Phantom Pleasures: Sexy Paranormal (Book 1, Phantom Series) (14 page)

“Ghosts?” he asked skeptically. He’d seen odd things back in his adventurous days, but not much pointing to the existence of spirits of the dead.

“Alexa thinks so, but I have my doubts.”

“Well, ghosts didn’t kidnap my father and leave drops of his blood on the driveway. Tell me precisely what you know about Valoren.”

“Only that it is a legendary gypsy safe haven. There seems to be no definitive documentation, either modern or historical, that proves the place ever existed. According to my research, if Valoren was real, there is nothing left, artifact-wise, to give us any information.”

Ben shook his head, glancing at the detritus surrounding them. His father had gotten himself into a serious mess by keeping his knowledge and research about Valoren a secret. The time to bring things out into the open was now. He could send her away and get down to the real business of breaking his father’s code of silence. Or he could join forces with the determined and knowledgeable—not to mention psychic—Ms. Reyes and perhaps find his father before the old man met his maker at the hands of obvious thugs.

“Well, that part certainly isn’t true,” he said.

“What part?”

“That nothing is left. Look around you, Ms. Reyes. I suspect that everything you see here is connected to Valoren in some way.”

“Why?”

“My father’s entire life has been one long obsession with the place, though he worked hard to keep it all a secret from me for reasons I can’t begin to explain. He admitted, to others, that the so-called Gypsy safe haven was cursed. From what I gathered from his colleagues, sometime in the eighteenth century, the entire community vanished, along with everyone who lived there. All that was left were knickknacks and furnishings he found in private collections, secondhand shops and antiques stores all over Europe. Men of my father’s ilk aren’t the types to believe in curses and magic, but Paschal has always spoken with utter certainty that black magic exists. Yet despite his dire warnings of danger, he’s persisted in his quest to locate as many items associated with Valoren as he can. That’s why he’s never allowed me on his junkets. Why he never wants me to stay in his house with him or linger too long over his personal possessions. And judging from what’s happened today, I’d say his luck at remaining free of the Valoren curse finally ran out.”

Catalina waited, silent, marveling at what Ben had admitted so far. “Guarded” didn’t begin to describe the man’s aura, and yet she felt certain he’d told her everything he knew—or close to it. He didn’t trust easily. Wise man. But he trusted her. Also wise.

“Do you think the police will find your father?”

“I have no idea, but look around. The people who took my father want something, something I don’t think they found. I don’t know how much time my father has if he doesn’t give them what they want.”

“It could just be a robbery. For money. Maybe someone followed him home from the grocery store and wanted bank codes or some such.”

Ben shook his head. “The police found Paschal’s checkbook upstairs. My father doesn’t keep financial information for his accounts in Europe here in the house. It’s at the university office. And the police already contacted security at our building on campus. Nothing was disturbed after I left.”

“Maybe it’s a disgruntled student,” she hypothesized.

Impatience flared in his eyes, but Ben managed to keep his tone even.

“Students with As aren’t disgruntled. The only disgruntled student he’s had has been the one whose cousin wanted information about Valoren.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I’m his assistant. Students talk to me before they talk to him. And the only clue we have is the phone call from Amber. In a situation like this, it’s best to have a working hypothesis. And so far, Valoren is the best we have.”

Exhaling loudly, Ben turned toward Cat, his knees knocking against hers. The contact jolted her, but she fought not to react, not to slide away. The atmosphere in the room instantly changed, just, like the emotion in his eyes. Where moments ago his gray eyes reflected guarded trust, now the curtains fell.

“It’s time to look for his secret room, and you’re going to help me.”

“What?”

Ben hopped over the mangled artifacts and locked the front door. Extending his hand, he invited Cat to join him, which she did, slipping her fingers into his grasp even though she certainly could have maneuvered through the mess without his assistance. The vibrations of Ben’s skin on hers provided ample reward. For a split second, she forgot why she was here.

“Since he moved to Texas, I’ve believed my father has a secret room somewhere in the house. Maybe the clues we need to find him are there,” he said, guiding her toward the stairs.

“Why would you think your father would go to such an extreme?”

“We had several hidden rooms in the chateau in France where I grew up, places even my mother wasn’t allowed to go. I wasn’t even supposed to know about them, but I was an only child and keenly observant, though ridiculously discreet. I grew up shuttled between New York and France. In Manhattan, we had a brownstone with at least one secret room, and my father was very particular when he shopped for real estate here in Austin. He wanted the oldest house possible. I always suspected there was something about this place he was hiding.”

“Just because he appreciates lasting workmanship doesn’t mean he has a secret room.”

“No,” he agreed, stopping as they reached the second-floor landing, “but look around. The layout of the house is strange, isn’t it? And there have been times when I couldn’t find my father anywhere, but then he’d suddenly show up. He’s a wily old guy, but even I don’t believe he has the power to disappear and reappear at will.”

“You’ve never looked for the room?”

Ben frowned wryly. “Of course I looked. But not with much enthusiasm. Mild curiosity isn’t a good enough reason to break trust with a parent. But now? Now we need to tear this place apart.”

Since Ben reported that he’d most often found his father in the small upstairs study after his unexplained disappearances, they started their search there. Following the dictates of every spooky movie they’d ever seen, they began by pulling back the tops of the spines of the hardcover books lining the shelves in the cramped space. Nothing happened. They worked the wall sconces next, then tilted paintings and fiddled with the hardware inside the fireplace. Ben’s frown deepened from annoyance to chagrin. He stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, emphasizing the slimness of his waist, hinting at a swagger she’d bet her shrunken head collection would taunt her mercilessly as long as they remained in the same room, pursuing the same goal.

“Any ideas?”

Cat concentrated, trying to locate a vibration within the room that would point them in the right direction. If Paschal Rousseau had been in his secret room, hiding, she might have been able to locate the entrance. Her talents leaned more toward sensing people and their thoughts than finding objects or locations, and even then, her skills were rusty. Concentrating on debunking or proving other people’s paranormal powers had forced the development of her own powers to the backseat.

Hell, more like to the trunk.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got nothing. Maybe we should start looking in another part of the house.”

Ben whipped off his glasses, nearly causing Catalina to dissolve into a puddle of utterly charmed female right there. Luckily for her, she had excellent control over her body. Or at least, she had until she’d met Ben Rousseau.

“No, it’s here. I’ve always known it’s here, but respecting my father’s privacy is something I’ve been taught since birth.”

“Is your father secretive?”

Ben snorted. “He invented the concept. My mother never questioned him, never challenged him, so I never did either. Now my politeness could cost him in ways I don’t want to think about.”

Standing stationary in the middle of the room, Catalina looked around one more time, clearing her mind of her emotions and concentrating only on what she saw with her eyes—a skill she’d perfected in her job. Grabbing Ben’s hand, she guided him to the doorway, so they could see the whole room unimpeded.

The chandelier caught her eye immediately. Wrought from cast iron, the light fixture resembled twisted tree branches. Crystals cut like raindrops dangled just underneath each pointed lightbulb. Turning her head to the side, she noticed that while most of the crystals sparkled, one did not. One was muted.

With fingerprints.

“There!” she said.

She pointed to her discovery, and Ben’s eyes widened in instant recognition. He strode forward and, after a fortifying glance toward her, tugged on the crystal.

The panel in the wall beside them slid open silently. Barely a whoosh rent the air.

“You’ve got good instincts,” she complimented.

“On par with your eyes?”

“Sometimes you just need an objective observer and a new perspective.”

“Right now, what we need is a flashlight.”

Which they found just a foot from the panel, sitting on a nearby shelf. The gleam from the light was slightly dim. “Needs new batteries,” Ben commented.

Cat arched a brow. “Afraid of the dark?”

With a glare, he squeezed into the dark corridor, undoubtedly built for one person. The thought of climbing in after him shot a thrill through Cat that wasn’t exactly unwelcome. On the surface, Ben Rousseau was so not her type. Slightly nerdy. Superior attitude. Driven by a blind devotion to a father who was, at the very least, secretive and, more than likely, emotionally cut off from his child. But he was incredibly good-looking, and his hidden adventurous streak appealed to her on a very deep, very personal level—a level that usually, if not always, led her into trouble.

She stepped into the darkness, feeling around with her hands while her eyes adjusted to the lack of ligh. “Not a cobweb in sight,” she whispered. “Your father must be very meticulous.”

“He has his moments,” Ben said, his voice deep and surprisingly sensual when echoing off the thick wood panels that lined the passageway. In the enclosed space, Ben’s scent, rich with the aroma of freshly tanned leather and sandalwood, assailed Cat mercilessly, especially when paired with the warmth of his hand curled around hers as he guided her in the relative darkness. Fortunately, the secret hallway wasn’t long, and in seconds, Ben opened a door that led into a surprisingly well-lit room, only slightly larger than the den they’d just left.

And similarly decorated. Books lined the shelves, though these were decidedly older, or at least in less pristine shape than the ones displayed in his study. Tapestries covered every wall, two and three deep. Portraits and paintings, mostly done in oil on canvas, and likely by the same artist, leaned against every available surface. The only clear space was on a small desk lit by a colorful Tiffany lamp.

“He’s been here recently,” Cat commented, running her hand over the surface of the desk. In temperature, the polished teak was cool, but in psychic vibrations, the wood simmered with a familiar warmth, similar—if not identical—to the tremors she’d felt when she’d held the flute.

“How recently?” Ben asked.

Cat slapped a thin layer of dust off her hands. “I’m not sure. It’s so strange to be with someone who believes in my powers, maybe even a little more than I do.”

“Like I said,” he replied, “I’ve been around the block. Before I started holing up in my father’s office as his glorified gopher, anyway.”

Regret laced his tone, piquing Cat’s interest. Crossing her arms over her chest, she watched him as he stalked around the room, assessing carefully, not touching anything until he had the lay of the land. He had the instincts of a cop. His hands hovered at his sides, as if he itched to disturb the crime scene but had the self-control to resist.

“What did you used to do?” she asked.

Ben turned his face into the shadows. “Let’s just say that I took my father’s interest in antiquities in a slightly different direction than academia.”

The wry lilt in his voice, not to mention his elusiveness, turned her suppositions down a dark path. Not a cop. A criminal.

“You were a smuggler?” One swipe with a feather would have knocked Cat right off her feet.

When he faced her again, his gray eyes reflected a dash of unexpected charm. “ ‘Smuggler’ is an ugly word. Let’s just say I was in the import-export business.”

“With an emphasis on export,” she quipped.

He didn’t deny it, but he did have the grace to change the subject.

“You said you were a paranormal researcher. I suppose you must be more used to dealing with skeptics when it comes to your psychic ability.”

Cat poked into the drawers of the desk, all of which were unlocked except for one. “Actually, no. Usually, I’m the skeptic. Very few of the people who put themselves ‘out there’ as mediums actually have any talent that isn’t explainable by heightened intuition. For all I know, that’s where my talents lie. I don’t use them enough to know for sure.”

Ben lifted one of the tapestries and extracted file folders that had been stacked on a chair behind the fabric. “Really? Why not?”

“A psychic who relies too much on her gift can become a slave to it. I’ve seen it happen!”

Cat waited for Ben to press further, but luckily he seemed caught up in the files and lost interest in her personal admission. Since the people she dealt with daily either didn’t know about her talent or, like Alexa, preferred not to believe in it completely, this wasn’t a discussion she’d had many times before. Mostly, extolling the evils of ignoring her powers was a lecture she endured from her grandparents. At least, until
Grandpère
died and Yela, her grandmother, succumbed to the ravages of Alzheimer’s.

In the largest drawer at the bottom of the desk, she found a thick bound manuscript, Flipping through, she discovered a collection of hand-drawn calendars dating back to the seventeen hundreds. Most pages were blank, except for a few penciled-in notations along the lines of “painting,
Schooner at Dawn
, Damon, Versailles at Antronique’s,” most written after 1946. A quick flip through the paintings stacked near the door revealed a rendition of a two-masted ship with three billowing sails, each reflecting the oranges and pinks of the sunrise. Paschal Rousseau must have found the painting in Versailles at a shop named Antronique’s in April of 1947, according to his notations. She paged through and found references to hundreds of items. Crockery. Books. Children’s toys. Interestingly, nearly all the paintings were attributed to an artist named Damon, whose work she found compelling, bold and unapologetic.

She replaced the calendars. Then, tucked into a cubby, she found another book. A catalog. Hundreds of photographs of swords, with information jotted on the back. The location of origin. The type of metal. The current collector and asking price.

“Was your father into swords?” she asked.

Ben shrugged. “No more than anything else. Why?”

“Not sure yet,” she replied, replacing the book and wondering about the locked drawer. She checked the most obvious places for a key, then turned to the less obvious. Under the chair or taped to the bottom of another drawer. Inside a vase. Maybe mixed in with the paperclips?

Nothing.

“What did you find?” she asked, noticing he was still wrapped up with the files.

“Maps.”

“Of?”

“Looks like Germany.”

“You were born in Europe, right?”

Ben shook his head. “Actually, no. I was born here in the States when my mother and father were visiting old friends from the Resistance.”