Phantom Pleasures

by Julie Leto

The topic had been verboten between father and son. Paschal had presented one paper on Valoren early in his career as an academic—and it had nearly destroyed his chances of tenure at any institution with a serious reputation. Ben had questioned his father about why he’d go out on a limb with such a crazy tale, but the older man had reacted to his questions with uncharacteristic anger, and then hadn’t spoken to him for a week.

  Clandestinely, Ben had learned that only a select few of Paschal’s colleagues in the study of Romani history, lore and sociology had ever heard of the place, and nearly all had gotten their information, scant as it was, from Paschal himself.

  According to legend, Valoren was a Gypsy safe haven tucked into some forgotten region between Germany and Bohemia in the mid–seventeen hundreds. Nothing remained of the place except a few whispered stories about a powerful, deadly curse.

  Ben shut off his laptop and tucked it into its case, wondering why Morton Gilmore had chosen to help the woman who’d barged into the office when he knew how protective his father was about this particular topic. Not content to let the mystery lie, he made a phone call.

  “Son, are you going to tell me you could resist those eyes?” Gilmore said after the initial pleasantries. “I’d have ducked into another room and forged a diary outlining the details of this Valoren nonsense myself if I’d thought she’d fall for it. Smart cookie, this Catalina Reyes. Don’t underestimate her resolve.”

  Great. The last thing he needed was some sexy woman on a mission. Been there, done that. Had the scars to prove it. Inside and out.

  “I couldn’t help her if I wanted to,” Ben admitted. He’d done an independent study under Gilmore during his undergraduate years and respected the man immensely. Because Gilmore was an old friend of his father’s, he didn’t mind admitting the truth. “I’ve never seen this diary. And I never read the paper father wrote all those years ago. Can’t even find a copy anymore. You know Paschal has never told me much about this Valoren myth.”

  “Your father claims the myth is real,” Gilmore insisted. “I’m quite certain he has more proof than he’s ever shared with either of us. You can thank a couple of bottles of Crown Royal for the fact that I saw the diary for myself. Took a hell of a time to bring the memory out of this old brain of mine, but Ms. Reyes’s persistence was compelling. Her perfume helped, too. You did notice the exotic, spiced scent, I gather?”

  Old coot. With apologies for his haste, Ben ended the call. He preferred not to think about the soft, tangerine scent still lingering on his hand from where he’d touched her, a fragrance potently mixed with exotic spices that lured him, for just a moment, to forget the vow he’d made to his dying mother to protect his father and his work above all else—even his own personal interests.

  He checked his watch. Paschal was likely out gardening, but he called the house anyway. As expected, there was no answer. Still, it couldn’t be a coincidence that Catalina Reyes had come looking for the Valoren diary so soon after one of Paschal’s seemingly disinterested undergraduate students had come sniffing around for the same information. Packing up as quickly as possible, he locked the office and headed to his car.

  With few evening classes on a Friday, Ben’s car sat in the lot nearly alone. He tossed his bag on the passenger seat, then bent in to turn on the air conditioner and roll down the windows before subjecting his body to the solar temperatures inside the El Camino. Waiting for the car to cool, he glanced around. Other than a few students waiting for a bus inside a covered booth on the corner, no one was around.

  So why did he feel like he was being watched?

  Casually, Ben strolled to the passenger side of the car and, using the key, unlocked the reinforced glove compartment where he kept his gun, a souvenir from his old life. Before his mother died. Before she made him promise to give up his explorations and return to the university as Paschal’s assistant and, frankly, keeper. Turning his back so no one could see what he was doing, he checked the safety and ammo, then shoved the weapon into his waistband and untucked his shirt to cover the fact that he was armed. He was probably overreacting, but after the scene he’d witnessed between his father and one of his undergraduate students, who was accompanied by a mysterious stranger, just a few days ago, he preferred to err on the side of caution.

  The minute the temperature in the car dropped below eighty, Ben roared out of the parking lot. He glanced several times into the rearview mirror but saw no one follow. Once he was embroiled in busy, Friday afternoon traffic, he couldn’t be so confident. Something was up. Something weird.

  He pulled his cell phone out of his bag and punched the speed-dial number to his father’s house again. Old man wouldn’t carry a cell, though Ben supposed he couldn’t blame the guy. Paschal Rousseau might be in prime physical condition, but he was more than ninety years old. His technical know-how was limited to tools that helped him with his research.

  The phone rang several times, with no answer. The voice mail took over, and this time, Ben punched in the codes to retrieve the messages. Nothing new. He accessed the saved messages and nearly wrecked his car.

  “Professor Rousseau, this is Amber Stranton. I’m really sorry about that scene the other day on the quad. I know that my cousin is creepy, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. I wish you’d reconsider looking over the items he told you about. I really think they could help you with your research on Valoren.”

  Ben had witnessed the scene the girl referred to—cheerleader-sweet Amber leading his father to a man in a dark overcoat entirely too stifling for Texas weather. From a window in the faculty lounge, he’d watched Paschal exchange a few words with the couple, and then, after looking at some item handed to him by the man, he’d grown agitated. Angry. The skin on his face had reddened as if sunburned and his arms flew as he shouted and stormed away.

  Amber had looked terrified during the whole exchange, yet by the time Paschal had returned to his office, he’d calmed down to his usual jaunty self and refused to discuss the matter with his son.

  So what was new?

  Ben had made it his business to track down Amber Stranton and question her about the situation. She’d been tight-lipped, mentioning only that her cousin had been interested in some Gypsy hideaway his father had been researching. Without mentioning Valoren by name, Amber had invoked a sore topic between Paschal and Ben. He’d warned her off broaching the topic again with Paschal, and yet, she’d called his private, unlisted home number. This couldn’t be good.

  His father, despite all signs to the contrary, was not going to live forever—especially not with added stress. Ben turned left onto a side street and tapped on the accelerator until the car reached a fast but manageable speed. In less than five minutes, he found himself in front of Paschal’s house. Seconds later, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The security pad at the end of the driveway, which, once coded, would allow him past the iron gates, had been smashed to bits.

  Grabbing his phone, Ben dialed the security company. After supplying the correct passwords, Ben listened as the service rep rattled off details about receiving a signal the night before indicating a problem at the address, but a call to Paschal had stopped any further investigation.

  “How do you know it was really him?” Ben asked, his heart shoving its way up his esophagus even as it attempted to pound out of his chest through his ribs.

  “He gave us the correct codes, sir. Should I alert the police?”

  “Yes,” Ben replied, his stomach as hard as stone.

  He should have checked on his father earlier. Friday was the old man’s day off, and since he was a notorious night owl, he preferred to sleep in. Ben normally didn’t stop by to check on him until late afternoon, a practice waylaid by one Catalina Reyes.

  And anyone who made note of Paschal’s routine would know that, wouldn’t they?

  Was she connected?

  “Are you inside the residence?” the rep asked.

  “Not yet,” he answered.

  “Please stay outside
until the authorities arrive. We don’t want any con—”

  Ben disconnected the call, switched the phone from ringer to vibrate and shoved it in his pocket. Retrieving the gun, he approached the gates behind the cover of his car and, using his key, gained access to the property.

  Everything looked relatively normal, though the setting sun cast elongated shadows across the carefully tended lawn and gardens. His father didn’t have much time for a life outside of his research and travels, but he insisted on keeping a neat yard—a holdover from Ben’s mother, who never started a morning at their chateau in France without puttering in her flower beds before breakfast.

  After creeping up the wraparound porch, he found the front door not only unlocked, but open a few inches. Again, the security alarm had been disengaged. No lights—green, red or otherwise—blinked on the control panel. Ben pushed the door completely open and called out his father’s name.

  His voice echoed across the entryway. Leading with his gun, Ben moved into the house as stealthily as possible. While ornate and usually well kept, the house had been turned upside down. Cushions and books vied with carpets for spots on the floor. Statues were overturned and swept aside. Luckily, his father’s place wasn’t overly large. In two minutes, Ben knew the bottom floor was deserted, with no sign of his father anywhere. And if his instincts proved correct, nothing was missing.

  “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  Instantly, he spun toward the voice, then pulled up on the gun, aiming the barrel toward the ceiling. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see Ms. Reyes standing in the doorway, her arms folded beneath her ample breasts.

  “Do you have a death wish?” he asked.

  “You don’t seem the type to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “You’ve known me for, what, five minutes? I could be a serial killer.”

  “Not with that dimple,” she replied.

  Instinctively, Ben touched the indentation on his chin. He hated that dimple.

  “I believe Ted Bundy had dimples,” he snapped.

  She slipped into the house and boldly swiped a finger over the depression on his jawline. “Trust me, I’ve met a few serial killers. You, sir, are no serial killer. But I am wondering why a pedantic graduate student is packing a .357 magnum with his pocket protectors.”

  Graduate student? He had his PhD. Two of them, actually.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She set her briefcase down beside the door and extended her hand forcefully, ignoring both his weapon and the upturned state of the house. Ben glanced up the stairs, uncertain what he’d find there, though he was nearly sure the house was deserted. Either that, or his father was…

  “Catalina Reyes. I’m a paranormal investigator.”

  Absently, Ben gave her a nod, unwilling to part with his weapon simply to exchange pleasantries.

  “Ben Rousseau. Dr. Ben Rousseau,” he said unabashedly. “Paschal is my father. Perhaps you should wait outside until I’m sure it’s safe here. Obviously, someone came in uninvited.”

  “And left in a hurry. There are ruts in the driveway. Looks like they were put there by a rather heavy vehicle, too.”

  Ben kept his eyes on the staircase, hoping for a sign of life. “What are you, CSI?”

  “No, but in my line of work, it pays to be observant. And I’m totally addicted to cop shows on television. Speaking of cops, shouldn’t you call them instead of running around like David Caruso?”

  “The security company has alerted the authorities, but I need to see if my father is safe. He was supposed to be home, catching up on reading. Relaxing. There’s no sign of him. Stay here.”

  Catalina surprised him by closing her eyes for five long seconds. When she opened them, a relative calmness darkened her eyes from dark chocolate to complete and utter blackness. “He’s not here.”

  “And you know that, how?”

  “Just call it instinct.”

  “I’d rather rely on proof, thanks.”

  Upstairs, he discovered she’d been right. His father’s bedroom, while completely ransacked, contained no sign of the man. Neither did his bathroom, the guest room, the guest bath or the upstairs study. All were torn apart from top to bottom, but did not contain a single sign of Paschal Rousseau’s presence.

  “Damn it, Dad,” Ben muttered, “what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

  12

  Alexa wasn’t sure what woke her first—the cold stone beneath her cheek or the sound of someone calling her name. Groggy and stiff, she forced herself into a sitting position and tried to open her eyes. Her leftover mascara had fused her lashes, so she rubbed until tears flushed her vision clear.

  Great. Just great. She’d gone to sleep without washing her face. She was going to have one hell of a blemish in a day or two. And her teeth. Ugh. Her tongue, pasted inside her mouth, tasted horrible. She reached around for a bottle of water and found nothing.

  As in absolutely nothing. The furnishings, at first a reflection of the portrait hanging in the hall and then brimming with pillows and cushions, had completely disappeared. Nothing remained. No chair. No fireplace. No cat.

  No Damon.

  “Alexa!”

  The voice, not Damon’s, came from downstairs. She attempted to stand, but the aches in her body nearly left her paralyzed. She’d recovered from her car accident, but her body would always bear the scars, even if no one could see them.

  Reaching behind her neck, however, she winced when her fingers touched her skin. The flesh, swollen and sensitive from the ripped necklace, still stung.

  The pain contradicted the barrenness all around her. Had last night been a dream?

  “Alexa!”

  “Jacob?”

  Her throat parched, her voice barely carried. She stumbled across the cold stone, her muscles throbbing first in the usual places, and then in spots where a flash of pain wasn’t quite so bad. At the mere thought of the bliss Damon had given her, an instantaneous, pleasurable tremor rippled between her legs and across her breasts. As if he still stood beside her, she heard his voice cataloging the decadent things he intended to do to her the next time they were alone. A warmth not unlike body heat chased the stone-cold chill away.

  Her muscles relaxed. Her aches subsided. Every nerve ending in her body shifted its focus until nothing but anticipation ruled her brain. She closed her eyes. Her nipples, bare beneath her blouse, pricked against the fabric. When the rich scent of leather and man sneaked into her nostrils, she had to squeeze her legs tightly together to offset the sweet, raw response.

  Her eyes flashed open and she spun, expecting Damon.

  The room remained bleakly empty.

  She blew out a frustrated breath. Damn. She’d experienced a few intense wet dreams in her lifetime, but never anything like this—especially not while awake. Still, despite the lack of evidence, she had to believe that what had happened last night—hell, what had happened a moment ago—had been incredibly real.

  “Alexa!”

  With a reluctant groan, she picked up her backpack and headed into the second-floor hall. Her feet scraped against the cold stone, but after a few steps, she found her stride. Now, if she just had a latte with an extra shot of espresso, she’d be able to survive the sunlight streaming in through the highest windows.

  The minute she touched the top step that led down to the landing of the main staircase, the smell of freshly brewed coffee caught her nose. Either Damon’s magic was still working or her brother had come bearing Starbucks.

  When she looked up, Jacob stood in front of her, staring at the painting where Damon used to be, a green-and-white-logo cup in his hand.

  How was she going to explain the sudden disappearance of the portrait’s subject?

  Or would she have to?

  Jacob immediately dashed toward her, took her by the hand and, once she reached the landing, enfolded her in a typically stiff hug. “I’m so sorry, sis. I couldn’t believe the storm. I couldn’t—�
�

  She placed a soft palm over his mouth. He was rambling, and she had no patience for chatter before she’d been bolstered by a jolt or twelve of caffeine.

  “It’s okay. I was prepared. I knew you’d come as soon as you could.”

  Arm still wrapped around her protectively, Jacob led her across the landing.

  “Your satellite phone didn’t work?”

  Alexa frowned. Hell, she hadn’t even checked.

  “I guess not. Did you try to call?”

  “A dozen times. I would have called the Coast Guard, but we’d—”

  “No, I’m glad you didn’t.” If he only knew how glad. “I don’t want the local authorities pegging us as a nuisance. I had everything I needed to make it through the night. I’ve never camped before, but despite the lack of twelve-hundred-thread-count sheets and a proper mattress, I survived.”

  He rubbed her shoulder, and while the sensation was relaxing, she silently wished for Damon’s hands instead. “Did you sleep at all?”

  She pressed her lips together to hide a sexually satisfied smile. “Not much.”

  “Can’t blame you,” Jacob said, his voice a wry mixture of sympathy and repulsion. He stopped in the middle of the landing, right under the cursed painting. “Staring up at this man all night? It’s enough to give you nightmares.”

  Alexa’s breath caught tight in her throat. Damon was back in his prison, dead center, as handsome and intimidating as ever. Maybe even a bit more so.

  Had it all been a dream?

  As she stared into his eyes, intense and stormy gray, her chest ached. If last night had been just a sexual fantasy, she could make the memories last a lifetime. But damn it, he’d told her about his sister. About his quest to exact retribution on the sorcerer who’d cursed him inside the canvas and oil. She couldn’t have dreamed all of it. Could she?

  Even as a phantom, Damon Forsyth possessed more life than most men she knew. The magic containing him had to be incredibly powerful. And dangerous. Too dangerous for her to go forward with her plans?

  Jacob nudged the coffee cup into her hand. She inhaled the bitter aroma through the tiny spiral of steam that escaped through the top.