The Siren's Dance (12 page)

“How’s your mom?” she asked. An unexpected and kind question, almost like a hug in itself.

“She’s doing better than ever, thanks to Gregor.”

Anya moved away just enough to look into his face. “What’s wrong with her?”

Sergey wanted Anya closer, but he wouldn’t dare pull her again, so he just kept a firm grip on her hand.

“She’s a depressive. Has been my whole life. It can get bad, to where she won’t take care of herself, but today--hell, today she’d gotten dressed, put on lipstick, and she was painting. She’s never had a hobby.” His hopefulness sent the words spilling out of him.

Anya smiled back, mirroring his expression like an ideal listener. They’d taught him that trick in inspector training. It didn’t do much for Sergey when his partner wore the look, but on Anya, that tuned-in smile could make a man feel special. Maybe because on her, it wasn’t some interrogation tactic.

“And had she heard of Demyan?”

Well, shit. That line of questioning could surface the parts of his past that were sure to turn her uncooperative, and she felt very, very
cooperative
at the moment. In fact, how could he tell her about that phone call without giving his secret away? Good thing all his practice interrogating suspects made him an expert at telling some truths without showing his hand.

He danced around her question easily. “Mama couldn’t tell me anything. That studio is still our only lead. I’ll go down to the office of city archives tomorrow and see if we can find him through the property records.”

“Okay.” Her fear bled into the word. Then her stomach growled, and she winced as if he would scold her. Fucking Demyan, controlling her every bite.

He squeezed her hand and added a measure of casual to his tone so she didn’t hear his hatred for her abuser and take it as judgment upon her. “You’re hungry?”

“Starved.” She wore her rare, sheepish I-just-caused-a-tornado expression.

They both looked down to her midsection at the same time. Her flat abdomen, the shadowed hollow of her belly button under the wet satin nightie. He had the absurd desire to dip his tongue inside it, a first taste of her irresistibly creamy skin.

How truly fucked up he was that he wanted this woman more than he could ever remember wanting another, and she’d slept with his father. It had to be some broken part of him that refused to be healthy, that couldn’t want the things a normal, happy man should, that couldn’t form a lasting attachment with one of the nice, pretty girls who happily fucked him in a broom closet.

Anya’s stomach rumbled again. She pressed one palm against it and shifted her weight, just barely brushing her hip against his semi hard--make that very hard--cock.

He cleared his throat, took hold of her waist with both hands, and put some inches between them. “We better feed you, but I can’t exactly take you out for dinner in that.”

“I can wear your coat.”

“It would swallow you whole. And you don’t have any shoes.”

She wriggled her toes. “Good point.”

He glanced around the room as if a petite-sized wardrobe might appear as unexpectedly as she’d materialized at this touch. No luck, but his phone did ring.

“Allow me.” She snaked her small hand into his pocket, surely in no way intending to be seductive, and yet, God…

“I’ve been dying to see how one of these works.” Her face had lit up with curiosity. “Oh, look, it says
Lisko
. Is this green circle like a button?” She didn’t wait for a reply, just pressed the screen and then held the device to her ear. “Hello?”

“Anya?” The muffled voice of Dmitri came over the line. “What the hell?”

“Hello, Dima.” Along with the false warmth, her use of the intimate form of Dmitri’s name when he’d called her a harpy was a sharp little jab. On the other hand, the fact she wasn’t false or especially sharp with Sergey anymore was as good as another accidental stroke to his cock.

“Did you need to speak with Inspector Yuchenko?” Her tone dripped with helplessness.

“Put him on the phone, Anya,” he growled loud enough for Sergey to hear.

“Of course, right away.” Over a wide and mischievous grin, she winked at Sergey. His heart decided to mark the moment with several skipped beats.

“She’s answering your phone?” Lisko asked when Sergey put the device to his ear.

“More importantly, she turned flesh and blood.”
And she’s standing between my legs, smelling like a woman warmed by the autumn sun and smiling, and I’m the biggest sucker in the world.

“Impossible.”

“So you said.”

“How did it happen? Did you find Demyan already?”

“Nope. So now it’s time for you to come clean. How exactly are you married to a dead girl, who is by all evidence not a ghost? And why is her sister materializing at my touch?”

“Yours? Shit. You better watch out. You must have pissed her off, and the
rusalka’s
out to get you.”

Anya had started exploring Sergey, a fingertip down his stubbly jaw, then along the collar of his T-shirt, then down the open zipper of his leather coat. She flashed him an impish grin, as if she knew she was as distracting as hell and that mischief was her only goal. But beneath that smile, he sensed her curiosity and evident need for human contact, and boy--he gritted his teeth. That part was so not helping him.

But he was almost sure the ghost inside her was not out to get him. If anything, he had the sinking feeling all of this was about his dear old dad. Also, that Sonya wasn’t a
rusalka
.

Once, he might have been cowed by Dmitri Lisko, heavyweight failure and mean-ass enforcer to one of the most powerful men in Kiev. But now, Sergey had bigger shit to worry about.

“Tell me about Sonya.”

Dmitri exhaled into the phone. “Guess I owe you that much, for dragging you into this situation.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“I was in San Francisco looking for this guy who’d betrayed my dad, Ivan, and Gregor all those years ago, the one who sent Ivan to prison. When--and I guess this won’t surprise you after meeting Anya--a ghost pops out of my Auntie Elena’s teapot. I decided to help her, and then I accidentally touched her, and she turned real.”

“Okay. Same as me and Anya.”

She’d begun to trace his waistband, but thank God, at the sound of her name, she stopped and met his gaze.

“You all right, Yuchenko? You’re breathing hard.”

“Fine. Just ran the stairs before you called. You know me--slip in a workout wherever I can.”

Dmitri chuckled. “Yeah, right. You spooked, or are you getting the siren treatment?”

“Just the stairs, man.” His present reaction to Anya had nothing to do with her being a siren, just a sexy, flesh-and-blood woman.

“If you say so. The difference between you and me is, it turned out my dad had killed Sonya. The only reason I could see her was a blood debt. The
rusalka
wanted to avenge her by killing me in my father’s place.”

Sergey whistled, a low and quiet noise that spared him having to admit that might very well be the exact scenario he and Anya had found themselves in. Sergey wasn’t about to confess the similarities of this story. If she knew he wanted to find Demyan himself, he would surely lose his ghost’s trust, and her help.

“I don’t know about blood debts, but I think I’m perfectly safe. I also don’t think she’s a
rusalka
. She caused a tornado today. A big-ass funnel cloud right on the outskirts of Lyubashivka.”

“She caused that? A video of it’s all over the news.”

“She controls the wind, which makes her a
vila
, not a
rusalka
.”

Her gaze darted to Sergey’s, dark eyes wide.

“They’re the same, aren’t they?” Dmitri said.

“Nope. And from what I know of fairytales, the esoteric differences are bound to matter.”

“Shit. I need to talk to Gregor.”

“Okay, but first, I could use your help with something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a naked and starving ghost here--no clothes, no shoes.”

“Oh, right. Been there.” On those last words, Dmitri’s voice changed, colored by amusement and other softer feelings Sergey didn’t associate with the man. “I’ll put Sonya on the clothes problem. In the meantime, order some room service. On me.”

How Sonya could clothe her sister from all the way in Kiev, Sergey didn’t know, but he was looking forward to indulging Anya with room service. He would order her one of every dessert, sit back, and watch her eat. Good chance it would be painfully sexy, but at least it wouldn’t involve her hand on his pants, and that was surely a good thing.

“And speaking of being there before,” Dmitri said. “I saw that pink nightie, and the way you were looking at her. Hands off my sister-in-law, Yuchenko. She was obsessed with Demyan, and she’s not stable. Both the ghost and the girl will say anything, and do anything, to get what they want.”

Then the line went dead, cut off by Dmitri. Thankfully, so did every drop of Sergey’s arousal.

As a ghost, Anya would probably have been able to hear Dmitri’s every word over the telephone line. But her normal human ears didn’t cut it, so she’d had to settle for watching Sergey’s reactions. Though she couldn’t sort out which ones were in response to the words on the line, and which to her roving fingers. The silly things sought sensation as if each one had a mind of its own.

From what she gathered, her brother-in-law hadn’t been able to explain her sudden corporeality. Figured. His muscles were probably inflated with a lot of hot air. Unlike Yuchenko, who was very firm to the touch. Her body screamed--touch, temperature, texture--it all overwhelmed her. Skin cold except where he held her, muscles heavy with the sudden need to support her own weight. And smell…

Goodness. Olfaction was a seriously underrated sense. After so long without it, hers consumed all her awareness. Sergey smelled so good, in a totally animal, male way--soap, yes, but salty skin and musky sweat. The first time her stomach growled it had been solely in reaction to that scent.

Her fingers twitched, and she couldn’t resist the urge to pet him. Initially, he’d lifted his chin to her touch, like a puppy wanting a scratch on its neck. Then his breathing had gone shallow, his pupils small. It looked like desire, but what did she know about that? She had to keep pushing to find out for sure. And if he was aroused, was it because she was a siren? In spite of the occasional lingering glances, it seemed impossible he could like plain old Anya.

Arm around her waist, he pulled her closer, all the while staring into the air with unfocused intensity as he listened to Dmitri. The gesture implied instinctive protection, and it made her burn. She wasn’t only wind anymore. She had a heart again, and it pumped hot blood, heated her skin, throbbed low in her belly, awakened parts of her body she hadn’t even thought about since she’d died. And those parts seemed very interested in making the acquaintance of Inspector Yuchenko.

Then, clearly in reaction to something Dmitri had said, he went stiff--not the interesting stiffness she’d noticed between his hips, but a sudden rigidness to his spine, alert and on-guard. Slowly, he turned his head and slightly narrowed his gaze upon her, such a minuscule gesture that only a woman hyper-vigilant about her teacher’s approval would have noticed. But it was enough to dampen all the delicious throbbing, like a bucket of icy water right out of her hateful river.

What could dearest Dima have said about her? Probably that according to Sonya she was a man-stealer and a tramp. Her parents had certainly thought she was sleeping with Stas, possibly to get ahead. Though in truth, her desire for him was not about ambition, but approval, entirely inspired by his beautiful, leanly muscled body, his penetrating, heavy-lidded gaze, and how he danced with her, always a seductive
pas de deux
that promised his love was nearly in reach.

And he’d smelled good too, in that primal, male way. Maybe even as good as Yuchenko.

Sergey didn’t speak or explain, only searched her face.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shrugged, and the motion of it drew her closer to him.

If he wasn’t going to explain, she would get there another way. She plucked another interesting detail from the conversation she’d overheard. “So you know I’m a
vila
?”

“It was my best working theory.” His hazel eyes were so expressive, so intense. The more she looked into their warmth, the more they thoroughly countered his youthful features. How had she ever thought him anything less than a man, capable and keen?

“Ironic, isn’t it? The role of my dreams, given to me in death. Do you suppose when I finally find Demyan, I can use my magical powers to make him dance himself to death like Hilarion?”

“If we find him, and he’s still alive, he’ll be well over eighty. It won’t take much for him to dance to death.”

“He’s alive. I can feel it.”

“Or you’re just really hungry.” He pressed his palm over her abdomen, his big hand covering nearly the whole breadth of her rib cage. “Dmitri said room service is on him. We’ll order whatever you want.” He took hold of both her wrists and tugged her toward the desk where the room service menu had blown to the floor. He flipped it open with his left hand, while firmly holding her wrist with the right. “Mmm. I think Lisko enterprises owes us one of everything.”

He held it up for her perusal. French food like nothing you would have found in Soviet Ukraine. Filet mignon, risotto with truffles, assorted cheeses that sounded stinky and delicious, and three kinds of tortes--raspberry, chocolate hazelnut, lemon, as well as a white chocolate mousse. And caviar--now that was a Russian delicacy she could appreciate.

Her stomach growled again. “You better make that two of everything. I don’t want to have to share.”

He grinned, so stunning it wiped away the hurt of whatever he was keeping from her.

Then the secret crashed down on her. “What did Dmitri say about me?”

“When?”

“When you got that funny look on your face, like suddenly I’d sprouted a pair of horns.”

“Did I?” Sergey frowned. Then he seemed to force another grin. “Gotta work on that. Not good cop technique.”