Damon couldn’t contain the seething anger that shot through him like a bolt of fire. In a flash, the bed disappeared and Alexa dropped to the floor in a naked heap.
“Hey!”
He stepped back, but reached out to her with his hand. Not surprisingly, she didn’t take it, but stood on her own accord.
“What was that about?”
A bright streak of pink glowed across the horizon outside. He’d used too much magic the night before. He needed rest. His daylight transparency could be the symptom of rejuvenation. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he was the one who was dreaming, not Alexa. Perhaps his punishment in the castle was not that he could not go free, but that he could not be the man he’d been in his previous life—honorable, resourceful and, above all else, kind.
Though he anticipated a shock of pain, he used the magic to return Alexa’s clothes. But he didn’t feel weaker. He felt stronger. And that frightened him to his core.
“You must go,” he ordered again. “And no one else can enter here until I am free.”
She threw up her hands. “That’s impossible! There’s too much planning to do. The measurements the architects took yesterday, were just preliminary. The foundation needs to be tested, the walls explored and mapped so we can install plumbing and electricity. The roof needs a good once-over. The renovation needs to start as soon as possible, so I need my experts—”
Fury flooded through him. His freedom was vastly more important than some silly hotel. “I forbid it!”
Her eyes widened to bright green circles of outrage. “You what? Someone is forgetting what century this is again and whose name is on the deed to this castle.”
He stepped forward until he was mere inches from her. His hands tingled again and his arms felt as if someone had poured lead into his veins. “I’ve forgotten nothing. Be forewarned, my lady,” he said evenly, “if one of your workers sets foot inside this castle, they’ll have me to deal with. What I did to your brother on the stairs was child’s play. Cross me and you’ll suffer much, much worse.”
The sun broke the horizon and Damon saw his body fading under the light. Never in his life had he been so relieved to simply disappear.
Eighteen
For a man of advanced age, Paschal Rousseau wasn’t entirely unappealing. In fact, unless Gemma’s eyes were deceiving her, there was no way in hell this man was over ninety years old. Seventy was pushing it. Even unconscious, his face possessed a wealth of fascinating planes and angles. His hair might have been shock white and his skin shaped by deep furrows and lines, but an inherent strength radiated off his sleeping form. Maybe Farrow’s thugs had shanghaied the wrong guy?
Gemma eased to the side of the bed and more closely examined Paschal’s profile, defined by a strong, square chin and a perfect nose she was certain had never been broken or even bruised. The hollows around his eyes were deep and she wondered about the color of the irises beneath his thin lids. She drew a finger along his temple, marveling at the thickness of his hair. Would Farrow age so well? Would she still be acting as his handmaiden in their so-called golden years?
Hell, if her plan progressed as she hoped, she wouldn’t be his handmaiden by the end of the week.
Farrow Pryce thought her an insatiable hanger-on. The fool would soon learn that the Von Roan bloodline was more powerful than any man’s sexual-appeal. And Paschal Rousseau was the key to her success.
Gently, she laid her hand on Rousseau’s shoulder. He didn’t move. She plied her fingertips over the surprisingly sinewy muscles of his arm and glanced furtively around the room. As she suspected, a surveillance camera was embedded in a vase on the top shelf. Farrow was quick and wily, she’d give him that. They’d procured this hideaway less than a day before they’d grabbed Paschal Rousseau and spirited him outside Austin to this Hill Country fortress, to the previous home of a Texas oil baron with dicey Venezuelan ties. If Farrow wasn’t always so paranoid, she might have thought him exceedingly clever.
“
Monsieur
Rousseau?”
She gave him a little shake. He didn’t move. Bending down, she timed his breathing. Slow was an understatement. Fools. The man had been unconscious since yesterday. Farrow’s followers had likely given their captive a larger dose of the sedative than necessary. Just her luck if the man died before she had what she wanted. To secure her place as the leader of the K’vr, she needed not the diary that Farrow initially wanted, but the Queen’s Charm—Rousseau’s most prized Romani find.
She leaned close to his ear. Her voice was barely a whisper. “If you are playing dead,
monsieur
, please continue for a few minutes longer.”
As she turned to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, his breath fluttered the hairs along the nape of her neck. Well, well, well. Paschal Rousseau was alive. And she’d keep him that way…if he cooperated.
She wandered around the room with seemingly aimless purpose, as if waiting for Rousseau to wake. Designed in a southwestern style, colorful curtains fluttered through the open window, the breeze hampered only by the iron bars on the other side. Tiny collections of hand-painted pottery and a shelf full of skillfully woven baskets provided the sparse decoration. From what she knew of Paschal Rousseau, the decor would not please him. He preferred to surround himself with items purchased, pilfered and pawned from across the greater European continent.
In a panel beside the door, she found the intercom system access. With a twist of two knobs, she connected to the stereo she’d left on downstairs and turned the volume up high. Rousseau stirred. Not only would the music drown out any listening devices; it would help her wake Rousseau out of his drug-induced sleep.
With a groan, he moved again. She wasted no time, swinging a leg over his midsection on the bed and buoying herself just above him. Leaning forward, she braced her hands on either side of his head and pressed her lips hard against his mouth.
She expected him to wake with a start. To bolt against the restraints Farrow’s men had banded around his wrists and secured to the bed. To, at the very least, protest against his capture or shout in shock.
She didn’t expect him to kiss her back.
And with such an expert tongue.
With a start, she flew backward.
Eyes still closed, the wrinkled rake had the nerve to grin like a schoolboy.
“You’re awake?”
He peeked one eye open. “I may be old enough to be your grandfather, but I’m not dead. Drugs or not, no man can sleep soundly when a woman mounts him so boldly.”
Her wits recaptured, Gemma leaned forward again, hoping that all Farrow saw in his monitor was the actions of a woman hell-bent on seduction. In truth, she had so much more in mind.
“I simply know what I want when I see it,” she explained.
“And you expect me to believe you want a man who will have been alive for an entire century in just a few years?”
So he was still claiming to be in his nineties. She had swampland in Florida she’d sell him if that were true. “Everything still works, doesn’t it? It’s common knowledge that a man can perform until the day he dies:”
He snickered. “Or he can die trying.”
“Is that how you envision your final hours?”
With a flick of her gaze, she noted that he was tugging at the wrist restraints. Not hard enough to be a waste of energy; just enough to test the strength.
“You aren’t going anywhere, Monsieur Rousseau. Not without my help.”
His eyes, which she noticed were a clear, silvery gray, narrowed. “And why would you help me?”
“You fascinate me.”
“My dear, you do not know me. The moment you figure me out, which won’t take long, you’ll toss me aside for someone more interesting. And decidedly younger.”
He’d just described the pattern of her dating habits since age fourteen. Smart man, this one.
“You’ve lived a long life,” she countered. “I’m drawn to you in ways I can’t explain. Perhaps we met in a previous incarnation.”
“I have no reason to believe in reincarnation,” he scoffed.
She shifted her weight, pleased by the thick hardening of his sex beneath her. If all men were in Rousseau’s shape, Viagra’s makers would go out of business. “And yet, you believe in Gypsy magic, don’t you?”
“I’m a renowned Gypsy researcher. I’d hardly be worth my salt if I didn’t acknowledge the existence of supernatural phenomena attributed to the Romani. Their knowledge of herbs, roots as well as—”
“Spare me the lecture, Professor.” She speared her red-tipped fingernail against the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple, then drew her touch downward, across his chest. “I’m not interested in the magic that can be traced to a strong knowledge of natural remedies or the power of suggestion that fueled many a Gypsy curse. I’m talking about the real thing.”
The clock by the bedside alerted her to the duration of her stay. Farrow wouldn’t expect her to close the deal quickly, but he was not a patient man. Sooner or later, Paschal’s son would realize his father was missing. That could only mean trouble.
Farrow had indulged her so far, but she had one, maybe two more encounters with Rousseau before Farrow expected her to produce the information he so desperately wanted. His men had searched Rousseau’s house from top to bottom and had not found the diary or the necklace. If Rousseau had the golden talisman and the journal—and all of their intelligence told them that he had been the last one to possess both—he’d hidden the objects very well.
“How can magic be real? It defies the laws of nature,” he argued, though she suspected he was faking the sincerity in his voice—blatantly faking, which in her mind, was the equivalent of a taunt.
Wily didn’t begin to describe this man. Her respect for him elevated a notch.
She pressed her sex against his crotch. “This defies the laws of nature, too, but you don’t see me denying what’s happening. In fact,” she said, grinding mercilessly against him, “I’m rather enjoying the fact that you want me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, his voice dripping with dangerous intensity that belied both his advanced age and his prone position on the bed. His eyes, pale and silvery, flashed with contempt. “Purely biological functions don’t reflect any power you have over me.”
“I have the power to decide whether you live or die,” she told him, then swung off the bed and headed toward the door. When she turned, he was yanking against his restraints, clearly infuriated.
Good. She exited without another word. Maybe if he was frightened enough, desperate enough, he’d cooperate. Because only through a double-cross with Paschal Rousseau at her side and the Queen’s Charm in her custody would Gemma take her rightful position in the K’vr—the organization that had bound her family for centuries with promises of ultimate power.
Too bad the empty promises had lost their luster for her when her gender had cost her direct ascension to the leadership. Now she’d have to take the power that was rightfully hers—and Paschal Rousseau would either help…or die.
His choice.
***
“Look, I told the police everything I know. I have a date. So, if you’ll, like, leave?”
Cat and Ben exchanged doubtful glances. Finding Amber Stranton had been easy enough, but clearly, getting the coed to talk was something else altogether. Under other circumstances, Ben might have tried turning on the whole professorish-charm thing, but the strategy was useless with Cat around. She likely had no idea how intimidating other women found her. Even now, Amber couldn’t tear her eyes off the dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty. Cat made Catherine Zeta-Jones look ordinary in comparison. So much like Mariah.
Funny how he’d managed not to think about his ex in more than a year, but the minute Cat stormed into his life, he’d been fighting memories of her all day.
They were nothing alike, really. Where Mariah was slim but devious, Cat was curvy and sly. Mariah preferred jumping out of airplanes, surfing onto fortified island hideouts and dodging hit men hired by foreign governments. Cat…well, he didn’t know what Cat liked. Besides keeping her nose in his business. Which, to be completely honest, he didn’t really mind.
Right now, however, her presence was a detriment to their mutual goal. They needed Amber to tell them more than she’d told the police about her cousin—which hadn’t been much. Under Cat’s scrutiny, Amber looked ready to crawl under a rock.
He stepped back, formulating a different tactic when Catalina’s entire demeanor shifted. She changed from a ballbuster to a sympathetic ear in the span of six seconds.
She snagged her bottom lip in her teeth and eyed Amber from head to toe. When she spoke, she softened her voice and laced her words with genuine concern.
“You’re not going to wear that on your date, are you?”
Amber glanced down at her cropped T-shirt and skintight jeans that flared at the calf. “Yeah. With these killer sandals I found at the flea market, but are totally awesome Choo knockoffs.” When her enthusiasm failed to infect Cat, it died a quick death. “Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
She spun halfway around, trying to catch a glimpse of her backside, and then checked her front to see if something private was hanging out. Neither was the case. To Ben, she looked sort of cute, in the way coeds did. She wasn’t his type, but then he hadn’t had twenty-year-old preferences for a long time.
“Well, nothing’s
wrong
with it,” Cat said assuredly, sugared sweetness dripping off her words. “I think you’d look great in a potato sack with a drawstring. But, I don’t know. This is…” She waved her hand around Amber’s body and, then pressed her lips together tightly, as if trying to contain some salacious bit of fashion information. Amber stepped toward her and nearly grabbed her hand.
“This is what? Too slutty? Too casual? I thought about wearing this killer skirt I got from my ex-roommate, but it’s kind of dressy and I don’t want to scare him away.”
Cat took Amber’s outstretched hand and invited herself inside. “Well, where are you going? That’s always the first question.”
Amber exhaled noisily. Ben could practically hear the vibrations of her nervousness. “Movie. Dinner. Club afterward. The usual.”