Phantom Pleasures: Sexy Paranormal (Book 1, Phantom Series) (20 page)

“Of course,” Jacob replied.

“You have the necklace back, right?” Keith asked.

Jacob swallowed hard and lied through his teeth. “Absolutely.”

Keith paused before disconnecting but gave no other indication that he suspected an untruth. Jacob had to trust that Alexa hadn’t truly lost the necklace. Knowing his stepsister as he did, he knew she’d find it. Alexa didn’t leave valuables lying around. Ever.

And yet, despite Keith’s cluelessness, Jacob was left in his office with an empty pit for a stomach and a serious case of the shakes. He’d gotten himself in deep this time, deeper than ever before. And the only way he was going to survive was to pull himself out on top.

To do that, certain things would have to be sacrificed. Certain people.

But not him. He’d worked too hard, too long, to let opportunity slip away now.

***

“One mewl and it will be your last, cat,” Damon declared the second the ghostly beast poofed into Rogan’s drawing room. The room of his entrapment. With the curtains drawn, he’d lost track of how long he’d been sitting on the wing chair with the sorcerer’s cloak curved just behind his ear, the plush rugs and velvet trappings of his old enemy pressing in on his consciousness. He imagined he could smell the foul stench of his rival in the fabric. A rival he’d once admired. A rival he’d once hoped to learn from. Damon had been well traveled and immensely educated, but Rogan’s life experiences made Damon a churl in contrast.

Now Damon was getting his wish—he was becoming Rogan. Angry. Arrogant. Uncontrollable. Obsessed with fulfilling his own needs without concern about the consequences to others.

The flesh of his palms still sizzled with unused magic. The dark evil that had spawned the magic now infected him, and yet, he had no more means to free himself of the magic’s effects than he did to dispel Rogan’s curse. He’d tripped into a cycle of impossible choices, and hours of grappling with the contradictions left him no closer to discovering a solution.

Without the ability to re-create the castle, he’d never find the secret to free himself of the curse. Yet the more he utilized Rogan’s legacy, the more he lost himself to the evil.

The cat ignored his warning and meowed softly. The beast leaped onto a squat tuffet near the hearth, padded in a wide circle, then curled in the center and eyed him warily. Its thick tail flicked up and down of its own accord, and the feline’s amber eyes bored through him mercilessly.

Damon fought to keep his rage in check. Instead, he engaged in a staring contest with the cat, wondering what knowledge existed behind those mysterious golden orbs. He’d always suspected the animal was more than just a companion to Rogan. Ever since Damon’s first visit to Rogan’s residence in London, the beast managed to turn up whenever Rogan spoke of the Gypsies. Damon had once suspected the cat was more curious about the Romani than the man who kept him as a pet.

Perhaps the cat wasn’t a cat at all. More like. . .a familiar?

Damon eased off the chair and stalked stealthily toward the animal, who seemed unalarmed by his drawing closer. Its tail continued to swish to and fro, its eyes staring intensely, its ears perked, but its body perfectly still.

Reaching the tuffet, Damon knelt on the floor and met the cat stare to stare.

“You know, don’t you?” he asked.

The cat remained completely still. Except for the tail.

“You heard his curses. You know his secrets. Why, then, would he trap you? Deny you access to the next life? Except, perhaps, to bestow you with immortality?”

The cat raised its paw and took a long, purposeful lick.

Damon turned on his knees and dropped to the ground. Was this what he’d been reduced to? Trying to extract information from an animal? Still, if this cat held the secret he sought, it certainly wasn’t going to tell him. He’d done nothing but snap at the feline since its first appearance in his portrait prison so many years ago.

Perhaps this could change?

Damon turned again and, closing his eyes, used a tiny bit of magic to conjure a plate of freshly smoked and salted herring. The cat stopped its grooming and stretched its neck to sniff at the plate.

Damon grinned. “Interested?”

The cat stretched its paws forward, seemingly to elongate its spine, but its paws touched nearer and nearer to the plate.

He tugged the pewter serving tray aside.

“It’s yours, cat. But for a price.”

The cat bounced onto all four paws and let out a protesting howl.

Damon shook his head. “Sorry, but there is a price to be paid.”

A price to be paid
.

The words crashed back at him with an ocean of meaning. Only two people on this earth would care if Damon’s pursuit of freedom turned him evil. He was one. A gentleman of honor, Damon understood that there were times when ruthlessness was unavoidable, when self-preservation or the protection of the family demanded excessive means. But never in his life had he sought revenge or retribution without cause. He had to hope. . .he had to
pray
. . .that no matter what magical blackness swam though his veins, he could resist the total annihilation of his soul.

Then there was Alexa. Damon had meant his initial seduction of the woman to be nothing more than a means to an end—a pleasurable way to ensure that she assisted in his quest to be free from the castle and achieve permanent corporeal form. But while his goal hadn’t changed, his emotions toward her had. Even under the influence of Rogan’s magic, he acknowledged the great pain and loss she’d suffered in her lifetime. The death of her mother when she was just a child. The tragic demise of her father in an accident that had nearly killed her as well. She cared deeply for her stepbrother, but her love existed with a certain cynicism Damon could hardly understand, since he’d loved both Rafe and Sarina, his half siblings, with just as much ferocity as he had his full-blooded brothers. Alexa was cautious with her feelings, but kind. She possessed all the qualities he’d searched for in his wife and mistresses but had never truly found.

And yet his anger with her before dawn had been both without true merit and all-consuming. Only by removing himself from her presence had he kept from lashing out in ways that, in retrospect, made his stomach turn.

Is this how Rogan had felt toward Sarina, all those years ago? He thought of the broken necklace. The torn charm. Had Rogan ripped it from his sister’s neck in anger as Damon had from Alexa’s? Had the blackguard sorcerer, with mercenaries closing in, struck out at his sister with murder in his heart instead of the love he’d once professed?

The cat made short work of the fish. Purring contentedly, it strode to Damon and pressed its flattened face against his. The moment it did, his brain burst with an image. Tiles. No. Mosaic. Intricate puzzles of glass and ceramic that formed artistic renderings like no other.

Rogan had been particularly proud of his, themed with tales of Gypsy legend and lore. Why hadn’t Damon remembered? Why hadn’t he recalled? He could not remember the exact locations of the mosaics, but he’d conjure them sufficiently. . .once he called upon the magic.

“Here’s your necklace, repaired as you requested.”

Alexa looked up from the cost projections and for the first time this morning made eye contact with her assistant, Rose. She closed the report and focused on the young woman standing so eagerly in front of her.

“Thank you, Rose.”

“The jeweler said the necklace looked very old. Is it a family heirloom, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Alexa slipped the magical charm into the pocket of the bag she’d take with her later to the island. “Definitely a family heirloom.”

Just not her family.

“It’s very unusual,” the young woman said, her voice haunting.

“You have no idea.”

Rose glanced at her watch. “Is there anything else, Ms. Chandler?”

Alexa stopped to think. Her world had resumed the calm, focused pace she’d grown accustomed to, likely because Rose had hopped the first plane to Florida with her highly organized and irreplaceable skills packed in a single carry-on suitcase. Alexa had nearly succumbed to the madness of discovering first the castle and then the ghost inside, especially after Damon’s strange behavior this morning. But by logging a full day’s work, she now felt surprisingly refreshed and balanced. In her element.

Crown Chandler meant the world to her. It was her world. Was that sad or incredibly lucky?

“How long have you been with Crown Chandler?” Alexa asked.

Rose’s eyes widened. Her eyes were blue. Had Alexa ever noticed that before?

“Excuse me?”

Alexa stacked the cost projections atop the collection of files on the polished teak desk Rose had had delivered to her suite-turned-office and wondered how often, if ever, she smiled at her assistant. Sure, she said her “pleases” and “thank-yous.” Her father had drilled the polite words into her everyday speech since before she’d uttered her first full sentence. But did she make it a habit to look Rose in the eye when she spoke to her, or was she too distracted by her computer, her BlackBerry, her reports, files and phone calls?

She pushed the papers away from her and folded her hands gently on her desk. “How long have you been working for me?”

“Two years, ma’am.”

Two years. Two years and Alexa had no idea how old Rose was, if she was seeing anyone or, heck, if she was married. Did she have children? A mother she took care of? A father who came over to her apartment to fix broken pipes? Heck, did she live in an apartment or did she own a house?

“Is there something wrong?” Rose asked.

Alexa leaned back and exhaled deeply. So she wasn’t good at interpersonal relationships. Wasn’t like she didn’t have any. There was Cat. Jacob. The members of her upper-management team. She knew all sorts of things about them. Of course, that was more for security reasons than for friendship. Still, the fact that her assistant had been running her office like clockwork for two whole years without Alexa knowing more about her was inexcusable.

“Nothing a chat wouldn’t fix.” She gestured toward the chair in front of her desk.

Rose eyed her warily. Poised, efficient and smart, Rose reflected the best of Crown Chandler. Alexa wrote Rose’s performance reviews in appropriately glowing terms and gave her regular raises and bonuses, but she couldn’t remember ever telling the woman in clear and simple terms that she appreciated all her hard work.

“I’m sorry you had to come down to Florida on such short notice,” Alexa offered. “Flight okay?”

Rose’s mouth dropped open, and she snapped closed the PDA in her hand while she hesitantly made her way to the chair. She didn’t sit down immediately.

“Flight was very nice,” Rose answered. “The first-class ticket was a nice treat, thank you. And the suite down the hall? It’s breathtaking. Bigger than my apartment.”

Alexa smiled, relieved. Okay, so she wasn’t the twenty-first-century equivalent of Leona Helmsley. Her usually guarded employee was gushing. Gushing was good. Still, there was so much she didn’t know.

“Do you have family in Chicago? Someone we should consider bringing down here while you work?”

Rose shook her head and finally lowered herself into the chair. “No, just my cat. I have a friend watching her while I’m away.”

“Cat? I like cats,” Alexa said. Even ghostly ones with spooky amber eyes and a master who despised him. A master who’d threatened her and her workers with enough conviction that she was chatting with an employee rather than confronting the man, er, phantom, who could waylay her.

“I’m sorry you had to leave your pet,” Alexa lamented. “Please let me know if you need help with a pet sitter or boarding. It’s really not fair that I dragged you down here with no notice.”

Rose’s smile was shy but genuine. “I don’t mind, Ms. Chandler. I think this project is extremely exciting. A castle! Imagine. What little girl doesn’t pretend she’s Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty at some point?”

A jolt of enthusiasm shot through Alexa, reminding her of why she’d originally set her life in Chicago aside to fly to Florida and explore this dream. This. . .fantasy.

“Let’s hope scores of people will be willing to pay premium rates to stay in an old castle without having to whip out a passport.”

Rose had leaned forward, her tone eager. “Ooh, I think they will.”

Ambition glimmered within the soft blue depths of Rose’s eyes, and Alexa wondered how much else she’d missed about her assistant. “Let me ask you, Rose. Where do you see yourself with Chandler. . .in the next five years, say?”

Suddenly, Rose’s posture snapped straight. She didn’t answer immediately, which even Alexa noticed was completely out of character.

“I’m blindsiding you with these questions, aren’t I?”

Rose swallowed deeply. “No, I mean, yes. I mean. . .I’ve always wanted to have this conversation with you. I really love working for you, Ms. Chandler—”

Alexa coughed to hide her snort. She couldn’t imagine anyone loving anything about working for her. She supposed she was a fair employer who paid well, but she was also distant and unobservant. She’d never realized. Not truly. Not until Damon had forced her to feel things she hadn’t since her accident. Not just sexual desire and pleasure, but empathy and fear. Even the triumphs she’d experienced at work and the loss of her father had been dulled by the walls she’d built around her heart. She hated to admit, even if only to herself, how this phantom of a man had somehow invigorated her hunger for life.

She’d been so sure after her accident that her love of living had pushed her through the surgeries, the therapy, the pain. Now she realized she’d simply been too programmed for success to do anything besides live.

Now she wanted more. She wanted love. In all forms.

“—design really interests me.”

Of course, she could start by listening attentively to her employees when they were finally pouring out their hopes and dreams at her urging.

“What perfect timing, then,” she declared. “We’ll only have a skeleton crew on this project for the time being, until the logistics and materials are in place. Mainly, we’ll be planning the furnishings and the layout. If you’d like, I’ll have you work closely with the design team.”

Rose’s face blossomed, and she managed—barely—to contain a squeal of delight. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”

“No, Rose. Thank you. This project, if handled correctly, will be magical. I’m sure of it.”

Alexa glanced out the ceiling-to-floor picture window behind her and realized the sky was darkening. Soon, Damon would be solid again. She had no idea if he was still in the same foul mood as he had been this morning, but she couldn’t imagine letting a night pass with such animosity between them. Besides, she had a little more than a week to calm him down before the first team of workers descended on the castle. She understood his anger, felt for his dilemma—but she still had her own goals to fulfill.

“Let’s meet tomorrow morning around ten,” she told Rose as she stood to leave the office. “I’ll tell you what I envision and you can bring my ideas to the designers.”

Rose practically floated across the room, the vividness of her smile rivaling the colors now streaking across the sky. “Thank you, Ms. Chandler.”

“Please,” she said, wondering why she hadn’t insisted on less formality sooner, “call me Alexa.”

Rose’s ears perked. “The document is finished printing,” she announced, beelining toward the outer office.

Alexa stood and listened while Rose retrieved the papers from the printer. “What document?”

“The one Ms. Reyes sent in the encrypted file.”

Ten minutes later, Alexa held a spiral-bound copy of Sarina Forsyth’s diary in her hands. And two hours after that, she was headed back to her island, the leverage she needed to assuage Damon tucked tightly in her backpack.

***

With a flashlight clutched in her hands, Alexa pushed her way through the palmetto bushes that blocked the path from the wall to the front door of the castle. She’d just had the plants chopped aside the day before, but apparently, they regrew rather quickly. Either that or Damon was manipulating the magic in order to keep her out.

As if some ancient Gypsy curse could stop her.

She kept her flashlight aimed directly in front of her, focused on the front door, ignoring all the creepy crawlies inside the plants and vines around her. Behind her, the buzz of the retreating boat engine competed with the whine of the mosquitoes swarming through the air. She quickened her pace, cursing the fact that she hadn’t thought to include bug spray with her supplies. Oh, well. She wouldn’t remain outside for long.

She jogged up the steps and pulled the latch, yelping when the lock did not yield.

“Damon!” she called, banging her fist on the thick door. “Let me in.”

Silence whistled into the trees and rolled off the palm fronds, then echoed into the ocean swirling on the other side of the wall. Darkness had descended all around her, though jewel-toned light glowed bright behind the castle’s stained-glass windows. He was inside, of course. Denying her entrance.

Well, she’d just see about that.

She put down her backpack and from the pocket withdrew Sarina’s necklace. Only Rose could have gotten the chain fixed so quickly. Alexa fastened the jewelry behind her neck, took a deep breath and tried the latch again.

Nothing.

“Damon!”

She banged on the door, but then realized that even if he wanted to let her in, perhaps he could not. In fact, judging by his last attempt at escaping his prison, he’d likely stay as far away from the exit as possible.

So, how did she get in the first time? And the second?

Closing her eyes, Alexa concentrated on the night before. She’d been drawn to the castle because of Damon, because of a powerful lust that drove her to ignore all reason, all logic. All caution. She’d craved entrance to the castle more than anything else.

And on the morning she’d first come in, she’d also been driven by the intense need to find the man in the window, the ghost whose hand had passed through the window without cracking the glass. Both times, she’d wanted not just entrance to the house but access to the man inside.

Tonight, her motives had been skewed away from wanting either Damon the man or Damon the phantom. She’d simply wanted entrance to her castle. Her anger with him over his attitude this morning had tempered her desire, forcing her to focus more on manipulating him rather than seducing him.

Maybe that’s where she went wrong?

Alexa dug deeper into her bag, this time retrieving the filmy lingerie she’d purchased in the hotel’s boutique. Without a thought to the blood-sucking bugs buzzing around her, she undressed and slipped into the gown. The slinky silk slid down her body, igniting every nerve ending with anticipation for when Damon spied her in this sleek black confection. The dark color highlighted her pale skin and the cut emphasized the curves in her breasts and hips. She ran her fingers through her hair, which she’d loosened during the trip from the mainland, and loved the windblown feel of it. How would Damon resist a woman whose entire body thrummed with need?

Licking her lips expectantly, Alexa touched the latch. This time, it pushed open with oiled ease.

She dragged her bag inside, retrieved the diary, and then slammed the door behind her. She looked up and gasped.

While she’d expected Damon, she’d been wholly unprepared to see him standing in the archway to her left, scarlet banners edged in shimmering gold unfurling behind him from the beams crisscrossing the forty-foot ceiling of the dining hall. He was breathtaking in his snug breeches, polished boots and stark white shirt. She swallowed deeply even as her body shook with intensified arousal.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his volume low but his voice thunderous.

She crossed the distance between the entryway and the hall, the copy of the diary hanging loose at her side, as if unimportant.

“This is my castle,” she replied. “I’ll come here whenever I damned well please.”

With nothing but a sideways glance and a smirk, he turned back into the hall. “Then you are a fool.”

Well, that wasn’t the greeting she was expecting, was it? Nonetheless, she followed him deeper into the room, which he’d clearly been rebuilding with the aid of Rogan’s magic. On the wall between two room-sized fireplaces, a thousand tiny tiles scrambled in the air, adhering to the stone randomly or hovering and darting, as if searching for their proper places.