Phantom Pleasures: Sexy Paranormal (Book 1, Phantom Series) (11 page)

“Depends,” she replied, deciding to play the innuendo in his voice to her advantage. “What are you suggesting?”

Unexpectedly, he encircled her arm with his hand. An instantaneous spark crackled through her body. He had rough hands and a strong grip. Evidently, this man did more in his daily routine than turn pages and type on a keyboard.

When he kicked her briefcase out of the office, she yelped. He tightened his grip, then practically dragged her out into the hall. “I suggest a ten-minute head start before I call security and accuse you of stalking.”

“Stalking? For one visit? Sensitive much?”

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” he warned. “Go back to Florida. Don’t contact us again.”

The power in his grasp belied his reaction to her presence. He had no reason to fear her—so she had to assume he feared what she sought.

The diary?

Valoren?

With a determined yank, she tore her arm from his hold. “Fine. I get the message.”

“Make sure that you do.” His eyes, while gray, contained a strong hint of blue that turned icier and icier the longer he stared at her. “Someday, you’ll thank me.”

With a curt nod, he shut the door. Seconds later, Cat heard the sounds of classical music. Loud classical music. Straight down to the screaming violins, crashing cymbals and pounding bass drums. If she knocked again, he wouldn’t hear her. Or, at least, he’d pretend not to.

As if Mozart was enough to ward her away.

With a snort, she rubbed the spot where he’d grabbed her, somewhat surprised by the electric thrum on her skin. In those boots and ripped jeans was a man who didn’t scare easily. So why had he reacted so strongly?

“Someday, very soon,” she said to the door, picking up her briefcase and heading back toward the commons, “you’ll learn not to manhandle me. And, that I don’t give up quite so easily.”

Ben waited a full twenty minutes before he turned down the head-splitting classical racket his father loved so dearly and checked the hallway. Except for a few coeds chatting with a professor near the front exit, the building was deserted.

She’d left.

With a satisfied nod, he returned to the office. But over the course of the rest of the day, his gaze had returned to the door. Easily, this woman had been the most fascinating distraction he’d had in days. Straight dark hair. Flashing obsidian eyes. A body that tortured his inadvertently celibate self even though she was covered in fabric from neck to toe. Curves like hers were impossible to hide completely. She reminded him of Jennifer Lopez but with half the ass and twice the attitude.

Although. . .she had given up without much fight, which raised the hackles on his neck. Though he’d tangled with her for only a few minutes, she’d struck him as a woman who didn’t surrender. Her business in Florida must have been important. Still, she could come back. And if information on Valoren was what she sought—she’d return eventually. No one else possessed the secrets she sought.

Not even him.

He’d never anticipated that anyone outside the small circle of Romani academics would come to the university to ask his father about the mythical Gypsy sanctuary. Once was odd enough. But twice?

The topic had been verboten between father and son. Paschal had presented one paper on Valoren early in his career as an academic—and it had nearly destroyed his chances of tenure at any institution with a serious reputation. Ben had questioned his father about why he’d go out on a limb with such a crazy tale, but the older man had reacted to his questions with uncharacteristic anger, and then hadn’t spoken to him for a week.

Clandestinely, Ben had learned that only a select few of Paschal’s colleagues in the study of Romani history, lore and sociology had ever heard of the place, and nearly all had gotten their information, scant as it was, from Paschal himself.

According to legend, Valoren was a Gypsy safe haven tucked into some forgotten region between Germany and Bohemia in the mid–seventeen hundreds. Nothing remained of the place except a few whispered stories about a powerful, deadly curse.

Ben shut off his laptop and tucked it into its case, wondering why Morton Gilmore had chosen to help the woman who’d barged into the office when he knew how protective his father was about this particular topic. Not content to let the mystery lie, he made a phone call.

“Son, are you going to tell me you could resist those eyes?” Gilmore said after the initial pleasantries. “I’d have ducked into another room and forged a diary outlining the details of this Valoren nonsense myself, if I’d thought she’d fall for it. Smart cookie, this Catalina Reyes. Don’t underestimate her resolve.”

Great. The last thing he needed was some sexy woman on a mission. Been there, done that. Had the scars to prove it. Inside and out.

“I couldn’t help her if I wanted to,” Ben admitted. He’d done an independent study under Gilmore during his undergraduate years and respected the man immensely. Because Gilmore was an old friend of his father’s, he didn’t mind admitting the truth. “I’ve never seen this diary. And I never read the paper father wrote all those years ago. Can’t even find a copy anymore. You know Paschal has never told me much about this Valoren myth.”

“Your father claims the myth is real,” Gilmore insisted. “I’m quite certain he has more proof than he’s ever shared with either of us. You can thank a couple of bottles of Crown Royal for the fact that I saw the diary for myself. Took a hell of a time to bring the memory out of this old brain of mine, but Ms. Reyes’s persistence was compelling. Her perfume helped, too. You did notice the exotic, spiced scent, I gather?”

Old coot. With apologies for his haste, Ben ended the call. He preferred not to think about the soft, tangerine scent still lingering on his hand from where he’d touched her, a fragrance potently mixed with exotic spices that lured him, for just a moment, to forget the vow he’d made to his dying mother to protect his father and his work above all else—even his own personal interests.

He checked his watch. Paschal was likely out gardening, but he called the house anyway. As expected, there was no answer. Still, it couldn’t be a coincidence that Catalina Reyes had come looking for the Valoren diary so soon after one of Paschal’s seemingly disinterested undergraduate students had come sniffing around for the same information. Packing up as quickly as possible, he locked the office and headed to his car.

With few evening classes on a Friday, Ben’s car sat in the lot nearly alone. He tossed his bag on the passenger seat, then bent in to turn on the air conditioner and roll down the windows before subjecting his body to the solar temperatures inside the El Camino. Waiting for the car to cool, he glanced around. Other than a few students waiting for a bus inside a covered booth on the corner, no one was around.

So why did he feel like he was being watched?

Casually, Ben strolled to the passenger side of the car and, using the key, unlocked the reinforced glove compartment where he kept his gun, a souvenir from his old life. Before his mother died. Before she made him promise to give up his explorations and return to the university as Paschal’s assistant and, frankly, keeper. Turning his back so no one could see what he was doing, he checked the safety and ammo, then shoved the weapon into his waistband and untucked his shirt to cover the fact that he was armed. He was probably overreacting, but after the scene he’d witnessed between his father and one of his undergraduate students, who was accompanied by a mysterious stranger, just a few days ago, he preferred to err on the side of caution.

The minute the temperature in the car dropped below eighty, Ben roared out of the parking lot. He glanced several times into the rearview mirror but saw no one follow. Once he was embroiled in busy Friday afternoon traffic, he couldn’t be so confident. Something was up. Something weird.

He pulled his cell phone out of his bag and punched the speed-dial number to his father’s house again. Old man wouldn’t carry a cell, though Ben supposed he couldn’t blame the guy. Paschal Rousseau might be in prime physical condition, but he was more than ninety years old. His technical know-how was limited to tools that helped him with his research.

The phone rang several times, with no answer. The voice mail took over, and this time, Ben punched in the codes to retrieve the messages. Nothing new. He accessed the saved messages and nearly wrecked his car.

“Professor Rousseau, this is Amber Stranton. I’m really sorry about that scene the other day on the quad. I know that my cousin is creepy, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. I wish you’d reconsider looking over the items he told you about. I really think they could help you with your research on Valoren”

Ben had witnessed the scene the girl referred to—cheerleader-sweet Amber leading his father to a man in a dark overcoat entirely too stifling for Texas weather. From a window in the faculty lounge, he’d watched Paschal exchange a few words with the couple, and then, after looking at some item handed to him by the man, he’d grown agitated. Angry. The skin on his face had reddened as if sunburned and his arms flew as he shouted and stormed away.

Amber had looked terrified during the whole exchange, yet by the time Paschal had returned to his office, he’d calmed down to his usual jaunty self and refused to discuss the matter with his son.

So what was new?

Ben had made it his business to track down Amber Stranton and question her about the situation. She’d been tight-lipped, mentioning only that her cousin had been interested in some Gypsy hideaway his father had been researching. Without mentioning Valoren by name, Amber had invoked a sore topic between Paschal and Ben. He’d warned her off broaching the topic again with Paschal, and yet, she’d called his private, unlisted home number. This couldn’t be good.

His father, despite all signs to the contrary, was not going to live forever—especially not with added stress. Ben turned left onto a side street and tapped on the accelerator until the car reached a fast but manageable speed. In less than five minutes, he found himself in front of Paschal’s house. Seconds later, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The security pad at the end of the driveway, which, once coded, would allow him past the iron gates, had been smashed to bits.

Grabbing his phone, Ben dialed the security company. After supplying the correct passwords, Ben listened as the service rep rattled off details about receiving a signal the night before indicating a problem at the address, but a call to Paschal had stopped any further investigation.

“How do you know it was really him?” Ben asked, his heart shoving its way up his esophagus even as it attempted to pound out of his chest through his ribs.

“He gave us the correct codes, sir. Should I alert the police?”

“Yes,” Ben replied, his stomach as hard as stone.

He should have checked on his father earlier. Friday was the old man’s day off, and since he was a notorious night owl, he preferred to sleep in. Ben normally didn’t stop by to check on him until late afternoon, a practice waylaid by one Catalina Reyes.

And anyone who made note of Paschal’s routine would know that, wouldn’t they?

Was she connected?

“Are you inside the residence?” the rep asked.

“Not yet,” he answered.

“Please stay outside until the authorities arrive. We don’t want any con—”

Ben disconnected the call, switched the phone from ringer to vibrate and shoved it in his pocket. Retrieving the gun, he approached the gates behind the cover of his car and, using his key, gained access to the property.

Everything looked relatively normal, though the setting sun cast elongated shadows across the carefully tended lawn and gardens. His father didn’t have much time for a life outside of his research and travels, but he insisted on keeping a neat yard—a holdover from Ben’s mother, who never started a morning at their chateau in France without puttering in her flower beds before breakfast.

After creeping up the wraparound porch, he found the front door not only unlocked, but open a few inches. Again, the security alarm had been disengaged. No lights—green, red or otherwise—blinked on the control panel. Ben pushed the door completely open and called out his father’s name.

His voice echoed across the entryway. Leading with his gun, Ben moved into the house as stealthily as possible. While ornate and usually well kept, the house had been turned upside down. Cushions and books vied with carpets for spots on the floor. Statues were overturned and swept aside. Luckily, his father’s place wasn’t overly large. In two minutes, Ben knew the bottom floor was deserted, with no sign of his father anywhere. And if his instincts proved correct, nothing was missing.

“Do you know how to use that thing?”

Instantly, he spun toward the voice, then pulled up on the gun, aiming the barrel toward the ceiling. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see Ms. Reyes standing in the doorway, her arms folded beneath her ample breasts.

“Do you have a death wish?” he asked.

“You don’t seem the type to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“You’ve known me for, what, five minutes? I could be a serial killer.”

“Not with that dimple,” she replied.

Instinctively, Ben touched the indentation on his chin. He hated that dimple.

“I believe Ted Bundy had dimples,” he snapped.

She slipped into the house and boldly swiped a finger over the depression on his jawline. “Trust me, I’ve met a few serial killers. You, sir, are no serial killer. But I am wondering why a pedantic graduate student is packing a .357 magnum with his pocket protectors.”

Graduate student? He had his PhD. Two of them, actually.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She set her briefcase down beside the door and extended her hand forcefully, ignoring both his weapon and the upturned state of the house. Ben glanced up the stairs, uncertain what he’d find there, though he was nearly sure the house was deserted. Either that, or his father was. . .

“Catalina Reyes. I’m a paranormal investigator.” Absently, Ben gave her a nod, unwilling to part with his weapon simply to exchange pleasantries.

“Ben Rousseau.
Dr
. Ben Rousseau,” he said unabashedly. “Paschal is my father. Perhaps you should wait outside until I’m sure it’s safe here. Obviously, someone came in uninvited.”

“And left in a hurry. There are ruts in the driveway. Looks like they were put there by a rather heavy vehicle, too.”

Ben kept his eyes on the staircase, hoping for a sign of life. “What are you, CSI?”

“No, but in my line of work, it pays to be observant. And I’m totally addicted to cop shows on television. Speaking of cops, shouldn’t you call them instead of running around like David Caruso?”

“The security company has alerted the authorities, but I need to see if my father is safe. He was supposed to be home, catching up on reading. Relaxing. There’s no sign of him. Stay here.”

Catalina surprised him by closing her eyes for five long seconds. When she opened them, a relative calmness darkened her eyes from dark chocolate to complete and utter blackness. “He’s not here.”

“And you know that, how?”

“Just call it instinct.”