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.”
“I’d rather rely on proof, thanks.”
Upstairs, he discovered she’d been right. His father’s bedroom, while completely ransacked, contained no sign of the man. Neither did his bathroom, the guest room, the guest bath or the upstairs study. All were torn apart from top to bottom, but did not contain a single sign of Paschal Rousseau’s presence.
“Damn it, Dad,” Ben muttered, “what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Twelve
Alexa wasn’t sure what woke her first—the cold stone beneath her cheek or the sound of someone calling her name. Groggy and stiff, she forced herself into a sitting position and tried to open her eyes. Her leftover mascara had fused her lashes, so she rubbed until tears flushed her vision clear.
Great. Just great. She’d gone to sleep without washing her face. She was going to have one hell of a blemish in a day or two. And her teeth. Ugh. Her tongue, pasted inside her mouth, tasted horrible. She reached around for a bottle of water and found nothing.
As in absolutely nothing. The furnishings, at first a reflection of the portrait hanging in the hall and then brimming with pillows and cushions, had completely disappeared. Nothing remained. No chair. No fireplace. No cat.
No Damon.
“Alexa!”
The voice, not Damon’s, came from downstairs. She attempted to stand, but the aches in her body nearly left her paralyzed. She’d recovered from her car accident, but her body would always bear the scars, even if no one could see them.
Reaching behind her neck, however, she winced when her fingers touched her skin. The flesh, swollen and sensitive from the ripped necklace, still stung.
The pain contradicted the barrenness all around her. Had last night been a dream?
“Alexa!”
“Jacob?”
Her throat parched, her voice barely carried. She stumbled across the cold stone, her muscles throbbing first in the usual places, and then in spots where a flash of pain wasn’t quite so bad. At the mere thought of the bliss Damon had given her, an instantaneous, pleasurable tremor rippled between her legs and across her breasts. As if he still stood beside her, she heard his voice cataloging the decadent things he intended to do to her the next time they were alone. A warmth not unlike body heat chased the stone-cold chill away.
Her muscles relaxed. Her aches subsided. Every nerve ending in her body shifted its focus until nothing but anticipation ruled her brain. She closed her eyes. Her nipples, bare beneath her blouse, pricked against the fabric. When the rich scent of leather and man sneaked into her nostrils, she had to squeeze her legs tightly together to offset the sweet, raw response.
Her eyes flashed open and she spun, expecting Damon.
The room remained bleakly empty.
She blew out a frustrated breath. Damn. She’d experienced a few intense wet dreams in her lifetime, but never anything like this—especially not while awake. Still, despite the lack of evidence, she had to believe that what had happened last night—hell, what had happened a moment ago—had been incredibly real.
“Alexa!”
With a reluctant groan, she picked up her backpack and headed into the second-floor hall. Her feet scraped against the cold stone, but after a few steps, she found her stride. Now, if she just had a latte with an extra shot of espresso, she’d be able to survive the sunlight streaming in through the highest windows.
The minute she touched the top step that led down to the landing of the main staircase, the smell of freshly brewed coffee caught her nose. Either Damon’s magic was still working or her brother had come bearing Starbucks.
When she looked up, Jacob stood in front of her, staring at the painting where Damon used to be, a green-and-white-logo cup in his hand.
How was she going to explain the sudden disappearance of the portrait’s subject?
Or would she have to?
Jacob immediately dashed toward her, took her by the hand and, once she reached the landing, enfolded her in a typically stiff hug. “I’m so sorry, sis. I couldn’t believe the storm. I couldn’t—”
She placed a soft palm over his mouth. He was rambling, and she had no patience for chatter before she’d been bolstered by a jolt or twelve of caffeine.
“It’s okay. I was prepared. I knew you’d come as soon as you could.”
Arm still wrapped around her protectively, Jacob led her across the landing.
“Your satellite phone didn’t work?”
Alexa frowned. Hell, she hadn’t even checked. “I guess not. Did you try to call?”
“A dozen times. I would have called the Coast Guard, but we’d—”
“No, I’m glad you didn’t.” If he only knew how glad. “I don’t want the local authorities pegging us as a nuisance. I had everything I needed to make it through the night. I’ve never camped before, but despite the lack of twelve-hundred-thread-count sheets and a proper mattress, I survived.”
He rubbed her shoulder, and while the sensation was relaxing, she silently wished for Damon’s hands instead. “Did you sleep at all?”
She pressed her lips together to hide a sexually satisfied smile. “Not much.”
“Can’t blame you,” Jacob said, his voice a wry mixture of sympathy and repulsion. He stopped in the middle of the landing, right under the cursed painting. “Staring up at this man all night? It’s enough to give you nightmares.”
Alexa’s breath caught tight in her throat. Damon was back in his prison, dead center, as handsome and intimidating as ever. Maybe even a bit more so.
Had it all been a dream?
As she stared into his eyes, intense and stormy gray, her chest ached. If last night had been just a sexual fantasy, she could make the memories last a lifetime. But damn it, he’d told her about his sister. About his quest to exact retribution on the sorcerer who’d cursed him inside the canvas and oil. She couldn’t have dreamed all of it. Could she?
Even as a phantom, Damon Forsyth possessed more life than most men she knew. The magic containing him had to be incredibly powerful. And dangerous. Too dangerous for her to go forward with her plans?
Jacob nudged the coffee cup into her hand. She inhaled the bitter aroma through the tiny spiral of steam that escaped through the top.
“Two sugars and cream,” Jacob said with a wink. “Just the way you like it.”
Half the time, Jacob could be a real pain in the ass. The rest of the time, he was a certifiable prince. She often didn’t know what to make of him, but for today, she could certainly drink his coffee and be thankful for his company. “Doctors said I should stick to soy,” she reminded him before taking a sip of the perfectly delicious, ultracreamy brew. Leave it to Jacob to know just when she needed a decadent indulgence.
She glanced up at Damon.
Relatively speaking.
“The doctors didn’t stay all night in a dark and dank castle on a godforsaken island in the middle of a freakish storm,” Jacob added. “You can run off the calories in the hotel health club later.”
“No health club for me. We have a meeting to plan. I want a team of contractors here by two o’clock.”
“Here? Or the hotel?”
Glancing at the painting, Alexa forced herself to think beyond the swirl of conflicting emotions coursing through her. No matter what had transpired between her and Damon the night before, her goals hadn’t changed. The castle would become her premiere property. Whether or not the hotel had a resident ghost, she supposed, was up to Damon.
If he was real.
If, she supposed, she could find a way to free him again.
Closing her eyes, she tried to listen, in case Damon spoke to her again from within the painting. Unfortunately, the castle seemed colder and emptier than it had yesterday during the Coast Guard’s search, and the portrait lacked that spark of fire that had ensnared her attention shortly before she’d touched the canvas. Damon had still been trapped in the painting then, but he’d somehow reached out to her. She’d heard him. Felt his presence. Now?
Nothing.
She chased off a chill with another sip of coffee.
“You’ve got to be as stiff as a board,” Jacob said, his lip curled up to his nose. Alexa covered a snicker.
“Wondering how I could possibly have stayed overnight in a stone prison without the creature comforts?”
“Plush velvets, rich tapestries and a warm body beside you in bed are always a nice touch,” he lamented.
She covered a chuckle with another sip of coffee. “I’ll remember the part about warm bodies when we open the hotel.”
“You’re not thinking of giving a new definition to room service, are you?” he asked wickedly.
Not for all the guests, no, but the owner’s suite might be a different story. “Ask me after I’ve had a shower and brushed my teeth. As for last night, the bottom line is, I survived.”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes glittering, “you have a nasty habit of doing that. Did the talisman help?”
His eyes darted to her neck, and instantly, Jacob’s face fell. Instinctively, Alexa reached for the charm, but thanks to the broken chain, she could no longer wear the trinket. She smoothed her hand down her slacks, relieved to feel the triangle tucked within.
“It must have fallen off,” she said, not wanting to return the charm to Jacob when she knew how important it was to Damon. And to her. She might not be able to reenter the castle without its magical properties. “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”