The Siren's Dance

by Amber Belldene

  “If you say so. The difference between you and me is, it turned out my dad had killed Sonya. The only reason I could see her was a blood debt. The rusalka wanted to avenge her by killing me in my father’s place.”

  Sergey whistled, a low and quiet noise that spared him having to admit that might very well be the exact scenario he and Anya had found themselves in. Sergey wasn’t about to confess the similarities of this story. If she knew he wanted to find Demyan himself, he would surely lose his ghost’s trust, and her help.

  “I don’t know about blood debts, but I think I’m perfectly safe. I also don’t think she’s a rusalka. She caused a tornado today. A big-ass funnel cloud right on the outskirts of Lyubashivka.”

  “She caused that? A video of it’s all over the news.”

  “She controls the wind, which makes her a vila, not a rusalka.”

  Her gaze darted to Sergey’s, dark eyes wide.

  “They’re the same, aren’t they?” Dmitri said.

  “Nope. And from what I know of fairytales, the esoteric differences are bound to matter.”

  “Shit. I need to talk to Gregor.”

  “Okay, but first, I could use your help with something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got a naked and starving ghost here--no clothes, no shoes.”

  “Oh, right. Been there.” On those last words, Dmitri’s voice changed, colored by amusement and other softer feelings Sergey didn’t associate with the man. “I’ll put Sonya on the clothes problem. In the meantime, order some room service. On me.”

  How Sonya could clothe her sister from all the way in Kiev, Sergey didn’t know, but he was looking forward to indulging Anya with room service. He would order her one of every dessert, sit back, and watch her eat. Good chance it would be painfully sexy, but at least it wouldn’t involve her hand on his pants, and that was surely a good thing.

  “And speaking of being there before,” Dmitri said. “I saw that pink nightie, and the way you were looking at her. Hands off my sister-in-law, Yuchenko. She was obsessed with Demyan, and she’s not stable. Both the ghost and the girl will say anything, and do anything, to get what they want.”

  Then the line went dead, cut off by Dmitri. Thankfully, so did every drop of Sergey’s arousal.

  Chapter 13

  As a ghost, Anya would probably have been able to hear Dmitri’s every word over the telephone line. But her normal human ears didn’t cut it, so she’d had to settle for watching Sergey’s reactions. Though she couldn’t sort out which ones were in response to the words on the line, and which to her roving fingers. The silly things sought sensation as if each one had a mind of its own.

  From what she gathered, her brother-in-law hadn’t been able to explain her sudden corporeality. Figured. His muscles were probably inflated with a lot of hot air. Unlike Yuchenko, who was very firm to the touch. Her body screamed--touch, temperature, texture--it all overwhelmed her. Skin cold except where he held her, muscles heavy with the sudden need to support her own weight. And smell…

  Goodness. Olfaction was a seriously underrated sense. After so long without it, hers consumed all her awareness. Sergey smelled so good, in a totally animal, male way--soap, yes, but salty skin and musky sweat. The first time her stomach growled it had been solely in reaction to that scent.

  Her fingers twitched, and she couldn’t resist the urge to pet him. Initially, he’d lifted his chin to her touch, like a puppy wanting a scratch on its neck. Then his breathing had gone shallow, his pupils small. It looked like desire, but what did she know about that? She had to keep pushing to find out for sure. And if he was aroused, was it because she was a siren? In spite of the occasional lingering glances, it seemed impossible he could like plain old Anya.

  Arm around her waist, he pulled her closer, all the while staring into the air with unfocused intensity as he listened to Dmitri. The gesture implied instinctive protection, and it made her burn. She wasn’t only wind anymore. She had a heart again, and it pumped hot blood, heated her skin, throbbed low in her belly, awakened parts of her body she hadn’t even thought about since she’d died. And those parts seemed very interested in making the acquaintance of Inspector Yuchenko.

  Then, clearly in reaction to something Dmitri had said, he went stiff--not the interesting stiffness she’d noticed between his hips, but a sudden rigidness to his spine, alert and on-guard. Slowly, he turned his head and slightly narrowed his gaze upon her, such a minuscule gesture that only a woman hyper-vigilant about her teacher’s approval would have noticed. But it was enough to dampen all the delicious throbbing, like a bucket of icy water right out of her hateful river.

  What could dearest Dima have said about her? Probably that according to Sonya she was a man-stealer and a tramp. Her parents had certainly thought she was sleeping with Stas, possibly to get ahead. Though in truth, her desire for him was not about ambition, but approval, entirely inspired by his beautiful, leanly muscled body, his penetrating, heavy-lidded gaze, and how he danced with her, always a seductive pas de deux that promised his love was nearly in reach.

  And he’d smelled good too, in that primal, male way. Maybe even as good as Yuchenko.

  Sergey didn’t speak or explain, only searched her face.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He shrugged, and the motion of it drew her closer to him.

  If he wasn’t going to explain, she would get there another way. She plucked another interesting detail from the conversation she’d overheard. “So you know I’m a vila?”

  “It was my best working theory.” His hazel eyes were so expressive, so intense. The more she looked into their warmth, the more they thoroughly countered his youthful features. How had she ever thought him anything less than a man, capable and keen?

  “Ironic, isn’t it? The role of my dreams, given to me in death. Do you suppose when I finally find Demyan, I can use my magical powers to make him dance himself to death like Hilarion?”

  “If we find him, and he’s still alive, he’ll be well over eighty. It won’t take much for him to dance to death.”

  “He’s alive. I can feel it.”

  “Or you’re just really hungry.” He pressed his palm over her abdomen, his big hand covering nearly the whole breadth of her rib cage. “Dmitri said room service is on him. We’ll order whatever you want.” He took hold of both her wrists and tugged her toward the desk where the room service menu had blown to the floor. He flipped it open with his left hand, while firmly holding her wrist with the right. “Mmm. I think Lisko enterprises owes us one of everything.”

  He held it up for her perusal. French food like nothing you would have found in Soviet Ukraine. Filet mignon, risotto with truffles, assorted cheeses that sounded stinky and delicious, and three kinds of tortes--raspberry, chocolate hazelnut, lemon, as well as a white chocolate mousse. And caviar--now that was a Russian delicacy she could appreciate.

  Her stomach growled again. “You better make that two of everything. I don’t want to have to share.”

  He grinned, so stunning it wiped away the hurt of whatever he was keeping from her.

  Then the secret crashed down on her. “What did Dmitri say about me?”

  “When?”

  “When you got that funny look on your face, like suddenly I’d sprouted a pair of horns.”

  “Did I?” Sergey frowned. Then he seemed to force another grin. “Gotta work on that. Not good cop technique.”

  She refused to be distracted by that winning smile. “What did he say?”

  “That you would say or do anything to get your hands on Demyan.”

  Her stomach, her heart--no, all the organs she’d just gotten back--descended into the ones that had been pleasantly throbbing earlier. It wasn’t so fun to have a body when it weighed a thousand pounds all of a sudden.

  Dmitri’s words were entirely true, so why did they hurt? Why did she want Sergey to look at her and smile, to reassure her that he didn’
t think she was using him or lying to him?

  He picked up the room phone and placed the order. He still held her wrist in a tight cuff of his fingers, but with the moment of distraction, she could--

  Yes. She slipped out of his grip and went ghost. Just as in the interrogation room, her nightgown fell into a shiny pool of pink satin on the floor. He glanced at it and scowled but didn’t break the rhythm of his speech as he thanked the person on the other end of the line. Then he slammed the handset onto the stand.

  “Goddammit, Anya, this isn’t helping.”

  She drifted into the corner, trembling and bereft, but invisible to him. What the hell was wrong with her?

  “Guess I’ll have to eat two filets myself. And two slices of chocolate cake.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared vacantly in her general direction, his unfocused eyes hard. How did he even know which way she’d gone? Oh right. Behind her, the curtains flapped gently like she wore a cape on a breezy night.

  His biceps bulged, and his handsome face was set in those hard, square lines that made him look older and determined, hazel eyes flaring amber sparks. Then he took a mighty breath that lifted his chest and exhaled it loudly.

  “Look, Anya, I’m not angry. Lisko just reminded me of the truth. You aren’t some helpless victim--maybe you were when you met Demyan, but now you’re…” He shook his head.

  What was the end of his sentence? A tramp. A user. A harpy.

  “Now, you’re strong.”

  Something in her seized up, like the remembered sensation of having her breath stolen. She couldn’t move, only tried to let the praise penetrate her.

  “You don’t need me to protect you,” he added.

  No, she didn’t. Nothing could really hurt her besides more of the same loneliness. But oh, how she wanted him to hold her tight, keep her warm, make her feel worthy of protection.

  He clenched his jaw and held his palm up, a gesture of reconciliation. “You don’t need it, but still, something ridiculous in me wants to protect you. Maybe it’s my stupid inner police puppy. An oversized sense of justice and duty.”

  She swooshed right up to him, hovering just inches from his face. The memory of his scent lingered even though she couldn’t smell in her ghost form. Before she could think twice, she pressed her nose to his, her lips to his mouth. She turned real--flesh and blood, substantial.

  Instantly, she began to fall, sucked under by gravity and the freezing panic of drowning in black, bottomless water. But in a flash, his arms were around her, flattening her to his chest, chasing away the cold and the fear. Then one hand came up to cradle her head, tangling his fingers in her wet hair. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

  Oh, God. When the grocer’s boy had done that, it had felt sloppy, invasive. But Sergey’s tongue was deft, subtle. He stroked her own tongue lightly, then retreated. That tantalizing stiffness between his hips pressed hard and long against her pelvis.

  In answer, the lowest parts of her belly fluttered again, growing hot and liquid. She’d wanted Demyan, but her desire had been focused on fantasies, girlish imaginings about what a man did to a woman to possess her. The way Sergey made her feel lent the fantasies substance, sensuality. Suddenly, the logic of a man entering her body--how it might work, why it might feel wonderful--it all made sense.

  The way he kissed her, with a gentle, teasing intensity even though he held her head firmly. The way he opened his mouth to her tongue, accepted her tentative explorations, and made little grunts of pleasure as perfectly masculine as his delicious scent. This wasn’t possession, it was a dance, and she wanted to lose herself in it as thoroughly as she’d ever given herself over to the movement of her body in time to music.

  Then, all at once, he retreated, his eyes wide and wild, his beautiful mouth open in an uneven grimace.

  A chill fell over her damp and mostly naked body.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit. Anya. I’m sorry. I can’t…” He stroked the pad of his thumb over her lip, the skin of it tender to his touch. “I just can’t.”

  She crossed her arms over her all-too exposed breasts, cold and straining against the satin nightgown. His thumb, his gentle fingers along her jaw--they were the only points of contact between them, keeping her in the flesh when all she really wanted was to be invisible again. Just as she moved to pull away, he grabbed her wrist.

  “It’s not you, Anya.”

  “Of course. I understand,” she said, even though she really didn’t. The only explanation was that he didn’t want her, that in spite of all he’d said, all his actions, he ultimately found her as unworthy as Demyan had.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Room service.”

  Thank God. She could satisfy her hunger for cake instead and pretend that kiss had never happened.

  Chapter 14

  Sergey couldn’t decide whether to tell the waiter to fuck off or let him inside and be thankful for the distraction. When Anya’s stomach growled like a passing train, the answer was made for him. The sound was a quiet echo of her tornado, and he couldn’t risk an F5 wind event in their hotel room because he’d let his ghost get hungry.

  He opened the door and found there was an actual train in the hallway. Three room service carts piled high with silver domes. It was going to cost Lisko a fortune, and for some reason, that was enough to make Sergey chuckle, suddenly aware of the hollowness in his belly. He hadn’t eaten in hours, and that was nothing on Anya’s years.

  “If you please, sir,” a young man wearing a white apron said.

  “Be my guest.” He stepped aside and gestured into the room.

  The waiter wheeled in the cart. “Chef says that most everything will sit for a while, but that the steaks are perfect this very moment. If you don’t mind the suggestion, they should be eaten first. Can I set the table for you?”

  “Yeah, thanks. If that’s all right with you, Anya?”

  She’d been hiding behind him, in only the nightie, her fingers interlaced with his and squeezing hard. Why hadn’t he thought to get her something to wear for her modesty?

  “Yes, of course, steak sounds wonderful,” she said, all too demurely. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up as if she was about to unleash her power and blow away all the silver domes to find the dish she most craved.

  But nothing happened. No wind. No scathing remarks. He was almost disappointed, along with his relief.

  He expected the waiter to wheel the cart over to the small table that overlooked the blue and white mosaic tile roof of the Philharmonic theater. But instead, he’d stopped to stare at Anya, who had stepped out from behind Sergey, her chin up, the pink satin of the gown so close to the shade of her skin that she looked almost nude, the black lace a deep contrast, trimming the small, mouthwatering mounds of her breasts and the thick hem at her thighs.

  She had a spectacular body--strong, well trained, as conditioned as his own but so feminine--smaller, leaner, with perfectly proportioned curves. She had every reason to be proud of it, and the dumbstruck waiter was making sure she knew it too. He grinned a not-entirely-straight-toothed smile at her.

  She smiled back at the man before casting Sergey a defiant look, as if to say, See, he thinks I’m hot. Fuck. Like Sergey’s restraint had anything to do with finding her anything else.

  Jealousy gripped him, and his arm tingled with the urge to yank her back behind him. But jealousy was just another type of control, a different version of what Demyan had done to her. He didn’t want to be even a little like his father.

  What he did want was the food in, the waiters out, and Anya back to himself. He cleared his throat and pointed at the table. “Right here will be fine.”

  The waiter jumped, as if he’d woken from a trance, and quickly laid the place settings. Then he wheeled the train of carts from the room, and Sergey and Anya were left staring at the table hand in hand. Instantly, he anticipated the problem. How could they eat across from one an
other at the table and keep skin-to-skin contact going?

  He glanced over at her. She stared at the thick medallions of beef as if they were a Christmas gift, thin columns of steam coming off them like ribbons.

  “How the hell are we going to keep you in your skin?” he asked. “We can’t eat steak and hold hands.”

  “I’m going to eat, and you can hold some other part of me.”

  He couldn’t help it, he imagined a small handful of bare breast gripped from behind as she perched on his lap and he stroked her nipple hard with his palm and then rolled it between his fingers.

  Your father took advantage of her. Stop thinking about her like that.

  When that didn’t work, he forced himself to picture it--some faceless man taking her against the wall, her leotard brutally shoved to one side for access to her sex. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth a grimace. The image killed every thread of desire in him.

  “Your ankle. Sit down, put your foot in my lap, and I’ll hold your ankle while you eat.”

  She never took her eyes off the meat, just dragged him to the table, dropped herself into the seat, and let go of his hand as soon as his other slid over the bare top of her foot.

  He circled the delicate joint of her ankle--so graceful, though it had supported her weight through countless leaps and jumps. Her skin was so soft, and he struggled to resist stroking upward to caress the muscles of her calf.

  She grabbed hold of the fork and knife, which cut through the tender steak like it was hardly tougher than butter. Sergey barely registered his own hunger, transfixed as she raised the bite to her mouth and chewed, closing her eyes and working her jaw. His mouth watered at her imagined pleasure. She ate the whole filet in precisely sixteen neatly cut, well-chewed bites. When she was finished, she dabbed daintily at her lips with the snowy white napkin, and then her gaze settled on his steak.

  “Want it?” He would gladly surrender it to her, just to watch her eat, to know that a hunger even older than her desire for revenge was being satisfied. And to spite the man who’d denied it.