Kiss of the Phantom: Sexy Paranormal (Book 3, Phantom Series) (7 page)

She eyed him curiously, aware that Paschal’s attempt to meet her eyes boldly belied the truth. He knew more about Rogan than would just some researcher. She’d been through all the documentation on her infamous ancestor, and even she didn’t have much of an idea of what kind of man he was.

“To the K’vr, he’s always been something of an enigma.”

“Curious,” Paschal replied.

Gemma finished off the last of her wine, then draped the blanket over her shoulders and walked to the window. The light that had woken her less than an hour ago was already starting to fade from clouds rolling into the area. With so many shade trees huddled around the house, the atmosphere outside took on a quality of night even at the break of day.

Unbidden memories of her childhood suddenly struck her hard. She’d spent so much time here in this gloominess, surrounded by things that looked and smelled of age and decay. She rubbed her cheeks unconsciously, wondering for the first time how this place had infected her young psyche. She’d been the daughter of a man who ran what amounted to a cult, the eldest child denied her right to ascend to the leadership simply because she was a girl.

“Rogan’s life was never the concern of the K’vr,” she said finally. It was easier to talk about the group than to sort out her conflicted feelings about her family. “All we ever wanted was his magic, the power promised to his followers by his brother.”

Paschal slid the plate of cheese onto the bedside table. “And did anyone ever consider the fact that Lukyan Roganov might have been full of shit? That he lorded this reputed magic over uneducated farmers in order to control every aspect of their lives and incomes?”

“Of course,” she answered. “At least, I did. But the magic is real. Why didn’t Rafe Forsyth die when he tried to strike down Rogan’s mark? He was hit by powerful magic.”

“Magic you want for yourself,” he concluded.

She lifted her chin higher. “Of course I do. It’s my birthright.”

“Not according to the K’vr council.”

Gemma bristled. She’d scale that treacherous wall at some point, but for now, she concentrated on deconstructing the vision. Unlike the shortsighted elders who kept her from the leadership solely on the basis of her gender, she knew women had always been important to Rogan. Or at least, one had.

“So, then, tell me about her,” she requested.

“About whom?”

“Sarina, of course. Who was she, other than this Rafe Forsyth’s sister and Rogan’s obsession?”

“Obsession,” he repeated with a snort. “How intuitive you are, my dear. Yes, he was fixated on her. She was young and impulsive and passionate. And the sister not just to Rafe, but to five British brothers who never quite appreciated the fire in her blood. Each one of them put his life on the line to save her from your glorified goon of a great-great-uncle.”

Gemma went back to the chair and plopped down. Her own brother wouldn’t have risked breaking a sweat on her behalf, much less put his life in danger. “The stories claim Rogan loved her deeply, but that she betrayed him.”

“They would,” Paschal replied. “Women have never been valued much in your line.”

She didn’t reply. The truth was self-evident.

“Sarina was a young girl who’d grown up in a particularly closed society,” Paschal continued. “What do you know about Valoren?”

“It was a Gypsy colony set up by the king of England to rid London of the Romani.”

“Yes, and the governor of this colony was a rather unusual nobleman named John Forsyth, Earl of Hereford.”

“I’ve never heard of him before,” she said.

“Seems in his later years, he went to great lengths to keep his own name and the names of his children out of the history books,” Paschal noted. “But he loved the Gypsies, even married one after his first wife died. She gave him both a son and a daughter. The son he named Rafe. The daughter, Sarina.”

“What about the other brothers? In the vision, Rafe thought about a soldier named Aiden and, um, the oldest one...”

“Damon.”

“Wait,” Gemma said, her memory clicking. “Damon Forsyth! That’s the man who’s taken up with Alexa Chandler, the man who fought my brother at Isla de Fantasmas. Are you telling me he’s from the past? That he’s over two hundred years old and alive and well?”

Paschal did not acknowledge her supposition, but his steady stare confessed the truth.

“How can that be possible?”

“Rafe did not die that night; nor did his brothers. They were trapped by magic of Lord Rogan’s design.”

Gemma threw off the blanket, feeling suddenly overheated. She jammed her fingers through her hair and considered the unlikely chance that this could be true. “But if Damon is back, does that mean...”

She thought about the name Aiden Forsyth. She’d heard it. Read it, maybe. Without explaining to Paschal, she ran downstairs to the bag she’d brought with her when she and Paschal broke into her childhood home. She retrieved a magazine she’d bought at the convenience store while they’d waited for the last of the K’vr to abandon the house.

Back in the bedroom, Paschal now sat with his legs over the side of the bed, as if he were attempting to stand.

 “Sit down,” she ordered. “You’re not strong enough to move yet, and I’d appreciate your not falling down and breaking a hip while I’m the only one around to pick your ass up.”

He muttered several obscenities, but did as she requested, remaining in place while she tore through the magazine and finally found an article about the upcoming final film in the very popular Athena series, starring Lauren Cole. There, in a steamy clench with the international superstar, was a new and previously unheard-of actor named Aiden Forsyth.

“This is why you’re looking for the objects associated with Rogan,” she replied. “You’re looking for these brothers.”

When she glanced up at Paschal, she gasped. He’d moved into the light, and for the first time, she noticed that his eyes were nearly identical to those of the man in the picture.

“Not just these brothers,” he answered. “
My
brothers. And you are going to help me find them.”

“Rafe!”

Instinctively, Mariah strained against her seat belt to grab at the space where Rafe had just been sitting. Dawn had broken over the eastern horizon, and the moment the light had touched the helicopter, Rafe had vanished. She moved back into her seat and made a course correction, then scanned the land below for a place to touch down. If she was going to lose her mind completely, she’d rather not do it while hovering in midair.

After twenty minutes of searching for friendly terrain, Mariah put the bird down and tore out of her bindings. Above her, the rotors slowed to a steady, visible chop. She grabbed the bag holding the Valoren stone and searched until the rock was tight in her hands. The gem in the center retained its ghostly glow.

“Rafe? Where are you?”

Nowhere. Everywhere
.

The intimate whisper spawned a wildfire of gooseflesh across her skin. He was here. She had so many questions. Odd how, just hours ago, she’d been wondering about the advisability of stealing the stone out from under Ben. But now that Rafe had been with her for a few hours, she wasn’t ready to let him go.

She inhaled deeply and calmed her rapid breathing. “I can’t see you.”

I am here, Mariah
.

She leaned toward his seat, her hand lingering on the spot that might have still been warm from his body heat if she’d landed sooner. She snatched the stone from atop the leather dilly bag and stared into the heart of the fire opal, which glinted from the rising sun.

She swallowed thickly. “What...what happened?”

I do not know
.

His voice was like a lover’s murmur, caressing her skin with an unexpected intimacy. Images of their dream kiss sneaked back into her consciousness, taunting her.

“Are you inside the stone again?” she asked.

The tether to the stone has tightened
, Rafe replied,
but I do not feel trapped. It is as if I am one with the air inside this machine. The sensation is not unlike flying.

“Oh,” she said, placing the stone gently back into the bag, then burying her head in her hands. Okay, half an hour ago, she’d been talking to a man who’d claimed to be from the eighteenth century and who had appeared out of nowhere inside her hotel room. Now she was talking to the freaking air. How could she cling any longer to the impossibility that she was still in her right mind? Owing so much money to Velez, meeting up with Ben and fending off an attack by unknown assailants had caused her to lose her mind.

“What do I do?” she asked.

Continue on. I am with you as long as you have the stone
.

Somehow, his claim gave her comfort. She had a time-traveling ghost of sorts attached to her...and she found it reassuring?

But continue on she did, though she did not attempt to communicate with Rafe any further. The sun had risen fully. She made a stop at a friendly airstrip outside of Abilene and refueled, paying with the last of her emergency cash. She considered using the old rotary pay phone to call Ben Rousseau and find out exactly what he’d gotten her into, but resisted tipping him off to her whereabouts. It had been her own poor choices that had led her to this madness.

She’d had a bad feeling about Hector Velez from the beginning, but she’d ignored her instincts in favor of money. The coins had been sitting in the basement of a government official who’d taken them as a bribe. The jerk had been completely clueless about what he’d had. Tossed in a pile with the other valuables he’d taken from the people in his region to keep him from arresting their sons or forcing their daughters into workhouses, the coins had been an easy snatch.

She’d retrieved a valuable national resource and given it to a man who would, at the very least, appreciate the value. At least, that was how she’d justified the job at the time. For the past three years, Mariah had worked almost exclusively as a private pilot and flight instructor. For the first time in her life, she had a relatively normal job, a home and a group of friends. But she also had a schedule, bills and stress headaches. She’d become domestic and ordinary and had craved the excitement of her past. She couldn’t have turned down Velez’s offer without huge regrets.

Now she was up to her eyeballs in regrets that could get her killed.

She flew three more hours in silence, considering how she was going to pay for the next load of fuel. She made an inventory of the items of value she had with her and decided she was going to have to make a few calls. At the next stop in Amarillo, she charmed an old acquaintance in order to use his cell phone and called her home base—an airstrip outside of Austin run by the Barketts, a friendly couple who’d taken a liking to Mariah since she’d first berthed her plane in their hangar.

“Jan, I need a favor,” Mariah said.

“Where’ve you been, girl?” the Texas native drawled. “People been looking for you.”

“People?” Mariah asked, trying to keep her voice steady and casual. “What people?”

“Some guys. Rough types.”

Mariah realized her decision to take her chopper out instead of the Cessna had been a wise one. She’d figured that if Velez were looking for her, he’d stake out the hangar where she kept her plane, leaving her free to escape via other means. “Were they Hispanic?”

“Who isn’t around here?” Jan said with a laugh. “They wanted to know where you lived, where you kept your gear or if Ken and I had heard from you.”

Mariah silently cursed. She didn’t want to bring any trouble down on Ken and Jan. They were good people. Ken was a former army pilot who’d avoided being shot down during Vietnam, and his wife, a more than adequate pilot who’d bucked the Texas old-boys network to start her own successful airstrip, had opened her heart to Mariah, even when they knew damned well that the Aussie transplant was usually up to no good.

“What did you tell them?” she asked.

The older woman snorted derisively. “Nothin’ true, what do you think? Said you’d cleared out two weeks ago and we hadn’t heard from you since. Told ‘em we’d confiscated everything to pay your bills, including your plane.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not entirely fiction,” Mariah muttered.

“We know you’re good for the money. Besides, we do have your Cessna as collateral.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Mariah started, then explained her dilemma in the vaguest terms possible. She didn’t need her friends dragged into her drama, but she needed money. Less than an hour after the call, the Barketts had sent her enough cash to get her to her cabin in Colorado.

She’d bought the place only a year ago and had visited only once. Accessible only by helo, since the one and only road had washed out from a landslide two years before she bought it, the place had been extraordinarily cheap. Two hours outside Denver, the cabin on Butler’s Mountain was the perfect hideout. She’d registered the property in the name of an old pilot friend who’d since died, but had left her as executor of his will. Velez wouldn’t be able to track her to the cabin. At least, not easily.

Mariah made one last stop in Colorado Springs for fuel, and then finished the ride up to the cabin, which had just enough land in a northwest clearing for her to put the bird down. Dark clouds hovered just above her as she made her approach, forcing her to fight through turbulence to set down easy.

Sunset wasn’t the glorious event she’d craved. The clouds and mist muted the oranges and reds until they were shadows that faded into night. She’d had just enough time to secure her gear when the blackness of the mountain night swallowed her whole and the rumbling of thunder echoed nearby.

She took out a flashlight and directed the beam at the cabin. It looked untouched since her last visit, when she’d stocked the freezer and pantry for emergencies just like this. If only she could remember precisely where she’d tucked the spare key.

“Do you need assistance?”

Mariah screamed. The sound ricocheted off the cliff and bounced down into the valley below. Instinctively, she spun and kicked toward the voice. Rafe caught her foot just seconds before it connected with his chin.

“You can’t just jump out at me like that!” she insisted, tugging her foot from his grasp and losing her balance for her trouble. The flashlight tumbled a few feet away, but Rafe retrieved it, eyeing it with interest even as he held out his other hand to her.

“I’m afraid I have little control over the matter,” he replied, tugging her up with such force, she smacked flat against his chest.

The temperature on the mountain had been dropping until that moment. Ghost or not, Rafe Forsyth put off a kind of magnetic heat. Mariah allowed herself to lean against him. With the flashlight directed upward toward their faces, she caught sight of his full lips and wondered if he’d taste as spicy and elemental as he had in her dream.

Rafe, however, stepped away. “I awoke with the sunset, as if from a deep and powerful sleep. I wished to be with you again...and here I am.”

Her heart was beating the hell out of her insides. From the shock of his appearance, of course. And nothing more.

 “You wished to be...”

She let the words die on her lips. Whom else would he want to be with? She did, after all, have the stone. He could have wished to be in the presence of the bloody queen of England, and still she was the best he’d get.

“Remarkable,” he said, turning the flashlight over in his hands, the beam shining around them like a beacon. Which, under the circumstances, wasn’t a good thing.

She threw out her hand to stop him. “We don’t need to broadcast that we’re up here, okay? It’s bad enough that the chopper is so noisy. I have no idea what neighbors I might have, but I’d prefer not to let anyone know where we are.”

He nodded, then followed her toward the cabin. “I understand, but tell me about this fireless torch. What’s it called?”

“In Australia, a torch,” she noted with a snicker. “In America, where we are, it’s a flashlight.”

“Australia?”

“My homeland. You might know it as...” she started, trying to remember the history of her native country, “New South Wales.”

He stared at her blankly.

“Aren’t you British?” she asked.

His lip curled and his nose twitched, as if a skunk had discharged a warning directly in their path. “I am Romani.”

“Half Romani,” she said, remembering that his father had been a British earl.

He merely sniffed in response. “In my world, the Romani half was all that mattered.”

“Probably not to your father,” she said.

“Especially to my father,” he replied curtly.

Mariah let the matter drop. She understood better than most how relations with parents could be complicated and contentious. She loved her own father deeply, but he’d been a bush pilot in the Northern Territory who considered rough living to be the ultimate test of his manliness. He’d raised two sons the same way. He’d never exactly been sure what to do with his daughter.

Her mother hadn’t been any more insightful. When she’d abandoned the family to move to Sydney, she’d left Mariah behind, taking her in only after Mariah had reached puberty and Bert Hunter had left his ex-wife no choice. When Mariah wasn’t rebelling against high expectations and responsibility, she’d gotten on pretty well with her mum once they were reunited. Unfortunately, the damage to their relationship had been done. Mariah was still fending off the demons born of a childhood of not fitting in, and she didn’t want to stir up those memories tonight.

“We should get inside,” she said, pointing the beam of the flashlight toward the door just as a cloud opened up and dumped a flood of rain on top of them.

Lightning followed. Mariah cursed as sheets of cold rain doused her, ruining her chances of remembering under which clay pot she’d buried the key. Suddenly, Rafe took her arm and pulled her inside, shutting the wide-open door firmly behind them.

“How’d you do that?” she asked, swiping water from her face. “Wasn’t it locked?”

He did not reply. Mariah lit the kerosene lantern she kept on the table beside the door, then darted to the supply closet, where she pulled out a couple of towels. She handed one to Rafe, then dried her face and hair so that water didn’t drip down her back. Still, she was shivering, and if there was one thing Mariah hated, it was being cold. She longed to strip out of her soaking wet clothes, but realized she’d left her only change of wardrobe back in the chopper.

She wrapped the towel around her shoulders and tried to keep her teeth from chattering by whistling. Under the dim golden glow, she scanned the room, frowning at the layer of mountain dust clinging to every surface, and especially at the empty wood box beside the fireplace.

The previous owners had sold the place fully furnished, if you could call an old, scarred table with four chairs, a bookshelf filled with Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and a stack of
National Geographic
magazines, a tattered sofa that pulled out to a sleeper, and a butt-ugly but comfortable recliner “furnished.” Not that she needed much. Mariah had often lived with less. She could do rustic. What she preferred not to do was dirty.

With a sigh, she started yanking the sheets off the furniture, coughing when the dust flew into her nose. Rafe, on the other hand, stood frozen near the door with his arms crossed over his chest, as if waiting for her to finish.