The Siren's Dance (11 page)

Her
vila
nature taught her to rage instead of despair, and Yuchenko’s outrage had assured her the anger was justified. She would be eternally grateful to the puppy for that. She let her fury pour off her in bursts of fierce, hot energy.

A binder of papers flapped in the quickening wind, one blew loose--the menu for the elegant restaurant plastered to the mirror over the vanity. The photo of a piece of chocolate cake made Anya’s ghost body echo with the memory of impossible sensation--hunger--and her mouth watered with longing.

Voices shouted in the hallway, loud enough to be heard over the wind, then a knock sounded on the door. “Hello? Inspector Yuchenko?”

She tried to dampen the energy pouring out of her in forceful tendrils, but another paper tore free of the binder, flapping across the room until it slapped against the door.

“Maybe someone left a window open,” shouted the man on the other side of the door.

“But there’s not even a breeze outside,” a different voice replied just as loudly. “Maybe someone opened a portal to another universe and we’re all about to be sucked inside.” He shouted it cheerfully but matter-of-factly. Was the idiot joking?

“God, Oleg,” the other man chuckled out the words, “you gotta quit with those sci-fi novels.” The crack of another knock sounded. “But you’re right. Look out that window. The leaves aren’t even rustling, but my trouser cuffs are.”

Like a kite pulled taut, the wind shook her against its steady force. It hollowed her out, took away all thought, all memory, except one determined resolution.
Find Stas. Kill him. Be free. Now.

The door swung open, two men in burgundy bellhop uniforms stood just outside, their caps instantly blowing off their heads.

“What the hell?” one said. Not Oleg, from the sound of his voice.

“Whoa.” That one had to be Oleg.

They stared right at Anya, but somehow she knew they didn’t see her. They must only feel the wind and be able to observe its action in the flapping drapes, the scattered papers, the paintings rattling and askew.

Invisible again.

Loneliness whipped through her, and with it, fear. What if she failed and this was her future? She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the worries. They blended with her determination, whipping up a full-blown storm inside the room. A chair blew over.

“What should we do?” Oleg asked.

“Call the cops?” asked the other guy.

“More like Mulder and Scully.”

“That some of your sci-fi shit?”

“Uh-huh.
X files
, American show. They handled this kind of paranormal stuff all the time. It was usually aliens.”

“Yeah, I buy that,” the other man said.

“What’s going on here?” asked a familiar and very welcomed voice. “I damn well hope you had a good reason for entering my room, boys.”

Yuchenko didn’t sound at all puppy-like at the moment. His features had hardened into powerful, masculine lines. His appearance anchored her, lending her a sense of weight. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t only air and anger. She had a mission, and maybe, she had a chance to be free.

She clenched her ghost hands and bore down on the energy, containing it.

“We got a call,” said not-Oleg. “The boss sent us up because somebody complained about a draft blowing down the hall.”

The energy still churned inside her, swirling outward, but she fought the power with all the force of her will, drawing the fury back into herself inch by inch. Slowly, the room grew quiet and still.

Yuchenko shrugged. “Don’t be stupid. It’s just a breeze coming from the window.” He pointed to an inch-wide crack he’d opened before he left, blatantly ignoring the debris littering the room.

“Nah. Something else is going on here,” Oleg said, as if he were an authority on unexplained phenomenon because he read books and watched television shows about--what had he called it?--paranormal shit.

“Yes. I’d say so,” Yuchenko agreed. “Namely, an illegal entry of my hotel room. Now get out of here before I lodge a complaint, or call my buddy over at station six.”

The authority in his voice sent an odd shiver of excitement through her. He was a good man to have on her side.

“Yes, sir.” They turned tail in perfect timing, as if someone had choreographed the move.

He shut the door behind them and locked the chain.

“All right?” he asked, even though he couldn’t possibly hear a reply.

“Yes,” she answered, knowing he would be deaf to it.

He smiled toward the center of the room, guessing right about her general direction. “Miss me?”

“Yes,” she admitted, because he couldn’t hear.

He fished in his pocket, his brow furrowed in concentration. “You did good, calming yourself down just now.”

She inflated with pride, her ghost form swelling like a puff of air had been blown into her.

“Here.” He found what he was looking for and pulled out the ring, holding the loop open so she could thread her head through it.

She whooshed toward him. The weight of the makeshift necklace settled on her, a slight pressure. It was a touch heavier but not as effective as the way Yuchenko had grounded her just by walking in the room. Unlike in that field, she didn’t float away as soon as he could see her. Instead, she hovered a mere foot from his face, watching in fascination as a gorgeous grin took hold of his mouth.

“Hi,” he said, his pleasure at seeing her evident at the corners of his eyes and the lift of his bronze-kissed cheeks.

If she’d had a heart, it would have fluttered.

“Hi.” She grinned back, even if her every instinct screamed
pretend you couldn’t care less
. “Thanks for saving me from Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum.”

“My pleasure. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw them there. I worried someone had stolen your slipper. Lisko would kill me.”

Right. Lisko. This puppy didn’t actually give a damn about her. He was in the old guy’s debt.

She crossed her arms over her chest and whooshed backward, colliding with the wall and ghosting right through.

Drat. Not the most graceful exit she’d ever managed.

She was gone. He’d said that thing about Lisko, and her lovely, unrestrained smile had fallen, and she’d flown backward right through the damn wall. If it had been someone else, he might have thought she’d taken offense, read into his words the implication that he’d only been concerned about her because of Gregor, when, in fact, after that strange phone call, he’d been scared to death for her.

But this was tough little Anya, so of course he hadn’t said any of that. He didn’t want to frighten her off by hinting he’d taken a bit of a liking to her. Only a fool tried to pet a porcupine. And he didn’t even have a clue how to approach a soft little bunny, if said bunny wasn’t trying to drag him into a dark corner for fifteen minutes.

“Anya, come back. Anya…” He picked up Gregor’s ring from where it had fallen and held it up. He waited, but nothing happened.

Had he really hurt her feelings? That required she have some, other than anger. But of course she did, along with her sense of humor and her concern for her sister and that abject fear of being alone. Christ, he’d been smiling, and then she had too, and then he’d put his giant foot all the way into his mouth.

“Anya. I’m sorry. Really.”

Still nothing. Maybe she’d gone this time for real, and he would have to make nice with Gregor and find Demyan on his own.

The prospect left him cold.

Better to risk his pride, and her blustery temper. Still holding up the ring as he had before, he said, “When I saw those idiots standing in the doorway, my heart flew into my throat. I was so worried about you--that they might see you or hurt you, that I couldn’t protect you.”

A gentle wind rippled through the room and his gut clenched in embarrassment over the confession. He was probably only inviting her mockery. But he persisted. Letting the necklace dangle from his thumb and little finger, he turned up his palm, an offering. When Dmitri had handed over Anya’s shoebox, he’d reported that a ghost’s touch felt like getting dry humped by a slug.

Aside from the slime, slugs were pretty harmless. Sergey would risk it, if she would accept his hand in apology. “I’m sorry, Anya.”

First, the necklace tugged like a minnow on a fishing line, then icy needles prickled his palm. Strange, but not as skin crawling as Dmitri had implied. Except then, something grasped his hand. Cool, hard, firm skin. Not just a ghost--flesh and blood--Anya’s.

His heart jumped as if touched by a live wire, and his gaze flew past her small hand and up her lean arm to her beautiful wide-eyed face. Mouth agape, she was clearly as shocked as he was to be in her skin.

“How?” Her features twisted in panic and she doubled over, coughing, gagging on the memory of the water that had choked out her life.

Shit. The same thing had happened in the interrogation room.

He held her hand firmly just as the ailing Lisko had, pounding on her back with his other until she stopped spluttering.

When she began to breathe easy, he let out a long, slow breath. “Anya?”

“Obviously.” She wrapped her free arm around her torso and shivered. Her teeth chattered, but she held his hand tightly, looked down at her feet and flexed them so that she stood on her tippy-toes, a semblance of point without slippers, as water dripped down her legs.

“You’re real.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was always real.”

“But…Lisko said…”

She blew a dismissive burst of air from her nose. “What does he know?”

“A hell of a lot more about ghosts than I do. Until I met you, I was sure they didn’t exist.” He cupped her cold, sharp shoulder with his free hand. “Wait, are you saying you knew this would happen?”

Her eyes flashed, and she caught her lower lip with her teeth for a split second before raising her chin. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

So much fear and uncertainty hidden inside this little slip of a ghost. But she wasn’t an ethereal specter now. She was a beautiful, flesh-and-blood woman, standing very near, close enough to radiate warmth in spite of her damp nightie. And even with her prideful expression, she squeezed his hand hard, like it was her lifeline, which it more or less was. With every passing second, he gathered more proof her prickly personality was all defense. In response, an unfamiliar desire flowed through his veins. He wanted to be her protection instead.

“Let’s rewind for a sec.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He pulled her into an embrace, hugged her trim, graceful, and damp form snug to him. “I am damn glad to see you, and that you’re all right.”

She relaxed against him and sighed, the breath escaping her like a purr. He tried not to let it go to his head, or his cock. No easy task. She felt so delicate, yet powerful, so feminine, so--just good. He couldn’t help but want her naked, nothing between him and all that fine, creamy skin.

But presumably, no one had held her in all those ghost years, and possibly, Demyan was the last to do so in life. She just needed a hug. Her cuddly response didn’t mean anything more.

She nuzzled her dainty, slightly pointy nose into his chest. “God, Yuchenko, you smell good.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Is it some kind of cologne? French or American?”

“Nope, just soap.” And probably sweat, but he’d keep that part to himself. Woman often told him he smelled good when they dragged him into dark corners. Pheromones or something.

“Soap. That figures,” she said, but he had no idea what to make of it.

“You know, you could call me Sergey.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She pulled back far enough to look at him, shaking her head, a crease forming between her dark brows. “What’s going on? Sonya said only Gregor’s touch would make me real.”

“I know.”

“And in the lobby, I blew through a businessman and nothing happened.”

“So it’s me?” Sergey tried to bury all his theories about what this might mean deep enough that she wouldn’t sense his secret and grow suspicious.

She nodded and squeezed his hand tighter. Her throat rippled with a swallow.

“It will be okay, Anya. We’ll find him. We’ll get you back to Gregor, and you can live again.

She nodded again and searched his face, and then she wrapped her free hand around his waist and burrowed closer to him.

She squeezed a shocked half-sigh half-grunt right out of him. “Ugh.”

No one ever wanted to cuddle with him. Usually, women left him wearing huge smiles on their lips and rosy glows on their cheeks, while he stood stunned, still half hard, a used condom dangling from his dick. Sometimes, they gave him a peckish kiss and said, “Thanks, hon, I needed that.”

After the same scenario had occurred a dozen times, he’d grabbed a fleeing bank teller’s arm. “Wait! Why are you running off? Was it…bad?”

He’d had to ask, in spite of her gasps and her dirty talk, and the way she’d clenched and spasmed around him in an orgasm that might have earned her a world record for longest ever.

“Bad? You’re a hoot.” She’d burst out laughing and, honest to God, limped away, leaving him scratching his head.

But Anya--she wasn’t running anywhere. She was trying to get closer, which would be impossible with their clothes on. And the clothes had to stay on, because in spite of her denial, he was certain she’d had an affair with his father, which made her as off-limits as a woman could get.

“I know I shouldn’t get used to it, and I should probably be worried about why it happened, but it’s so nice to have a body.” Anya’s words were muffled against his chest. She’d snaked her hand up to circle the nape of his neck and scraped her nails up into his hair. The sensation along his scalp sent tingles followed by goose bumps down his spine.

He gritted his teeth. Friendly hug.

She just needed a little human contact after all that time alone. She needed to be held and cared for by someone who wouldn’t belittle her. And he might just need a hug too, to make up for all those cuddle-less fucks, and the creeping chill he couldn’t shake after that phone call.

“Yeah. I’ll call Dmitri and give him the third degree.” With his free hand, he stroked up her back, as platonic a gesture as he could manage with her so close, and tried to ignore how it pressed her small, perfect breasts against his torso. How her hard nipples poked against his shirt, how fragile her vertebrae felt, how trim her waist.