The Siren's Touch

One touch can change everything…

Hitman Dmitri Lisko is determined to avenge his father. Once he takes out the man he believes is responsible for his family’s tragedies, he’s done killing for good. But a mysterious woman may tempt Dmitri to change his plan.

Sonya Truss was murdered in a Ukrainian village in 1968. Now she’s reappeared in San Francisco as a rusalka—the ghost of a wronged woman. And she’s thirsty for the blood of her killer. But she has to make things right before she’s trapped between worlds forever.

Sonya's enigmatic siren powers stir Dmitri's long-buried chivalry, and he finds himself compelled to help her. He also can’t resist giving her a taste of the pleasures she never experienced while she was alive. Soon they discover that touch has surprising consequences. Yet when their shared mission comes to cross-purposes, they must choose between deadly sacrifice—or surrendering to the one act that can save them both.

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The Siren’s Touch

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Amber Belldene

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

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Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2015 by Amber Belldene

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First Electronic Edition: July 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-695-7

eISBN-10: 1-61650-695-4

First Print Edition: July 2015

ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-696-4

ISBN-10: 1-61650-696-2

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to everyone working to redeem themselves.

I must always begin my acknowledgments with the deepest gratitude to my best friend and first-reader, Emily, whose support and encouragement mean the world to me. I am also grateful to all the writing friends who provided feedback on this story—Celia Breslin, Ally Broadfield, Samantha MacDouglas, Paula Millhouse, Mark Pritchard, and Tricia Skinner.
The Siren's Touch
started as an attempt to write a certain kind of book, and I learned I shouldn’t even aspire to that goal. Sincere thanks to everyone who loved and helped improve the book this became instead.

This book was written before the 2014 conflict between Ukraine and Russia began. I have long been fascinated with countries formerly behind the Iron Curtain. In the research and writing of
The Siren’s Touch
, I grew especially fond of Ukraine and its people, and I hold the sincerest hopes for peace between those two countries.

Just one bullet and it would all be over.

But first Dmitri had to find him.

And for sure, his target wasn’t in there. Dmitri scanned the front of Auntie Elena’s cutesy, forest-green house. He hadn’t seen her since she’d moved to the US all those years ago. She could wait a minute longer.

He patted his chest for his pack of Davidoffs, and shook one free. The dry, toasted odor of unlit tobacco promised some relief. But his lighter hand shook so badly the flame danced past the tip of the cigarette twice, three times, and went out. Damn. He took the kind of deep breath that never failed to steady his aim and stilled his hand just long enough to nail the target. Finally, the end glowed bright orange and his lungs filled with nicotine, making the whole world a little more tolerable.

Only a drink would stop his shakes, but the smoke had to do. No more vodka until he’d completed this mission, and after that—a hell of a lot less.

He buttoned his coat against the wind and paced the sidewalk in front of Elena’s place, which was squeezed tightly between two other old, well-kept houses. The curlicues and scallops all over hers reminded him of the illustrations in children’s books—fairytale gingerbread cottages, the ones where Baba Yaga lured unsuspecting children with tempting sweets. Not that anyone had ever read a book like that to him, but he’d seen them somewhere, school maybe.

He marched along the sloping stretch of sidewalk, staring at his feet and savoring each inhalation. A pair of beat-up gray sneakers appeared in front of him. His gaze traveled up a pair of legs clad in purple sweatpants, an oversized jacket, all the way to the wrinkly face of an old lady frozen in place.

“Pardon,” he said, his accented English strange and rough to his ears. He sidestepped and gestured for her to pass him with a flourish that, in Kiev at least, hinted at chivalry.

The pleasantries had no effect. She jumped aside like a pack of angry dogs was snarling at her and dragged her handcart away fast, making to cross the street.

He resisted the urge to look behind him. There would be no rabid wolves, no gang of teenage hoodlums. It was just him. Big. Battered. All in black. Radiating righteous fury now that his target was finally so close. And he probably looked like he’d been hit by a vodka truck, if how he felt was any indication.

“Sorry,” he called out.

She didn’t look back.

He exhaled, raised his smoke to his lips, and watched her flee. Maybe, once he’d had his revenge, he could shake the air of menace hounding him. Sure would be nice not to scare old ladies anymore.

At the curb, the woman’s basket-on-wheels crashed over, spilling fruits and vegetables underneath parked cars. Peppers, onions, carrots, and some long white root he’d never seen before. Three apples went rolling into the street then down the steep hill.

The skinny lady didn’t look like she could afford to lose those apples, and he didn’t want her chasing them down in front of oncoming traffic.

Shit.

He sprang into action, ignoring her cries of objection. He didn’t recognize the language anyway, though her meaning was clear.

In seconds, he cradled an armful of round apples and a couple of wayward beets. He pinched his cigarette between his lips to free up a hand and helped her rearrange the shopping bags she’d used to line the wire basket. Together, they began to reload her produce.

“Thank you, thank you,” she repeated, but she kept her distance and wouldn’t look at big, bad Dmitri.

“It was my fault,” he muttered.

As if she’d timed it that way, the street was free of vehicles when her cart was full again, and she crossed with evident caution. She didn’t turn to see him wave one final apology.

He ground out the butt of his cigarette and lit another without thinking, strolling back toward his auntie’s house. A lacy curtain moved in the window and the shadow of a dark head appeared.

Caught, he froze with his cigarette in his lips. She was at the door in seconds.

“Put out that disgusting cancer stick this instant and give me a hug.”

He glanced at the barely smoked cigarette, then at his auntie, then back at the cigarette. With a grunt, he let it fall from his fingers and ground it out under his boot. She glared at the butt.

He took the stairs two at a time and opened his arms to her. She seemed even shorter than he remembered, but not much older and just as lively as she sounded over the phone.

She waved her fingers in front of her face, speaking in rapid Ukrainian. “You promised you would quit that foul habit. No smoking at my house.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Auntie.” Back to speaking his native language, his voice sounded normal again.

Extending her own arms, she returned the embrace. “Come inside, you must be starving after the flight.”

“Yeah, pretty hungry.” He pushed his sunglasses up to rest on his head.

Her nose crinkled. “You smell like a drunk bull. Take a shower, and I’ll fix you a meal.”

The dizzying effort of hauling his hungover ass up the stairs caught up with him, and he had to lean his back against the door. Still, it was good to see her after all these years. And hell, somebody was going to the effort to feed him. He tried for a smile. “Thanks.”

“When you have eaten, you will tell me exactly what you are doing here.”

“Sure thing.” He pressed his lips tight. What was he gonna say? Just here to take a guy out. But he’s the last one, I promise.

She hooked his arm and led him through a large living area. “Your room is this way.” A comfortable mishmash of Ukrainian antiques and modern furniture divided the open space into a kitchen, dining area, and a living area with a deep sofa pointing at a flat-screen television.

“Bathroom is across the hall.” She swung open the bedroom door and turned on the light.

Pain bored into his skull and he flipped the light switch off again fast. He dropped his pack. “Be right out.”

Alone in the dark room, he rummaged for a clean shirt and then slid his Glock under the pillow. Fatigue crashed over him at the feel of the soft bed sheets on his knuckles. He could sleep later. First food, then that son of a bitch Makar. He crossed the hallway and found the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, wearing a fresh shirt, he found Elena seated at her dining table. She’d spread out all the trappings of a traditional tea—cakes, fruit, cheeses, and best of all, thick black bread, begging for a smear of sour cream and a spoonful of caviar. After a steady diet of only cigarettes, his empty stomach kicked. But if he could hold down a few mouthfuls, he might be able to think straight.

Elena passed him a plate painted with circular folk patterns. “So, what are you doing here?”

“Business trip,” he replied. “Meeting with some of Gregor’s clients.”

“Really?” She dangled his Glock like a dead rat, raising one of her thick, black, perfectly shaped eyebrows.

Damn. He should have known she would snoop. Nothing to say, he slathered a slice of warm black bread with butter. It smelled yeasty and his stomach grumbled, officially complaining about its hollow state.

“Tell me the truth.”

He shoved the slice in his mouth all at once and mumbled his answer. “Can’t.”

“I dislike it that you work for him.”

He took a good long time chewing and swallowing.

She waited, gaze unwavering.

“We’ve been over this.” As often as she called to check on him, she never stopped harping. He didn’t want to look at her, so he scanned the table for his next bite.

Her dainty little teapot vibrated, like a pot of boiling water with a too-tight lid. He pressed his palm to the curve. It was hot, but nowhere near boiling. Under his hand, it remained perfectly still. Weird. He must be even more tired than he thought.

He pinched the stem of a bunch of yellow-green grapes. To pluck one between his thick fingers always felt ridiculous. If he were alone, he would shove the whole bunch into his mouth and pull the stem out later. But Elena deserved a display of good manners, so he placed one chilled sphere between his lips and cringed as its sweet juice quenched his vodka-parched mouth—so good it hurt. His appetite returned like a ravenous wolf and he reached for another slice of bread.