelfth birthday. The triangle is but a corner of a handmade star wrought by a Gypsy artisan of some repute. She wore the star daily and I found the chain, broken, and the torn charm, near this very step on the night I became trapped by Rogan’s dark magic.”

  Centuries couldn’t fill the well of loss that widened every time he thought of Sarina and his failure to rescue her from a man he’d once considered a friend. Damon swallowed thickly, knowing now was neither the time nor the place to indulge regrets and sorrow. He had to reassess his situation. Proceed with more caution. His rage had nearly destroyed him—and his tentative bond with Alexa, his only link to the outside world.

  Though he couldn’t seem to lock back into his cold feelings toward her. Making love to her had affected him, and not only because he’d been without a woman’s touch for so long. Alexa presented a rare combination of woman—one with wealth and breeding, and yet fearless in both her passion and her self-defense. He’d never met anyone like her, and, use her though he must, he had no desire to hurt her intentionally.

  He handed the necklace back to her, and after a second’s hesitation, she slipped it into the pocket of her slacks.

  “I can’t imagine it is coincidental that you’ve come into ownership of the charm, Alexa,” he said, forcing his gaze away from where she’d placed the jewelry, thinking, but not saying, that the hiding place she’d chosen seemed hardly fitting for something of such value. “Tell me more about this brother of yours.”

  In a move that seemed more instinctive than deliberate, Alexa placed a protective hand over her pocket. “Why?”

  “So I can decide whether or not to kill him.”

  Alexa stared at Damon, wondering how she could have made love to a man she most definitely did not know. From any other guy, she might have dismissed his comment as an idle threat. But this guy? He was serious. She only hoped the protective properties of his sister’s busted chain and charm didn’t fail her now.

  “How long has it been since your sister went missing?” she asked. “Two hundred and fifty years? I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it’s time to get over it.”

  “At times, it seems like yesterday.” Damon glanced down at his lap, which completely reminded her that he was naked. Not that she could really forget. While his skin remained on the pale side, he was otherwise formed in the image of a Roman god. Explosive temper or not, he knew how to use that body.

  Man, did he ever.

  “That may be,” she said, glancing anywhere but at him, “but that doesn’t give you the right to threaten me or my brother just because we somehow ended up with a necklace that belonged to your sister three centuries after she lost it.”

  Leaning forward, Damon captured her gaze, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. “My nudity unnerves you?”

  Alexa squeezed her fists tighter, then slowly relaxed them
. She had this very bad habit of denying her weaknesses, even when they were painfully obvious.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “My nudity did not disconcert you when we were making love.”

  She turned and eyed him boldly. “That was before you assaulted me, called me a witch and threatened to kill my brother.”

  He nodded. “I allowed my emotions to best me, and for that, I apologize.” Damon closed his eyes and, seconds later, his loose-sleeved shirt, snug breeches and glossed boots were back on his body. “’Tis a failing of mine three centuries have not cured.”

  Alexa rubbed the back of her neck. The cut still smarted, but she’d certainly lived through worse. “Apology accepted. I suppose my brother having your sister’s necklace is peculiar, but then, my brother is one of the most peculiar people I know.”

  “Is that said lovingly?”

  Alexa shrugged. She wasn’t entirely sure. She certainly cared about Jacob and didn’t want him murdered by a vengeful phantom, but they’d lived at odds so long, and old habits died hard.

  “I see the magic works again?”

  Damon chuckled at her topic switch but left the matter alone. “Apparently, conjuring clothing and furniture and food are still within the realm of my power.”

  He tried to lift his arm, and the exertion caused a pained grunt.

  “But you clearly can’t heal yourself. You’re going to need to rest your shoulder for a while,” Alexa instructed. “Maybe conjure up some ice?”

  From the perplexed look on his face, she knew she’d confused him, but he did as she asked. After several tries through which he conjured everything from a large block of ice to a bucket of snow, she finally explained the concept well enough for him to produce enough crushed ice to wrap in cloth. She fished a couple of ibuprofen out of her bag and convinced him to swallow them. He winced at the cold ice and nearly choked on the pills, but after a few minutes of allowing the compress to numb the soreness and the drugs to work their magic, he sighed and relaxed.

  “You know, my brother is into all sorts of occult stuff,” she explained, adjusting the ice against his joint. “It really doesn’t surprise me that he got his hands on something so precious, something he clearly thought offered me some sort of protection. He’s not perfect by any means, but he’s never been anything but loyal to me. Particularly since I nearly died.”

  Damon’s gaze prickled her skin, so she scooted a few inches away.

  “Nearly died?” he asked. “How?”

  Alexa instantly regretted her remark. She hated talking about the accident. She’d come to terms with the pain she’d suffered, but not the loss. Her father. Her stepmother. The last vestiges of her childhood. She’d been an adult when the truck had smashed into their limousine, but while her father lived, she still had someone to rely on, advise her. Be proud of her.

  “An accident in a car. My injuries were extensive, but I survived. My father and Jacob’s mother did not. That event bonded Jacob and me in ways you can’t imagine. I won’t let you hurt him.”

  Damon did not reply, but from the shadows in his eyes, she knew her point was made.

  Outside, the storm still raged, but the crash of the thunder had softened with increasing distance. Within a few hours, the deluge would pass. She wasn’t sure if the tempest had been just an example of Florida’s often violent weather or a manifestation of the castle’s dark magic objecting to Damon’s attempted escape. Either way, she was stuck here for the night with a centuries-old phantom who’d made wild, passionate love to her one minute and then threatened to kill her brother the next.

  Now he’d gone back to showing concern. Riding such an emotional roller coaster with a stranger who wasn’t even supposed to exist sent her mind reeling.

  “Stop staring at me,” she said.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “You can’t threaten to kill my brother one minute and then compliment me the next.”

  He shifted and she readjusted the compress, squeezing the water from the melted ice onto the floor.

  “I apologized for my hasty words,” he reminded her. “But know this. If your brother is uninvolved with Lord Rogan, I will have no reason to kill him.”

  Gooseflesh prickled her skin. He might have meant the words to be reassuring, yet they were anything but.

  “Rogan is long dead,” she argued.

  “Many likely believed me long dead as well, Alexa. I cannot make such assumptions.”

  “Even about your sister?”

  “Especially not about her. Her necklace still exists, after all this time, and falls nearly immediately into my hands. This castle has been rebuilt with every last stone in the exact place it was on that fateful night. Rogan’s magic pulses through here and allows me to do this,” he said, once again divesting himself of his clothes. “And this.”

  Seconds later, she was naked as well.

  She cursed. With a devilish smile, he clothed them both again and she had to call on all her self-control not to slap him hard.

  “Don’t—”

  “How can I assume the past has not affected the present deeply?” he went on, ignoring her protest. “For all I know, it was Rogan’s magic that brought you here to free me, to renew our battle until one of us finally wins.”

  The keen resolve in his voice chilled her, but she shook off the cold and pressed the ice pack tighter against his skin. She’d heard determination like his before—out of her own mouth. Why should his attitude frighten her when she so often sounded just as single-minded and resolute?

  “This is going to be a long night,” she said. “Maybe we should go somewhere more comfortable.”

  She moved to stand and suddenly found herself floating in a vortex of color and light. Before she had a chance to cry out in surprise, her feet steadied on a plush carpet in a warm room that smelled of ocean, books and charred wood.

  Damon was sitting on a hand-tooled leather chair, one knee curved over the arm, looking rakish and dangerous and as sexy as hell.

  He’d just magically moved them into another room.

  “Can you warn me before you do that?” she asked.

  “If you wish,” he replied.

  “I do.”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin when something furry brushed against her leg. She looked down and saw nothing, then spun in her search for the animal or large, hairy insect that had caused the sensation.

  “What was that?”

  Damon laughed heartily. Clearly, he was feeling better.

  “Show yourself, beast.”

  In a puff of black smoke, a cat as diaphanous as the fog appeared.

  “Is this yours?” she asked.

  Damon sneered. “I abhor the creature, but he has been my only companion all these centuries. He belonged to Rogan.”

  Alexa knelt down and attempted to assess the cat on an equal level. She hadn’t owned a cat since she was in college, but liked the animals nonetheless—even scary ghost cats with long black hair and ominous yellow eyes.

  “What’s its name?”

  “Dante,” he replied.

  “Like the guy who descended into hell?”

  “The beast lived with Rogan,” he answered. “The name is highly appropriate.”

  From experience, Alexa knew not to reach for the cat if she wanted its attention. Cats liked best the people who worshipped them least. Which is why she wasn’t surprised when the feline disappeared and then reappeared in Damon’s lap.

  “He likes you,” she said, amused by Damon’s putout expression. Still, he gave the cat a scratch behind the ears.

  “He is only used to me, as I am to him.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Damon shrugged. “I cannot be sure about the cat any more than I am about myself.”

  He shifted in his seat, but the cat did not scamper off or, more likely in its case, burst into a puff of smoke. Odd how she was becoming accustomed to the wild world she’d discovered inside
these castle walls. As time passed, she was feeling more and more like Alice after she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. Alexa walked the perimeter of the room, noting the fine furnishings, such as handblown glass and fascinating statues molded in striking bronze and untarnished silver. Where silk didn’t festoon the walls, bold tapestries did, providing a richness of color and texture that nearly stole her breath. Even the cloak draped across the back of Damon’s chair flowed with rich opulence.

  Ideas took form in a swirl. How she’d decorate the presidential suite. What flowers she wanted in the lobby. How she’d present even the smallest guest room with the finest touches of history and wealth.

  “You bear no scars,” he said, his voice intimate.

  She looked up, surprised. For an instant, she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You spoke of an accident. In a…car? You bear no scars.”

  She scoffed. “You weren’t looking in the right places.”

  “I looked everywhere,” he insisted, his voice dipping into naughty territory.

  She took a deep breath. She couldn’t go there with him again. She’d had her fantasy and it had been amazing. But she was too confused and conflicted to surrender to such intimacy again. She was stuck here for the night, at the very least. She had to make conversation, but making love was out of the question.

  “I had excellent plastic surgeons,” she replied.

  His brow furrowed. “Surgeons, I understand. But what is plastic?”

  She had to think. How could she explain something that was so elemental to her, yet so foreign to him? “A synthetic material. Man-made. Like rubber,” she offered, guessing that the natural material was available to some degree during his time period, “but harder.”

  “They attached this to you to cover scars?”

  She laughed, shaking her head as she joined him near the chair, then reached to give the cat, who’d curled up comfortably in his lap, a gentle stroke. She didn’t really understand the instant rapport she shared with this mysterious man from the past, but she was too tired and emotionally spent to fight her instincts. In the morning, she’d likely wake up and discover the whole interaction was nothing more than a dream. Or a very stupid mistake. For tonight, she had to wing it.