Phantom Pleasures: Sexy Paranormal (Book 1, Phantom Series) (15 page)

“The French Resistance?”

“None other. My mother’s delivery was difficult, so my father bought an apartment in Manhattan and we lived there until I was nearly a year old. Then we returned to Paris. We lived between the two places for most of my childhood.”

“And Germany?”

Ben’s face skewed with deep thought. “I’ve been, but not with my father, though he traveled there quite a bit. He never took us with him, and after my mother died, he never went back.”

“How long ago was that?”

Cat tried not to notice how Ben pursed his lips when concentrating. His fascinating mouth drew her attention more than warranted, and she couldn’t help suspecting that Alexa’s romantic notions about her mysterious ghost had rubbed off on her. But Ben’s eyes—reflecting both a wild curiosity and a tempered worry—snared her as effectively as a metal noose. “Ben?”

He answered without meeting her eyes. “Too long ago. What’s the deal with that drawer?”

He tossed the files back onto the chair, flipped the tapestry down and joined her at the desk. Bending on one knee, he examined the drawer carefully, running his fingers over the lock and around the handle before giving it a firm tug. When it remained closed, he pulled harder, but the compartment wouldn’t yield.

“How are you at picking locks?” he asked.

“Rusty,” she replied. “You?”

“About the same. Is there a letter opener or a paper clip on the desk?”

Cat found both, and he worked the tools with precision. She continued to look for a key. Scanning the shelves, she found a title that seemed more worn along the top of the spine than the others, as if it had been handled often. With a tug, she released the book and inside found a cutout in the pages that contained a small gold key.

“I found—”

With a grunt, Ben yanked open the drawer. The letter opener flew into the air. The force of the lock’s release sent him tumbling backward. Cat winced and tried not to laugh.

“Tell me that’s not the key,” he said dryly, climbing to his feet as he swiped at his backside.

She dangled the tiny treasure from the satin ribbon tied to the end.

“Great,” he said. “We’re going to have to synchronize our efforts more effectively next time.”

Cat pressed her lips together and fought down her laughter. God, he was cute. Nerdy, inventive, stubborn, snobby. A collection of qualities that didn’t ordinarily combine into a desirable mix for her, but Ben Rousseau was certainly doing a number on her libido.

She put the key, no longer needed, back in its hiding place. “After our first meeting earlier, I’m surprised you want me around at all.”

Ben’s expression grew utterly serious. His eyes darkened so that the silver rings of his irises contrasted sharply against the intense blackness of his pupils. “I didn’t want you around,” he admitted. “At first, just because you were loud and disturbing my work. But once you mentioned Valoren, I knew I had to get rid of you.”

Her breath caught. All hints of wry humor vanished. He was dead serious.

“Even now?”

He grabbed her by the arms, and the tension in his fingertips fried her nerve endings. His fear for her safety was a palpable, living thing. Powerful. Fierce.

Fear for his father.

Fear for her.

Without letting her go, he glanced at the drawer, now half open. Whatever lay inside was wrapped in bright red tissue paper. Like a gift—a gift that could change them both forever.

“Especially now,” he concluded.

“Why? Because of what might be in that drawer?”

“Yes. I don’t want to be responsible for putting you in danger, too.”

“No one is responsible for me but me.”

His fingers clutched her tighter. “Maybe that was true before, but trust me, it isn’t anymore.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with us?” Alexa asked Jacob, who’d been poring over the rudimentary blueprints and sketches of her castle with surprising concentration for the past twenty minutes.

Alexa, on the other hand, had decided that after four hours of intense meetings—which had been preceded by a surprisingly Damon-free four-hour visit to the island with a crack team of contractors and architects—she preferred to nurse a vodka gimlet rather than look at lines and angles until her eyes blurred. The booze, unfortunately, triggered her reliving all the weirdness that had happened over the past two days. Hell, the past thirty years.

Jacob didn’t look up.

“Jacob?” she asked again.

“What? I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

Alexa grabbed the plans and slid them onto the floor, out of Jacob’s reach.

“I asked if you think there’s anything wrong with us.”

“Us? What do you mean? Are you having second thoughts about this property?”

Shockingly, he sounded disappointed. She’d had the distinct impression that Jacob had been less than enthusiastic about this venture until today. There was something invigorating about standing in the middle of a hollow castle and watching with awe as her experts assessed and brainstormed life into her dream project. She had been so caught up, she’d nearly forgotten about Damon and his plight, as well as what they’d done in the dead of the stormy night on the landing where she’d stood for most of the afternoon.

Nearly, but not quite.

“This isn’t about the property,” she admitted. Jacob arched his eyebrow.

Alexa sighed. “For five minutes, can we not talk or think about business?”

Jacob slid into a chair and reached for the gimlet he’d left untouched for the last hour. “Fine with me. You’re the workaholic, not me.”

“Yeah, I know,” she acknowledged. “I guess being abandoned on that island made me think a bit about my personal life. Or lack thereof. And yours, too. I mean, we’re two wealthy, attractive, interesting adults. Why aren’t we attached?”

“To each other?” His other eyebrow had now beat the first in curving ability.

She chuckled at the absurdity. “No, thank you. We may not be related by blood, but you’re still my brother whether you like it or not.”

He took a dainty sip. “I plead the fifth.”

“Smart strategy. Look, be serious, Jacob. Why aren’t you married?”

He made a face as if the vodka in his drink had suddenly gone rancid. “I’m not the marrying type. Lord, Alexa. What’s gotten into you? And since when have you been interested in my personal life?”

Especially since his breakup with Cat, the topic of who Jacob slept with and why had become completely off-limits. And she couldn’t really remember Jacob showing any interest whatsoever in the men she brought home, so long as they were independently wealthy and weren’t wooing her into bed as a means to access her bank accounts. But without Cat here or even reachable by phone to kick around her problems with, who else did she have? At least she knew Jacob cared about what happened to her. Everyone else in her life pretty much looked at her as the signature on their paycheck and nothing more.

“Who do you discuss your personal life with?” she asked.

“No one. I’m a guy. We prefer action over discussion.”

She nodded. This much was true, judging by Damon’s delicious actions the night before.

“Shouldn’t you be talking about this crap with that weirdo ex of mine? As much as I think the woman is entirely a fraud, you seem to like her well enough.”

“She got your number rather quickly.”

He sneered. “All the more reason for me to despise her.”

“And the feeling is mutual on her part, so at least you have one nonfamilial relationship in your life that is an emotional match.”

“Bully for me.” This time, Jacob’s sip wasn’t dainty at all. In a thick swallow, he downed the rest of the vodka and lime concoction and reached for the pitcher room service had delivered an hour ago, along with the crudités they hadn’t touched.

“I’m serious,” Alexa insisted.

“I get that,” he said, popping a grape tomato into his mouth and chewing. “I also get that since Madam Morose is not available to you, you’re installing me as your personal Dr. Phil. I should point out here that with your bank account, if you called the real deal, he’d fly here in a heartbeat.”

She stuck out her tongue. She didn’t need a therapist. Yet. She needed a friend. “I just wonder why neither one of us has made a personal attachment with a member of the opposite sex. I mean, our parents loved each other enough to die together.”

Jacob froze, then after a long minute, reached across and patted the top of her hand. “That wasn’t your fault, Alexa. If this is survivor’s guilt talking again, I think you need to call someone with more expertise than mine to work it out.”

She shook her head, though the tightening in her chest belied her denial. But she’d had enough therapy—both mental and physical—to last a lifetime. She’d grown beyond blaming herself for the fact that she’d lived when they’d died. Accidents happened. But the event that should have made her embrace life more fully had instead made her cautious. Except in business. With her father gone, her ambition to not only prove herself but protect the legacy left to her had consumed her.

To the point where she’d ignored every other aspect of her life.

Everything except her fantasies.

“I’m fine,” she assured Jacob when it looked like he was reaching for his cell phone, undoubtedly to give her long-abandoned therapist a call. Or maybe Dr. Phil.

“You sure?”

With a nod, she poured more gimlet for herself and decided that her attempt to draw her stepbrother into an intimate conversation had been a fool’s errand. Jacob’s loyalty to her was something she could pretty much count on, but he did have his limits. And since Cat was still entirely out of touch, she had only one other person she could talk to.

The one person who had caused all this angst in the first place. She should have known that going directly to the source would be her best strategy.

“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” she said.

Jacob nodded, finished his drink, then stood. “Good idea. I’ll call the pilot and make arrangements for us to return to Chicago first thing in the morning.”

Twisting and turning the crystal glass in her hands, Alexa found herself fascinated by the prismed light reflecting onto the polished table. It was like magic, wasn’t it? Magic that fascinated her. Called to her. Unlike the call of returning to her hometown. She loved Chicago, but other than a great big mansion she rarely used and a business that leeched every ounce of her soul out of her, what did she have to go home to?

Clearly, nothing as exciting as what she’d get if she stayed.

“You can go back,” she replied, straightening in her chair as determination coursed through her, replacing the void left by questions and uncertainties and regrets. “I’m talking to the board tomorrow morning via conference call, but I’m sure they’re going to embrace this project once they hear from the architectural and marketing teams. Once that approval goes through, the contractors will need at least a week to assemble the first team of workers for the castle while the architects finalize the plans and the designers start descending on the place needing direction. I’m not dallying with this. Once the word gets out in the press about this new hotel, the buzz will be huge. We need to be ready to go. I’m going to stay behind and supervise the renovation myself.”

Jacob eyed her suspiciously. “Don’t you have some lackey that can handle the mundane details until the real work begins? That assistant of yours, perhaps?”

Alexa stared boldly at her brother. “Of course I do.”

“And what about the crisis in Boston? The police are fairly sure the damage to the generators was sabotage. This is the second incident that we know of. If someone is out to get us—”

“You can handle it,” she interrupted. “You came here seeking something interesting to do, didn’t you? And you’ve handled the Boston situation so far. I don’t see any reason why you can’t continue.”

Jacob scowled. “So you can stay here and supervise construction workers? I know you think you’re hard up for male companionship—”

Alexa cut him off. “This project is important to me. The land is mine. Personally. A gift from my father. I’ll have the hotel manager arrange for office space here first thing in the morning. You can either stay and help, or go back home and take on all that responsibility you’ve been bucking for all these years. Either way, I’m running this show from here.”

Jacob waved his hand at her, as if he’d heard her unbreakable determination before—which he had—and it bored him. “Whatever. You’re impossible to deal with when you have dollar signs in your eyes. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jacob ambled out of the room without another word, which struck Alexa as somewhat odd. Jacob usually wanted to be in the thick of things, just off center of the main action of running the corporation so he could constantly remind people, even if only visually, that he was the heir apparent to the fortune she managed. She wondered briefly how her father had truly felt about that, even if his estate attorney and all documentation proved that Richard Chandler wanted Alexa to teach her stepbrother the ropes. Richard and Jacob had never gotten along, but Richard had loved Jacob’s mother with a passion Alexa had resented as a daughter, but admired as a woman.

She supposed she should outgrow such romantic notions someday, but after last night, Alexa didn’t think she’d be forgetting her fairy-tale fancies anytime soon. No, the only way she was going to move beyond her fascination with Damon and the pleasures he promised was to confront her fantasy directly.

***

He knew the minute she’d entered the castle. The cold chill that had clung to his skin since nightfall evaporated in a wave of warmth, followed by a vibration that shook the air around him and halted the magic he’d been wielding. Dante, the cat, had taken up residence atop a large armoire and now screeched loudly.

“Hush, beast,” he ordered, waving his hand. He’d discovered this afternoon that adding the physical gesture accelerated the magic. As if blown by a concentrated wind, the cat disappeared in a puff of smoke.

From below, Alexa called his name. Even from that distance he could hear the longing in her voice. The need. The fear. He supposed he couldn’t alleviate her suspicions and anxiety. He had no reassurances to offer her. Though not a man considered ruthless during his lifetime, his imprisoned state required him to adopt a new morality. He would employ whatever means necessary to escape the castle. He had to find out if any clue remained that would lead him to his family, even if they’d all since died.

Not knowing would be more torturous than his imprisonment, of that he was certain.

Her voice echoed against the stone as she climbed the stairs. “I’m here,” he called, knowing she’d follow the sound.

A few moments later, she leaned in from the hall, her hands clutching the thick oak door of the room he’d chosen for his first exploration.

He turned, smiled and, with a flourish, showed her what he’d accomplished with only a few hours of work.

Her eyes widened to bright green discs.

“Wow,” she said.

“Is this expression positive?”

“Positively amazing.” She entered the room cautiously, stopping to admire the silk dressing gown curved across the foot of the well-appointed bed he’d conjured only an hour ago. “What is this? A recreation of your bedroom?”

Damon frowned. He had little memory of his own master suite. And of which house? The town home in London? The estate in Cumberland? Or perhaps the home of his boyhood in Valoren, the land of the exiled, the only true home he’d ever known.

“No, a re-creation of Rogan’s. I mean to uncover the mystery of my release. And if I know Rogan, which I did, quite well, he would have kept his secrets close to him. In this castle, if not in this very room.”  Alexa crouched and ran her fingers over the plush pile of the handwoven rug, dropping the bag she carried on the floor near the bed. Rising, she followed the thick lines of the teak bedposts and then palmed the velvet coverlet and satin pillows. Rogan had enjoyed the trappings of luxurious living, as Damon had once. Odd how such details meant little to him any longer, except when Alexa was near. Without uttering a word, she demanded the finest of everything. She might be a common businesswoman in her century, but in his, she’d be a queen.

“This is amazing,” she said, her voice breathy. “How did you remember all the details of Rogan’s private quarters? I can’t imagine you spent a great deal of time here,” she ventured, her voice dipping into suggestive territory that spawned an immediate growl of annoyance.

“I admit I saw the room once or twice. Rogan could be a notorious slugabed when the mood suited him, so he often took visitors in his dressing gown.”

“Still,” she said, cupping a pewter goblet she’d removed from the bedside table, “the detail is glorious.”

Damon nodded with satisfaction. “I could not remember every element of the decor, but the magic could.”

“The magic?”

“The place is rife with it, as you discovered last night. The more I open my mind to the possibilities, the more the magic serves me.”