Phantom Pleasures

by Julie Leto

  “If she’s got the bird,” he replied, “we’ll take her Cessna and make do.”

  “Do you always go around stealing your ex-girlfriend’s flying machines?”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “I didn’t say she was my ex-girlfriend.”

  “You didn’t have to. There’s a growl in your voice when you say her name. Not a sexy growl, either. More like a mad dog.”

  “I don’t growl,” he claimed, but even he heard the guttural undertone in his voice.

  Cat snickered and Ben just shook his head. He should have known better than to try and be coy around a gifted psychic like Cat, whose abilities were growing every minute.

  “Ma-ri-ah,” he said, stringing out the name so he could enunciate each syllable without snarling, “owes me. And right now, she’s all we’ve got.”

  Without his reminding her, Cat switched lanes and took the exit that led to Mariah’s hangar. “I called Alexa,” she offered. “She’s not answering her satellite phone, but her assistant is on alert and can arrange a ride for us in thirty minutes, tops. Crown Chandler has all sorts of private transportation at its disposal.”

  Ben checked his watch. They were only ten minutes from the private airport on the outskirts of San Antonio where many of the pilots had questionable pasts, so for the right price, few questions were asked. If the guards remembered him, they would be able to get in and out with minimal fuss.

  “That’ll be Plan B, but we’re too close to Mariah’s place to wait for Alexa to pull her strings and get us a lift. Let’s just hope we won’t need a Plan C.”

  As they pulled off the highway onto an unlit, single-lane road, Ben had to face the fact that seeking out Mariah was more than just necessary to save his father. Until Cat came into his life, Ben had thought that his ex had destroyed his ability to trust and his ability to care about a woman who, with her innate sensual power, had the means to carve even the strongest man’s heart into a bitter shell. Ben hadn’t realized how high he’d valued his romantic ideals until Mariah had torn them down.

  His mother had loved his father in ways Ben never could completely understand. And his father had capitulated to his mother’s every whim—except when it conflicted with one of his mysterious jaunts to retrieve this or that item related to Gypsy lore. Ben had taken up antiquities hunting honestly, so to speak, then had fallen hard for Mariah the first time she’d acted as his partner in crime. He’d been a fool, but so what? He was done hating himself for wearing his heart on his sleeve, where Mariah had had easy access to rip it to shreds. In the four years since their definitive breakup, he’d healed. He’d kept his relationships superficial, but he’d healed.

  If he hadn’t, Cat wouldn’t have seeped into his bloodstream so easily.

  Luckily for Ben, Cat was as resourceful as she was beautiful. With a wad of cash provided by her heiress friend, Cat bought them onto the airfield property. Two hidden keys, three security codes and a picked lock later, and they were in Mariah’s hangar. Thanks to his ex’s obsessive need to be ready to depart in the shortest amount of time, Ben and Cat were in the air in less than an hour.

  “She’s going to kill you, isn’t she?” Cat asked into the speaker that fed into Ben’s headphones.

  “If she hasn’t killed me by now, taking her bird in an emergency isn’t going to push her over the edge.”

  Cat flashed him a dubious look, then opened the map across her lap. She’d circled the area where she’d sensed Paschal was being held, and Ben had already charted the coordinates into the navigation system. Compared to Mariah, he was a rank amateur as a pilot, but he could get them there.

  Question was, could he get them back?

  Even at dicey airstrips like Mariah’s, security kept him from bringing his gun with him. Fortunately, he’d known where to look for Mariah’s. He had a high-powered rifle for himself and a pistol for Cat, though she’d refused to touch the weapon unless absolutely necessary. Another difference between her and Mariah.

  They seemed to be adding up, which forced Ben to realize that he was, like so many men before him, a complete and total idiot.

  After twenty minutes in the air, Cat asked, “We should be close now, right?”

  He checked the navigation computer and found she was correct. “You’ve got a great sense of direction.”

  Catalina smirked. “Thanks to this,” she said, holding up the catalog of swords she had taken from his father’s secret room. Of all of Paschal’s belongings, including the diary, she’d claimed this one had given off the most intense vibrations. His father hadn’t shown much interest in weaponry before. Gypsies weren’t the types to sign up for anyone’s war. But he didn’t waste time questioning her. Not with his father’s life on the line.

  “We need to go in low,” he said, scanning the countryside, “and look for a clearing where we can put this down as close to the place where they’re holding him as possible. Since they didn’t ask for ransom or contact anyone, they’re likely not expecting a rescue attempt.”

  And yet, as they flew over the estate where Cat sensed Paschal was being held, Ben spotted fortifications that made his skin crawl. Far from any lit road, the spacious hacienda was surrounded by a tall fence, likely electrified, judging by the red lights on the posts that blinked at regular intervals. The land abutted a shadowy ravine. The rock slope, even from a distance, looked difficult to traverse without equipment, and while Mariah was an accomplished climber, he doubted she stored her gear on board the whirlybird.

  Otherwise, he’d done the right thing in hijacking Mariah’s helicopter. By land, they’d be spotted easily. Trouble was, how could they possibly put down inside the grounds without being seen? They couldn’t. But if they landed nearby and hiked in, how would they get past the electrified fence?

  “We could always knock on the front door,” Cat suggested.

  He understood the irony in her tone when he saw armed men standing in the lit entryway. Unfortunately, they saw him as well. One fired. The other tore inside.

  Ben pulled up and spun away from the estate. Once clear, he found a safe spot to hover while he organized his thoughts.

  “We’re not ready for this kind of operation,” Ben said. He loved his father. He couldn’t bear to think he’d be hurt simply because his son failed to come up with a decent plan.

  Cat reached across and laid her hand on his leg. “Too bad for us. We either move in now or never.”

  “Did you sense something?”

  Closing her eyes, Cat paused before replying. “Anxiety. Trouble is, I don’t know if it’s mine or your father’s. Or even yours.”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Of course you are. You’re diving headfirst into a dangerous situation with no reconnaissance and no clue if my vision is even remotely accurate. For all you know, your father is hundreds of miles away and I’m just some freak who has delusions of grandeur.”

  Ben laughed, covering her hand with his. “You? Not possible. You’re just an average nutcase. Beautiful, sexy and resourceful, but still crazy as hell for hanging out with me.”

  “Now isn’t the time to discuss the advantages of mental health,” Cat said, scanning the landscape below them. “I say we put this baby down on the other side of those trees, kill the engine and figure out what to do next.”

  “Have you got a plan?”

  “I thought that was your specialty.”

  Ben piloted the chopper to the clearing she’d indicated, grinning as ideas started spinning through his head, each crazier and riskier than the last.

  27

  As the secret panel leading into the garage slid open, Gemma tucked her blouse back into her slacks. The alarms had stopped. An army of footsteps had stomped out of the hacienda, including, if she wasn’t mistaken, the cool, clipped gait of Farrow Pryce. If she was going to move Paschal, she had to act without delay.

  He eased up behind her, the scent of his cologne screwing with her senses in ways she didn’t want to admit.

  “No
w what, Mata Hari?”

  “We get the hell out of here,” she replied.

  “You don’t think Pryce alerted his guards to stop us?”

  “Probably. That’s why we need to act fast.”

  The garage was deserted. The security cameras inside this portion of the house activated when a garage door was opened—either the one from the house or the one that led outside. They had a few minutes to work out a plan—but no more.

  Though the garage was designed to hold four vehicles, only one car, a luxury Lexus, was parked inside.

  She retrieved the spare key from the utility closet and popped the trunk.

  “Get in,” she instructed.

  He eyed her warily. “You expect me to fold this old body into that cramped space?”

  She scoffed noisily. “I just experienced what you can do with that so-called old body of yours in another cramped space. Don’t wimp out on me now.”

  “I do not,” he grumbled, swinging one leg into the trunk, “wimp out. Ever.”

  “Explain what happened in the passageway, then,” she challenged.

  “Alas, no time,” he answered cockily. “I’m not quite as young as I used to be. Besides, certain things should not be rushed.”

  “So you say,” she countered, helping him in the rest of the way while trying to forget just how skillful he’d been up to the point where he couldn’t finish what he started. “One of these days, you’re going to have to prove it.”

  He winked as she grabbed the top of the trunk. “One of these days, I will.”

  She slammed the trunk, closed the secret panel, then dashed into the driver’s seat. She’d always planned to turn the tables on Farrow and betray him, but she’d had a coup d’état in mind, not an unplanned, reckless escape. But Paschal Rousseau had the information she needed, and if Farrow got it before she did, she’d have no chance to take the leadership of the K’vr. Better to escape with the man now and hope she could beat Farrow at another time.

  She’d have to think on her feet. She’d always been more of a planner, but if her pleasurable, though incomplete, time in the dark passageway with Paschal Rousseau had taught her anything, it was that preconceived notions meant nothing when someone was properly motivated.

  With a deep breath for fortification, she opened the garage door at the same time she turned on the engine.

  “Here we go,” she said loudly, intending for Paschal to hear but not respond. “Hang on.”

  She backed out with lightning speed, flinging the car into a controlled half circle and then shooting down the long driveway, past the dozen or so armed guards jogging across the lawn. No one fired at her. Good. The order to consider her a traitor had not yet gone out.

  She proceeded unchallenged until the guard gate loomed in front of her. If she burst through, a hail of gunfire would pepper the back of the car, negating her need for an escape in the first place, since Paschal would be Swiss cheese. She had to stop and talk her way out of Farrow’s compound, just as she’d talked her way in all those months ago.

  And to that end, she unbuttoned the top of her blouse.

  “Where’s Farrow?” she asked as her window automatically lowered. “I was just out of the shower when the alarm sounded. Paschal still missing?”

  “A helicopter buzzed the building,” the guard told her even as he aimed his pistol directly at her head. “Rousseau’s not in his room. Pryce said he was with you.”

  She glanced down at her cleavage, knowing the guard would follow her eyes.

  He did, though he didn’t lower his gun.

  “I was on my way to interrogate him when I”—she lowered her lashes and her voice seductively—“decided to…freshen up a bit first. I hardly had time to dress.” She giggled girlishly.

  When the guard leaned forward to leer into the car, she slammed the door open, knocking the man in the gut at the same time she grabbed the barrel of his gun and tugged it from his grip. He twisted to grab the rifle leaning against the guardhouse. One shot at close range later and Gemma was peeling from the driveway yet again.

  “We’re clear!” she shouted.

  The backseat tilted down. “You shot the poor man,” Paschal reproached.

  “Him or me, monsieur. Stay down. We’re not clear yet.”

  Headlights gleamed behind her. She jammed the gas pedal to the floor of the car, kicking up dirt from the unpaved road as she accelerated. She had no idea where she was going or how she was supposed to out-run the legion of four-by-fours Farrow had when she was driving a luxury Lexus. Then she remembered the guard. A helicopter buzzing the property in the middle of the night? That was no accident.

  “Did you hear what the guard said about the chopper? Could someone be coming to your rescue?”

  “My son pilots various aircraft, but he’d have no way of knowing where I was, unless your people were sloppy. Were they?”

  She had no clue. Her part in the kidnapping hadn’t commenced until after Paschal had been delivered to the hacienda. Though she had met the young K’vr neophyte who’d executed the crime. Mean, yes. Devious, clearly. Overly bright? Not so much.

  “Good chance.”

  Paschal was silent for a moment, prompting Gemma to adjust the rearview away from the nearing headlights in order to focus on Paschal’s face. In the darkness, she could see nothing.

  “Paschal?”

  “Yes, it’s him. Head”—he paused, then after a few moments finished with—“east. On the other side of a thick ridge of cypress. Along a river. Very lush.”

  She knew the trees. They bordered the property on the east side, but they were now heading south. “That ridge is behind us. And how do you know where they are?”

  Paschal chuckled as if she’d just told him a quaint joke during a leisurely drive rather than asking him an unanswerable question in the midst of a car chase. Seconds later, gunfire pinged off the back bumper. With a yelp, Paschal pushed his way through to the inside of the car, then with a series of grunts and curses, into the front seat.

  “A little birdie told me,” he replied.

  She twisted the steering wheel, throwing the car into a sharp bank to the left around a clump of scrub oak. Behind her, one truck sped by. The second completed the turn and remained about fifty yards behind.

  “I hope this little birdie can fly us out of here.”

  Paschal gulped audibly, bracing his hands on the dashboard. “That’s the idea.”

  She tossed Paschal the gun.

  “Take out the tires,” she ordered.

  He glared at her. “Do you know how difficult that is to do? This isn’t a movie.”

  “And you’re not Sean Connery, yet I find you strangely attractive.”

  Gunfire pierced the car again, this time shattering their back window.

  “Not Sean Connery, indeed,” he said with a huff, rolling down his window and shifting his body so he could fire behind him.

  Gemma lowered herself in the seat and concentrated on moving forward. She glanced at the sky but saw nothing resembling a hovering helicopter. Paschal cursed each time his bullets whizzed impotently past their mark. When one finally connected with the front passenger tire of their pursuers’ vehicle, he slid back into the car with an enthusiastic pump of his fist.

  The sport utility vehicle behind them swerved, hit a tree stump, then flipped and spun before landing with a thud along the trail. Gemma slammed to a halt.

  She hadn’t realized how wildly her heart had been pumping inside her ribs until a dead silence, invaded only by the running engine, settled over the scene.

  And then—chopper blades.

  Paschal got out of the car. The wind kicked up dirt, sand and leaves, causing him to duck back in. Only after the helicopter landed and a stunning brunette jumped out of the vehicle did he emerge again, Gemma with him.

  “Professor Rousseau, I presume?” the dark-haired woman said, running in a half crouch toward them, her hand extended.

  “Just as I presume you’re my little bi
rd,” he replied.

  “I’m more cat than canary, but I’m glad you received my message.”

  “That’s a potent psychic power you have there, my dear.”

  She waved at the pilot. “It’s becoming damned useful, but it won’t stop bullets. The SUV you eluded doubled back. We saw them from the air. We need to get you out now.”

  Gemma’s heart lurched and she pushed Paschal toward the waiting helicopter. “Get out of here. I’ll delay them.”

  “And you are?” the woman asked.

  “Someone who’s about to ensure not only an escape, but that you have a clear shot from here to Rogan’s castle.”

  “How did you—?” the woman questioned.

  “Never mind,” Gemma said.

  In the distance, headlights broke through the darkness. They ducked and ran toward the copter. The woman slid open the door and waved Paschal inside.

  He stopped, turned, grabbed Gemma by the shoulders and kissed her soundly.

  In an instant, she visualized him in his youth. Virile. Charming. Irresistible. If only she’d met him then, she might not have focused on such single-minded pursuits as magic and power and legacies. She might have, once in her life, wanted to have sex for reasons beyond working her way up the K’vr ladder of leadership.

  “Come with us,” Paschal said, shouting over the increased grind from the rotor blades.

  “I’ll meet up with you,” she promised. “But first, I have to throw Farrow off the scent. Send him in another direction.”

  “What if he doesn’t believe you?”

  She laughed and yanked him toward the door. “You underestimate my powers of persuasion. Go! Unlock the magic. But don’t forget who it rightfully belongs to.”

  Finally, he ducked inside the copter, and gave the pilot—who she assumed was his son—a pat on the shoulder before buckling himself in. The dark-haired woman turned to her. The headlights were close enough so that Gemma could see the outline of Farrow’s personal Cadillac Escalade.