Phantom Pleasures: Sexy Paranormal (Book 1, Phantom Series) (10 page)

With sleek elegance, she slid off the chair and coiled into his arms, her breath teasing along the edge of his collar. Her short, cropped hair, highlighted in colors that ranged from white blond to inky black, hugged her sleek cheekbones and emphasized the luminous blue of her irises. “You think age makes a man immune to a woman’s charms?”

Farrow laughed, wondering how Gemma’s brother would react to witnessing this scene. Keith Von Roan fancied himself the true heir to the K’vr—which wasn’t exactly untrue. But what he possessed in bloodline, he lacked in vision. Over the centuries, many a coup had taken away the leadership from Rogan’s direct descendents, though they remained influential. So with Keith’s sibling at his side, Farrow would take the title of leader. Once he had Rogan’s magic in his possession.

He swiped his lips across Gemma’s, reveling in the feel of her sleek red mouth against his. “Is charm what they’re calling your talents these days?”

Her grin reflected her iniquitous sensuality. “No, but it’s what they called it in Rousseau’s day. I know all about a man like him. The chivalry. The denied passions. Allow me to work my magic on him and I’ll get you what you want. Perhaps more. And he’ll be in a condition to use him later on, if necessary, which he won’t be in if you keep turning him over to those goons of yours. If I fail, you can try your preferred approach with nothing but a few more days lost.”

She pressed her taut breasts fully against him and he enjoyed the thick feel of her feminine flesh, the hard tips of her nipples swiping across the silk of his shirt. He couldn’t resist leaning into her hair and inhaling the lingering scent of her bath. Her tongue grazed over his chin, igniting a simmering need for her that never truly abated—and, unfortunately, was never fully satisfied. And now that he was on the brink of taking over the leadership position he’d sought for more than a decade, his best interests were served by keeping her on his side.

“Do what you must,” he instructed.

With a feline-like growl, she tugged free of him and proceeded to the door.

“Try not to give him a heart attack,” he reminded her.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes glittering with lusty expectation. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m an awful lot of woman for just one old man.”

“You’re an awful lot of woman for any man.”

Even after she swung out of the room, Farrow could hear her laughter echoing down the long hallway.

Cat peered around the darkened corner inside the university’s humanities building and involuntarily drew her hand to her nose. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the smell of old books every once in a while, but in the last twenty-four hours she’d achieved maximum overload. For the entire afternoon and evening yesterday, she’d pawed through the extensive collection of professional journals and diaries owned by Professor Morton Gilmore. Her hands still needed a few more coats of moisturizer to counteract the dryness caused by constant contact with old paper and fading ink. To top off the experience, she’d come up entirely empty in her search for the dissertation or memoir that supposedly contained the reference to Valoren. After a hot shower in her hotel room, she’d finally cleared the scent of old books out of her nostrils. But now she was about to charge headfirst into another professor’s dusty office in search of documentation she wasn’t entirely sure existed—and if it did, might not help her on her quest.

Ordinarily, she wasn’t this wimpy. Dealing with musty scents was chicken feed compared to the things she’d done to hunt down evidence in her search to either prove or disprove paranormal phenomena. She’d rappelled into the hidden chambers built beneath ancient adobe structures in the Southwest during a heat wave. She’d slept alone, tucked in a three-foot-by-three-foot closet, in an abandoned New Orleans plantation house for seven nights straight in search of an elusive ghost. She’d even armed herself with a self-whittled wooden stake and several atomizers’ worth of holy water to confront a coven of self-proclaimed vampires in a back alley in urban Detroit.

She didn’t scare easily.

And yet, yesterday, she’d been overwhelmed by such a powerful feeling of dread, she’d nearly flown back in the middle of the night to Florida to check on Alexa and break the news that her expedition had, so far, been a bust.

Shortly before she’d zipped up her suitcase, however, Professor Gilmore had called her hotel, finally remembering that the diary he’d read with the reference to Valoren had never been in his possession after all. He’d read it while conferring with a colleague at a nearby university. A colleague named Paschal Rousseau, who’d written the academic paper about Valoren years before. The same Paschal Rousseau who apparently didn’t rate high on his university’s relevance list since his office had been tucked in the farthest, darkest corner of the school’s humanities building with little to no ventilation. And while Cat was no expert in Romani academia, she’d never heard of the guy. His name had not come up in any of her research. No articles like the one Gilmore claimed to have seen. No dissertations. Only one listing as a secondary resource that might have been regarding the paper he’d supposedly written, but which no longer existed. She had found a Ben Rousseau listed as a fellow of the same university, but not a word about Paschal.

Still, he’d been important enough for a tenured expert in Romani culture like Morton Gilmore to confer with. And if the mysterious professor had the diary that explained the significance of Valoren to Alexa’s castle, Cat had to push her antsiness about Alexa out of her mind for a few hours more.

Alexa.

The dreadful feeling overwhelmed her again, pressing in on her like a vise, weighting her shoulders, chest and stomach. Shrugging her briefcase to the floor, she yanked her cell phone out of her pocket and tried calling Alexa again.

“I’m sorry, but the subscriber you are calling is unavailable at this time. Please call again or press the star key to leave a message.”

Damn.

Cat disconnected. She’d already filled Alexa’s mailbox with multiple messages both last night and again after receiving Gilmore’s lead. She’d contacted Alexa’s hotel manager and was told that Ms. Chandler had not returned to her suite for the night, but that her brother had. Frustrated, Cat decided she had to break down and call Jacob. Much as her fingers ached with each punch of his cell phone number, she had to make sure her friend was safe.

“If you’re calling to tempt me back into your bed, you’re wasting your time,” Jacob said by way of greeting.

Cat blanched. God, she hated caller ID.

“In your dreams, Goth boy. Where’s Alexa?”

“Would you like to know the content of my dreams, Catalina? You might be very interested to find out exactly how you play a role nowadays.”

“I’m not interested in any of your sick fantasies, Jacob. Remember? That’s why I dumped your freak ass. Now, tell me where your sister is.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll clue your beloved sister in on the real reasons I sent you packing. Do you think she’d still be so keen to let you run even that tiny, insignificant division if she knew what a wannabe you were?”

Silence ensued, tension crackling over their connection like electrical interference. For the millionth time, Cat wondered why she hadn’t already confessed to her best friend all she knew about Jacob and his tastes for the macabre, and again remembered her reasoning. Jacob dabbled in the black arts, true, but he had no true power. He couldn’t hurt anyone. At least, as far as she knew, he hadn’t hurt anyone who hadn’t been anxious to enjoy the experience. And since he was Alexa’s last remaining family member, Cat had decided it was in Alexa’s best interests for Cat to keep her mouth shut regarding Jacob’s sadomasochistic tendencies. As an orphan raised by a grandmother who had never valued her progeny above her religion and a grandfather who saw Cat simply as an extension of himself, she knew that family wasn’t something to be thrown away simply because they didn’t measure up to classical standards. Not when you had no one else.

“Alexa isn’t here,” Jacob finally answered. “She’s on that new island of hers.”

“Again? What’s so interesting that she had to go back?”

“She never left the first time.”

Despite the dank, uncirculated air of the hallway, Cat shivered. “What are you talking about? You left her there all night long?”

“She insisted,” he replied, his voice brimming with boredom. “We had a crisis at our Boston property and she ordered me back to the mainland to handle the mess. I did, but when I was ready to go back and retrieve her, a storm popped up out of nowhere.”

“How convenient,” Cat said, doubtful.

“Check the local news, Catalina. It was freakish. Just your speed, actually. No captain in his right mind would have taken a boat out in that weather, but I’m on my way to fetch her now. She had supplies and a sound roof over her head. Stop worrying.”

“Maybe you should start worrying,” Cat snapped back. She knew that if the castle had survived hurricanes over the last sixty years, one weird storm wasn’t going to knock it down now. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Alexa was in trouble. Problem was, Cat didn’t know if the danger came from the island or from someone closer to home. “By the way, who gets the Chandler billions if Alexa meets with some freak accident?”

She knew the answer. The hotels would go to the shareholders and the fortune to a charitable foundation. Jacob’s take was minuscule in comparison. He was richer with Alexa alive than dead—one of the few facts that kept Cat off his case.

“Only you would think something so disgusting,” Jacob replied, sounding genuinely insulted.

Good. Catalina didn’t much care about Jacob’s feelings as long as he remained loyal to his sister.

“Even if you reveal my proclivities to Alexa,” he said with an audible sneer, “she’ll forgive me for indulging in less-than-traditional extracurricular activities. Will she forgive you for trying to drive a wedge between her and the last blood tie she has?”

“You’re not tied by blood,” Cat pointed out.

“I’d like to get you tied up one time,” Jacob said, his leer palpable in his voice.

“You’re a pig.”

“And you are entirely too loud!”

That voice didn’t come from the phone, but from a tall, lean, rather snotty gentleman glaring at her from the doorway to Paschal Rousseau’s office.

Cat pressed the phone to her chest to respond until she felt the vibration of Jacob’s voice on her skin. Creeped out, she disconnected the call.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Please take your lovers’ quarrel to the other end of the hall,” the man said, his tone dripping with disdain. “Some people have work to do.”

With a self-satisfied smirk, he slammed the door shut.

Cat gaped. If this guy was Paschal Rousseau, her quest to find the diary with a minimum of fuss just went down the drain. If he wasn’t Paschal Rousseau, then he was about to learn a very hard lesson about pissing her off.

Cat shoved her cell phone back into her pocket, grabbed her briefcase, stalked down the hall and banged on the professor’s office door, hoping Mr. Tight Ass who’d just had the nerve to complain about her volume jumped in surprise and banged his head on a low shelf.

She heard a crash and a curse.

She knocked again. Harder.

When he swung the door open this time, he was pressing his palm tightly to the top of his head.

“Office hours aren’t until Monday,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

“I’m not a student,” she said evenly. “I’m here to see Paschal Rousseau. Dr. Morton Gilmore sent me.”

Tight Ass eyed her from head to toe, but his assessment, oddly enough, was purely academic. His eyes reflected no hint of male-to-female interest—which meant he either was gay or possessed inordinate amounts of self-control. Cat didn’t flaunt her body, but reactions to her curves remained constant all the same. Although, clearly, her pink wraparound blouse and loose-fitting, cuffed gray slacks didn’t do it for him. With a sniff that suggested she reeked more than his ancient books, he met her gaze boldly. “Morton Gilmore, you say? What are you, his new research assistant?”

She squared her shoulders. “I’m a colleague.”

“In what? His cooking class?”

Cat realized she was standing straighter than normal, so she shifted her weight to her right hip and huffed audibly. “I’m not some lowly coed, asshole, so your attempts to intimidate me with your superior attitude are a waste of your time and mine. I need to speak with Dr. Rousseau, so could you please tell him I’m here?”

“He’s not.”

“He’s not what?”

“Here,” he replied, a smile teasing his lips.

Either he enjoyed pissing her off or bantering with her gave him some sort of thrill. Must be lonely in the dungeon.

“He’s unavailable,” he explained further. “You’ll need to make an appointment.”

He flipped a business card from his pocket and thrust it toward her. She didn’t accept it.

His mouth tightened into a thin line. “Do you want an appointment or not?”

“Not,” she said. “I want to see him. I need to return to Florida immediately, but first I need to discuss a paper and a diary with Professor Rousseau. Both, according to Dr. Gilmore, reference a Gypsy safe haven called Valoren.”

Had she been a less observant person, she might have missed the flash of emotion behind his eyes—eyes a slate gray that he kept hidden behind glasses she now suspected were only for show. Right down to the tweed jacket with the leather patches on the elbows, his look screamed academic, but in that brief spark of surprise, she caught sight of something more—something interesting. Mysterious, in a “he’s hiding something” sort of way. Glancing down, she noticed a rip across the thigh of his jeans, which he wore loose in the front and slightly snug around the hips. And instead of tasseled loafers or the dime-store sneakers favored by grad students, he wore boots. Scuffed boots. Dusty boots. Boots that had seen action.

“You must have the wrong professor,” he replied.

He stepped back into the office, his hand tight on the edge of the door. He was going to slam her out again. Cat jammed her heavy briefcase into the opening.

“Is there another professor at this university who is a Romani expert? Because I’m thinking most institutions don’t need more than one.”

The man’s scowl might have been intimidating to someone else. Luckily for Cat, she’d been around the block enough to know when a guy was more bark than bite.

Though, so far as bites went, this guy had potential. Once he lost the jacket. Mussed up his hair a bit. Tore off the glasses a la Clark Kent. Or he could keep the gold wire rims. They were sort of sexy, now that she saw them up close and personal. Her mind drifted to images of Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones. When he was in the classroom at the start of the first film. Before he donned the fedora. Before he grabbed his whip.

To his credit, Rousseau’s assistant didn’t back away when Cat pressed closer. The aroma of old books clung to him like musk, but didn’t smell quite so musty when mingled with his woodsy cologne.

“Paschal Rousseau is a leading expert in all things related to Romani culture,” he informed her, “primarily in the British Islands during the eighteenth century.”

“Eighteenth?” she asked. “Well, that narrows down my search.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

She’d piqued his interest. Leaning saucily against the doorjamb, she licked her generous lips and shrugged prettily, cast her eyes downward, then glanced up from beneath her lashes. “Information, that’s all.”

“And I’ll bet you’re willing to do just about anything to get it, aren’t you?”