Phantom's Touch

by LETO, JULIE

  When the driver stepped out of the car holding a sign that said, ROUSSEAU, Ben knew time had run out.

  “Ben,” Cat called. “Our ride is here.”

  He gave the car a cursory glance, then stomped back toward her.

  “My father said that Farrow Pryce has the sword.”

  “Then why would Helen Talbot arrange this meeting?”

  Ben scowled. “She knows we want Aiden, not the sword. Maybe the two aren’t connected any longer.”

  “That doesn’t make the sword any less powerful as a magical item. There’s no telling what Pryce has planned once he has some of Lord Rogan’s magic at his disposal. Either way, we have to stop him. We have to get the sword back.”

  Ben nodded, agreeing not out of altruism, but out of genuine dislike for this Lord Rogan and anyone associated with him. He’d been a hell of a lot of trouble to Ben’s family for centuries.

  Cat snuggled closer to him, and the warmth of her skin dispelled some of the cold hatred brewing inside him. “I still don’t understand why your father would leave before he met his brother again.”

  The situation made no sense to him either, but he never could comprehend the workings of his father’s mind. “Gemma’s convinced him that the sword is a lost cause and that she has the upper hand in finding something else associated with Valoren. Something Pryce doesn’t know about. The items in the pictures, I suppose.”

  Cat fanned through them again. “I’m only feeling something off this photograph of the cup. Paschal isn’t interested in the rest.”

  “I should have let you talk to him,” Ben replied. “You would have been able to tell if he was speaking under duress.”

  Cat laid her hand on his arm, and her touch, while not unwelcome, injected him with a calmness he didn’t want to feel at the moment. He fought the instinct to tug away. “He wants the chalice, Ben. He left a powerful imprint.”

  “Just because he wants it doesn’t mean he went with her willingly.”

  “Did he use the code word?”

  With a growl, Ben stalked a few feet away, spun on his heel, then returned. He and Paschal had fought her suggestion that they implement a code word before they parted to secretly alert the other if they were in trouble, but Cat had insisted. Ben couldn’t fight a wave of disappointment when he realized his father had not signaled for help. Paschal had walked away willingly with a woman who was intimately involved with Pryce, who’d previously kidnapped and nearly killed him. Was his father so desperate that he’d make such a foolish mistake?

  “No,” he replied. “He didn’t say it.”

  Cat laced her hand into his, urging him toward the studio car. “Then you just have to trust that he knows what he’s doing.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  Cat kissed him on the cheek. Her simple and sweet response took the edge off the emotional maelstrom simmering beneath his skin. After a moment his breathing steadied and the red haze clouding his vision retreated. He’d never met anyone like her. She could be calm when necessary. Wise at the ideal moment. Sexy nearly all the time, and still reckless and exciting enough for him to never know what to expect. Why was he messing around searching for old Gypsy relics and long-lost cursed brothers when he could be starting some semblance of a life with the woman of his dreams?

  “Paschal has already survived about two hundred years beyond a normal life expectancy,” Cat said, her obsidian eyes sparkling. “Like you, your father has more than one trick up his sleeve. Maybe we should be more worried about that Von Roan woman.”

  “But she’s dangerous,” Ben reminded her.

  “She’s got a glass chin,” Cat claimed with a mischievous grin. “He can probably take her.”

  “This isn’t the time to joke,” he replied, though the memory of Cat kicking the woman in the face after freeing his father last spring did lighten his mood.

  “I don’t know,” she mused. “Seems to me that when a situation sucks, that’s the best time to joke.”

  Though worried to his bones, Ben cupped Cat’s elbow, leading her toward the limousine. The possibility of contacting his uncle was too real for him to back away now.

  The driver came around and opened the passenger door. After gathering the pictures Paschal had sent and stuffing them into the cardboard envelope, Cat slid inside the limousine. Ben gave the dour-faced driver a nod, then climbed in after her.

  Something about the driver’s expression raised his hackles, but he was sure his father’s decision to run off with Gemma was making him jumpy. “Let me see those pictures again,” he said to Cat once the car pulled slowly away from the hotel.

  He flipped through the dozen photographs, trying to plug into the stores of knowledge he’d amassed while working first as an antiquities trader and then as his father’s assistant. Of the twelve objects, eleven were undoubtedly Gypsy-made. He recognized the techniques, the lines and the mode of decoration as either from the mid-eighteenth century or, at the very least, based on it. He’d have to handle the objects in order to know which were authentic and which were reproductions.

  “Recognize any of them?” Cat asked.

  He chewed on his lower lip. “These are definitely from the right time period, and the style is clearly Gypsy, nearly identical to many of the artifacts my father collected. But I’ve never seen any of them before.”

  Cat frowned as she fished out the picture of the chalice again. “Only this one gives off your father’s vibe. He was excited when he held it. I can’t say he recognized it, but with Rogan’s symbol on the cup, he clearly knew he’d found something significant. I don’t understand, though. This chalice seems religious in nature, but the Gypsies follow their own faith, don’t they?”

  “Yes, but cups such as these could have been used merely for drinking. According to Damon, Rogan was ostentatious. I think I saw a very similar cup depicted in one of the mosaics back at the castle—you know, the ones Rogan designed to reflect the day-to-day life in the castle and village.”

  “You’ve got a fabulous memory,” she complimented him.

  “My brain is filled with useless knowledge.”

  “Not so useless right now,” she reassured him. “Paschal wouldn’t have taken off with Gemma if she didn’t have this cup in her possession, don’t you think?”

  “She could be lying.”

  “I think he’d know,” Cat said. “But just because this cup belonged to Rogan doesn’t mean that one of his brothers is trapped inside.”

  “I suppose we could say the same about the sword,” he surmised.

  Cat shoved the photographs into the envelope, then settled back as if prepared to enjoy the comfort of the limousine, which Ben had only just noticed had crisp leather seats, dark windows and a minibar area, though it hadn’t been stocked with so much as an ice cube.

  “No, Aiden’s in that sword,” Cat reassured him. “Or he was. Now we just have to hope he believes you when you tell him who you are.”

  Ben glanced out the window, which, though tinted, allowed him a fairly clear view of the outside. He wasn’t a native of Los Angeles or even a frequent visitor, but he had taken the time to map the route to the movie studio earlier, out of curiosity about how long their trip would take. And from what he could tell, they were going in the wrong direction.

  He pulled out his cell phone and tapped into the GPS system, confirming his suspicions. They were going the wrong way. After a quick glance toward the dividing glass, he showed the results to Cat.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice hushed.

  Ben shrugged, unwilling to act on his instincts just yet. He could think of no reason why Helen Talbot would send them on a wild-goose chase. Before he jumped to conclusions, he’d look for the logical explanation, no matter how the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.

  He tapped on the window until the driver slid it a quarter of the way down.

  “Excuse me, but I thought you were taking us to the studio where the Athena film i
s shooting.”

  The driver did not take his eyes off the road. “There’s a location shoot this afternoon.”

  Cat grabbed his shoulder from behind and shook her head. He had no idea whether she was relying on her psychic abilities or some piece of information she hadn’t shared with him, but either way, his urge to bolt was too strong to ignore. The driver was lying.

  “Okay, fine, then,” Ben replied, his grin forced.

  The driver replaced the partition.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Cat said quietly.

  The car had just eased onto the freeway and was picking up speed.

  “Looks like we’ve gotten ourselves into a bit of a pickle,” Ben said, trying to keep his tone jaunty even while his heart was thudding against his chest. He didn’t mind dangerous situations. He’d been in more than his share of scrapes in his lifetime. But he didn’t like dragging Cat into the danger zone.

  As if sensing his fear on her behalf, she curled her hand around his arm and beamed at him. The trust in her eyes steadied his heartbeat just enough for his brain to free up and work on a solution.

  “And we’ll just have to figure out a way to get ourselves out,” he declared.

  Suddenly the car swerved into the emergency lane and braked. Cat flew forward, tumbling, and Ben had just grabbed her hand and was pulling her toward the door when the handle popped out of his grip and a second man—not the driver—slid into the backseat, a 9mm handgun aimed at Cat’s head.

  “I say we all sit tight,” the man said. “You want to arrive alive, don’t you?”

  “Arrive where?” Cat asked boldly.

  But the man didn’t answer, and, seriously, Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  30

  “What do you mean, they weren’t there?” Helen barked into her cell phone.

  Lauren dropped the glass she’d been holding, but it stopped an inch short of the ground, then settled softly onto the carpeted floor, upright.

  She whispered, “Thanks.”

  They had a good two hours until sundown, but Aiden had been patient, remaining quiet and still while the sword had been handled, photographed, measured, weighed and fawned over by several of the workmen and artisans associated with the film. The art director, as Helen had predicted, had nearly wet himself with glee over the beauty of the weapon, though as Lauren handled the sword for the awestruck stunt coordinator, she could sense that Aiden took no pride in the compliments. She supposed that to him the sword was nothing more than a prison.

  “I am weary,” Aiden murmured into her ear.

  She understood. Remaining active while in this insubstantial state wiped Aiden out.

  “Rest now,” she encouraged him. “We’ve got everything under control. I’ll see you soon.”

  And after the thrill of what felt like the soft pressing of lips against hers, Lauren sensed Aiden withdrawing, pulling completely into the sword until sunset.

  After dumping into the sink the water she’d nearly spilled, Lauren stared at Helen and hoped her plan to connect Aiden with his supposed nephew was still on track. She’d done everything in her power to clear everyone from the costumer to the hairstylists, assistant directors and screenwriters out of her trailer in anticipation of the meeting with Ben Rousseau.

  On the ride from the house to the studio, Helen had filled her in entirely on what Ben had told her during the meeting at the Crown Chandler, though Lauren suspected Ben knew more than he’d revealed over martinis. Cinda had done her magic on the computer and learned that a Paschal Rousseau, Ben’s father, was a professor of Romani studies at a university in Texas. They’d found no photograph of him, so it was impossible for Aiden to determine any family resemblance, but they guessed the Gypsy connection could not be a coincidence.

  And after questioning, Helen volunteered Ben’s girlfriend’s name—Catalina Reyes. The same woman, Lauren guessed, as the one associated with the Crown Chandler subsidiary responsible for the Forsyth family tree Web site. Cinda’s research also revealed that the Reyes woman was a respected paranormal researcher, with a lineage tied deep into the world of the unexplainable. Between Rousseau’s knowledge of the Gypsies and Reyes’s apparent expertise in the supernatural, they had to possess some clue about how to free Aiden once and for all.

  But since neither Lauren nor Helen was big on trusting strangers, whoever they might be, they’d arranged to meet the pair in a fairly public place. Here on the soundstage, surrounded by cast and crew, they’d have a modicum of protection in case, like Nigel and whoever had attacked Lauren in the hospital, Rousseau and Reyes were simply trying to get their hands on a valuable and much-sought-after sword.

  Helen had disconnected her call and was dialing again. In between buttons she informed Lauren that when the studio limo showed up to fetch their guests, they were not there.

  “Why would they leave?”

  Helen shrugged, then said, “Amber? Hi, this is Helen Talbot.”

  When this second call was over, Helen frowned deeply. “She says they left in another limousine about ten minutes before the studio car showed up.”

  “What? Why would they do that?”

  Helen waved her hand, as if this odd turn of events meant nothing dire. Lauren had not told Helen the truth about Aiden, but her friend understood that the sword was a commodity that someone was pretty desperate to get their hands on.

  “The concierge at the Crown Chandler gave me Rousseau’s cell phone number,” Helen explained. “I’ll call him and find out what happened. It’s probably just a misunderstanding.”

  But the call wasn’t answered. Helen left a message, then jumped when someone knocked hard on the door but didn’t wait for an answer before barging in to Lauren’s trailer.

  “What do you want?” Lauren asked before Ross had even shut the door behind him.

  “I want to know what Nigel was looking for at your house.”

  Lauren laughed humorlessly. “He’s your lapdog. Why did you send him to my house?”

  “I didn’t,” Ross insisted, and from the anxious look on his face, she knew he wasn’t lying.

  Helen, however, seemed to miss the nuance of his expression. “Who are you trying to con, Marchand? You sent him to steal the sword. Just like that guy who attacked Lauren in the hospital.”

  Ross’s mouth was a thin, unyielding line. Helen sidled up beside Lauren, which seemed to spark a fire in Ross’s muddy hazel eyes. “I need to talk to my wife alone.”

  In unison, Lauren and Helen both said, “Ex.”

  Ross cursed. “Fine. Ex. Ex-wife. Satisfied? Clear out, Talbot. What I have to say is for her ears alone.”

  Helen narrowed her gaze, then glanced at Lauren, who gave her a confident nod.

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

  Helen headed to the door. “I won’t go far. I’m going to keep trying to get in touch with our friends. I’ll let you know what happened as soon as I know.”

  Once they were alone, Ross jammed his hands into his hair and marched to the couch, where he sat beside the weapon. Just to be on the safe side, Lauren moved the sword to the bar area. She did not feel Aiden’s presence, and in a small way she was thankful. After what had happened with Nigel this morning, she wanted to hear what Ross had to say. She didn’t need Aiden running him off on her behalf.

  Ross groaned. “I’m not here to steal that cursed hunk of steel.”

  “Cursed?”

  Did he know something?

  He sneered at the weapon. “More trouble than it’s worth. I shouldn’t have given in to you at that antiques store. Maybe if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “What mess?”

  With a huff, he sank back into the cushions of the couch. “Nigel, for starters.”

  Not that she tried, but Lauren couldn’t muster a shred of sympathy for Ross’s butler. He’d treated her like something he’d accidentally smeared on the bottom of his shoe since the first minute she’d moved into the Marchand househol
d. The fact that the dog she’d bought for protection had attacked him didn’t make her feel guilty in the least.

  “I assume he’ll live, even without the part of his ass that Apollo had for breakfast?”

  Ross grinned at her quip, despite the fact that he shouldn’t. “Sit down, Lauren.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and remained standing.

  After a second he looked up. Again, she saw remorse in his eyes. And again, she couldn’t ignore it.

  “Please,” he said more sincerely, “sit down.”

  With a frown, she realized she had nothing to lose by getting off her feet. She squeezed by him and sat on the opposite side of the couch.

  He sat up straight, as if gearing himself up for a complicated explanation. “First, you have to know that I had nothing to do with Nigel breaking into your house this morning.”

  “Nigel doesn’t do anything without your ordering him to.”

  “That used to be true,” he muttered.

  “It isn’t anymore? Why?”

  He bit his bottom lip before responding. “My circumstances have changed. I’m in trouble, Lauren. Financial trouble.”

  She scoffed. “I saw your financials during the divorce, Ross. You’re doing fine.”

  “One doesn’t usually admit to their accountant the kind of debts I’m talking about.”

  “What kind of debts?”

  Lauren had known Ross to mix with business associates who could have stepped straight out of a Francis Ford Coppola flick, but he’d been fairly careful, separating his personal taste for rubbing shoulders with wise guys from his formidable status as a producer. Ross’s reputation wouldn’t inspire real respect if he laundered cash for criminals.

  “You remember that series of movies I did in Mexico?”

  “How can I forget? You were gone for nearly a year while I was shooting the second Athena movie.”