by Julie Leto
“My phone.”
“Your what?”
She leaned forward and grabbed the bag herself, afraid she’d miss the call. Only three people knew her satellite number—her assistant, who’d been instructed not to contact her unless one of the hotels was burning down; Jacob, who slept like a rock and would have no reason to contact her before dawn; and Cat.
“Alexa Chandler,” she said.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Cat. Alexa’s heart slammed against her chest and she pulled the sheets high on her neck. Shit. Cat was going to kill her. Believing in ghosts was one thing. Sleeping with one?
“I’m at the castle,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the whole truth, but hey, she was doing the best she could.
“In the middle of the night?”
Alexa gazed appreciatively at Damon, who’d suddenly discovered something fascinating about her painted toes. “I decided to stay over.”
“With no electricity, no running water and no feather mattress?”
“I’m not that spoiled.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Well, I’m making do. How are you? I tried calling you earlier and your cell phone was off. Did you find the diary?”
“I found more than that.”
As Cat started to talk, Alexa drew the covers closer around her, trying to ignore the delicious massage Damon had begun on her feet. Her mind drifted to the question of how a man of Damon’s station learned such delicious ministrations when Cat informed her that the man who owned the diary, Paschal Rousseau, had been kidnapped.
Involuntarily, she yanked her foot away from Damon. He grumbled loudly.
“Who’s there with you?” Cat asked.
“No one,” she said quickly. “Have you called the police?”
“Yes, but Ben, his son, is afraid the kidnapping is related to Valoren and the curse.”
“Curse?” she repeated.
Damon looked up, but Alexa glanced aside. One conversation at a time.
“Do you want me to call in my private detectives? I have several good ones.”
Cat whispered to someone with her, clearly Ben Rousseau, the missing professor’s son. “Not just yet. He’s trying to protect his father’s privacy.”
“He should be thinking only about protecting his father,” Alexa sniped.
“The police aren’t going to take their search seriously if we start spouting off about magic and curses,” Cat argued.
“Good point,” Alexa concurred.
“I’m glad you agree. Look, I know you wanted information quickly about your castle and you’re probably still curious about that supposed ghost you saw—”
Alexa nearly interrupted but decided against it. Now wasn’t the time to tell her that not only had she found the ghost, but she’d made love with him.
Several times.
“—but I want to stay with Ben and try and help him.”
“Of course,” Alexa said quickly.
“Which means I won’t be able to help you,” Cat clarified. “I did find the diary, and as soon as I get back to the hotel, I’ll have your manager scan it and forward the pages to you immediately, but I want to keep the journal with us. Just in case.”
Despite the warmth in the room, Alexa felt a chill creep along her skin like a swarm of icy centipedes. She wanted the diary. She wanted definitive proof that what Damon had told her so far was true, but she had to defer to the more pressing situation—Paschal Rousseau’s kidnapping. “Just make sure the file is sent encrypted. The business services manager at the Austin property is a longtime employee. Very knowledgeable. He’ll know what to do. But do you have any idea why this journal warrants attention from anyone other than us?”
“I wish we did,” Cat lamented. “Ben says his father rarely talked about the existence of Valoren to anyone but a few close colleagues. But the young woman who wrote the diary had a hell of a lot to say. Mostly day-to-day stuff—complaints about her overbearing father and brothers, wondering if her mother understands her. Fantasies about going to London and exploring the world. It’s mostly a young girl’s dreams and ambitions, truth be told, but there’s a drawing I’m betting is of your castle. I haven’t had time to read much more.”
By now, Damon was starting to pay closer attention to the phone call. His eyes had grown darker and stormier and he’d removed himself from the bed and dressed with a thought. He was pacing near the spiral staircase, and his heavy steps echoed on the stone floor.
Sarina’s necklace, which she’d tied to her wrist at Damon’s insistence, warmed against her skin, drawing her attention to the dangling gold charm. Her mind raced and she wondered if the talisman was responding to increased danger or to the phone conversation.
“What do you know about this young woman?”
“Not much,” Cat replied. “She was born in Valoren and her mother is Romani, her father British. She has six—”
“Brothers?”
“How did you know?”
Alexa swallowed deeply. “What’s her name?”
“Sarina. Sarina Forsyth.”
Damon stopped pacing when she repeated the name out loud. He faced her squarely, and for an instant she suspected he had the ability to look straight into her soul.
“You’re sure?” she asked Cat.
“Yes, it’s right here in black and, well, seriously yellowed white. Sarina Forsyth. Is that name significant?”
Alexa met Damon’s gaze, and in an instant, he seemed to know that she’d made a connection to his past.
“More significant than you can imagine. Remember that ghost I told you about?”
Damon’s eyes widened. Alexa hadn’t had the opportunity to tell Damon about Cat and her extensive knowledge of the paranormal, but she’d remedy that situation soon enough.
“Yes,” Cat said, but she drew out the affirmation on a long, suspicious breath.
“Well, he’s real. And his name is Damon Forsyth. Sarina was his sister. Forget the scan and fax, Cat. I need the diary here. First thing tomorrow.”
Damon had to bite his tongue and lock his knees in place to keep from tearing over to the bed at the mention of his sister. He clenched his fists when Alexa spoke his name into the device she called a phone and nearly burst when she admitted to the person she spoke with that he was a ghost. He managed, albeit with great difficulty, to remain still even when the conversation turned into an intense argument.
When a numbness developed in his hands, Damon turned away and examined his fingers more closely. The sensation, not unlike the electric current that ran through him whenever he used Rogan’s magic, tingled in his joints and fingers. In addition to making love to Alexa all night long, he’d employed more of the magic than ever before. He couldn’t help but wonder about the aftereffects.
A loud beep from the perplexing instrument Alexa spoke into drew his attention. She’d tossed the phone on the bed and now raked her hands through her mussed hair. When she looked up at him, her eyes reflected dire circumstances.
“She won’t bring the diary.”
His chest tightened. “I heard you order her.”
“Unfortunately, Cat isn’t one of my employees,” she explained with a sigh. “She’s a friend. A good friend who is doing me a favor. But the good news is she found your sister’s diary. That’s a huge step forward. She will send a copy, though. That’s something.”
Pressure built behind his eyes, and only squinting alleviated the strain.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “I suppose I need more sleep than I wish to think,” he offered, though the explanation seemed hollow. Something was happening. Something that had nothing to do with the coming dawn, but was related to the magic nonetheless. He could feel the currents surging through him, even though he’d done nothing to call the magic into his body.
“Where did she find the diary?” he asked, hoping to deflect his attention from the tiny pinpricks of p
ower poking through his skin.
“With a Romani expert named Paschal Rousseau. He had the book very well hidden, which suggests it’s much more important than just a young girl’s personal thoughts.”
“Sarina fancied herself in love with Rogan, and he worked quite diligently to gain her trust. He may have told her things…”
A dizziness swept through his body. Damon clutched the wall to keep from toppling onto the bed.
Alexa crawled across the bed and placed her hand gently on his arm.
A rush of warmth swirled beneath her touch, then slowly eased through his veins, dispelling the magical sensations so that suddenly he felt normal again.
For a phantom. He glanced out the slim window and spied a glow across the horizon.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.
He took a deep breath, then patted her hand. “I think breakfast is in order. Tell me more about this man…Paschal?”
“Rousseau. He was kidnapped yesterday and his house ransacked. He did, however, own several of your paintings. Were you an artist?”
Damon shook his head. “A hobby. I cannot believe any of my works still exist. And why would anyone track them down?”
She shrugged. “No idea. Clearly, his interest in your family runs deep. Cat said something about a curse?”
“The few Londoners who knew of Valoren thought it cursed. I sidestepped many such rumors when I returned to court, but I never saw evidence of any dark magic until Rogan settled there. I suppose the disappearance of the Gypsies and the mystery of what became of me and my brothers might have set tongues wagging. I was not there to know.”
“Well, that’s the scoop now. Apparently, Paschal didn’t speak openly about Valoren, even though he researched the place quite thoroughly. But since your sister’s journal was hidden so well, Cat suspects the diary is at the heart of Paschal’s kidnapping. She wants to keep it but will get us copies of the pages as soon as possible.”
Damon’s mind swirled. He remembered Sarina sitting in a corner of the family drawing room, her fingers stained from the quill she used to scribble in the leather-bound journal their father had given her. She’d guarded the tome with her life, and while Damon had never had the least interest in the journal of a wide-eyed child, Sarina’s full-blood brother, Rafe, had made it his mission in life to not only find her hiding place, but expose all the secrets Sarina poured onto the pages. As far as Damon knew, Rafe had never accomplished his goal. Had he found Sarina’s diary, Damon had no doubt their youngest brother would have been dead, or at the very least, maimed.
Sarina might have been impressionable, romantic and naive in the way only a girl raised in a household of men could be, but she had a formidable streak, thanks in great part to her dominant Gypsy blood. Like her mother, Alyse—Damon’s father’s second wife—Sarina understood well the power of the feminine. She’d never been afraid to use that strength when the situation warranted—even against her own family when planning her escape. He could only hope her wiliness had ultimately saved her from Rogan and his black magic, even if she died. He preferred to hope her soul had moved on, free of evil, rather than imagine her trapped, like him, in a web of vile sorcery.
Alexa toyed with the necklace she’d bound by the broken chain to her wrist and Damon experienced a second surge of warmth at the sight of her cradling the gold close to her pulse point.
“So,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her. He heard her stomach rumble and knew he should conjure food, but the residual effects of the magic and the odd way the vibrations had clung to his insides made him reluctant to act again so soon. Perhaps in a few minutes. After he’d had a moment to clear his mind. “Tell me more about this Paschal Rousseau.”
Alexa released a breath he hadn’t been aware she was holding. Had she expected his temper to flare as it had the day before or even, though she hadn’t been aware, a few moments ago? He couldn’t understand his extreme behavior. He’d always been intense and passionate, but he’d never been one to lose control.
“He’s a Romani expert,” she explained. “A professor at a university in Texas. It’s a state. Remember, we talked about states?”
He waved his hand, unwilling to broach the topic of politics yet again. Right now, he only wanted to know about the diary.
“Well, he’s the one who knew about Valoren, and he owned your sister’s diary and your paintings.” A shy smile curved her well-kissed lips. “I didn’t know you were a painter. Is that how you put your image back onto the canvas?”
Damon felt an itch in his hand again, this time in the center of his palm. He rubbed the skin over the sheet, but the sensation didn’t subside. A ringing began in his ears, and no manner of shaking would free him from the sound.
“Yes,” he answered, then stood in the tight space between the wall and the circular bed. More than anything, he wanted to wisk the mattress out of his way. But the magic—he couldn’t risk it. He needed the power to rebuild the rooms within the castle and find the secrets he sought. He needed to be free. Free of this castle. Free of his imprisonment. Free of his anger and hatred toward Rogan, who had effectively destroyed his life.
Outside, the sun’s glow turned the edge of the sky deep plum with streaks of lavender and pink. Perhaps this was what he was feeling? The dawn erasing his corporeal form from sight?
Alexa stretched to take his hand, but he moved out of her reach. Instinctively. Without knowing why.
“You need to go,” he ordered. “Come back when you have the diary.”
She sat up straighter. “I think you forget whose castle this is, sir,” she said teasingly. “I can come and go as I please. And besides,” she announced with a playful bounce on the mattress, “I’ll have a houseful of workers here in a few hours. When I make up my mind about something, I don’t mess around. I’m going to have this castle opened as a hotel within a year if it kills me.”
Damon couldn’t contain the seething anger that shot through him like a bolt of fire. In a flash, the bed disappeared and Alexa dropped to the floor in a naked heap.
“Hey!”
He stepped back, but reached out to her with his hand. Not surprisingly, she didn’t take it, but stood on her own accord.
“What was that about?”
A bright streak of pink glowed across the horizon outside. He’d used too much magic the night before. He needed rest. His daylight transparency could be the symptom of rejuvenation. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he was the one who was dreaming, not Alexa. Perhaps his punishment in the castle was not that he could not go free, but that he could not be the man he’d been in his previous life—honorable, resourceful and, above all else, kind.
Though he anticipated a shock of pain, he used the magic to return Alexa’s clothes. But he didn’t feel weaker. He felt stronger. And that frightened him to his core.
“You must go,” he ordered again. “And no one else can enter here until I am free.”
She threw up her hands. “That’s impossible! There’s too much planning to do. The measurements the architects took yesterday were just preliminary. The foundation needs to be tested, the walls explored and mapped so we can install plumbing and electricity. The roof needs a good once-over. The renovation needs to start as soon as possible, so I need my experts—”
Fury flooded through him. His freedom was vastly more important than some silly hotel. “I forbid it!”
Her eyes widened to bright green circles of outrage. “You what? Someone is forgetting what century this is again and whose name is on the deed to this castle.”
He stepped forward until he was mere inches from her. His hands tingled again and his arms felt as if someone had poured lead into his veins. “I’ve forgotten nothing. Be forewarned, my lady,” he said evenly, “if one of your workers sets foot inside this castle, they’ll have me to deal with. What I did to your brother on the stairs was child’s play. Cross me and you’ll suffer much, much worse.”
The sun broke the horizon and Damon s
aw his body fading under the light. Never in his life had he been so relieved to simply disappear.
18
For a man of advanced age, Paschal Rousseau wasn’t entirely unappealing. In fact, unless Gemma’s eyes were deceiving her, there was no way in hell this man was over ninety years old. Seventy was pushing it. Even unconscious, his face possessed a wealth of fascinating planes and angles. His hair might have been shock white and his skin shaped by deep furrows and lines, but an inherent strength radiated off his sleeping form. Maybe Farrow’s thugs had shanghaied the wrong guy?
Gemma eased to the side of the bed and more closely examined Paschal’s profile, defined by a strong, square chin and a perfect nose she was certain had never been broken or even bruised. The hollows around his eyes were deep and she wondered about the color of the irises beneath his thin lids. She drew a finger along his temple, marveling at the thickness of his hair. Would Farrow age so well? Would she still be acting as his handmaiden in their so-called golden years?
Hell, if her plan progressed as she hoped, she wouldn’t be his handmaiden by the end of the week.
Farrow Pryce thought her an insatiable hanger-on. The fool would soon learn that the Von Roan bloodline was more powerful than any man’s sexual appeal. And Paschal Rousseau was the key to her success.
Gently, she laid her hand on Rousseau’s shoulder. He didn’t move. She plied her fingertips over the surprisingly sinewy muscles of his arm and glanced furtively around the room. As she suspected, a surveillance camera was embedded in a vase on the top shelf. Farrow was quick and wily, she’d give him that. They’d procured this hideaway less than a day before they’d grabbed Paschal Rousseau and spirited him outside Austin to this Hill Country fortress, to the previous home of a Texas oil baron with dicey Venezuelan ties. If Farrow wasn’t always so paranoid, she might have thought him exceedingly clever.
“Monsieur Rousseau?”
She gave him a little shake. He didn’t move. Bending down, she timed his breathing. Slow was an understatement. Fools. The man had been unconscious since yesterday. Farrow’s followers had likely given their captive a larger dose of the sedative than necessary. Just her luck if the man died before she had what she wanted. To secure her place as the leader of the K’vr, she needed not the diary that Farrow initially wanted, but the Queen’s Charm—Rousseau’s most prized Romani find.