Phantom's Touch: Sexy Paranormal (Book 2, Phantom Series) (13 page)

“You focus on recovering your strength,” Ben said. “We’ll focus on finding Gemma Von Roan.”

Paschal smirked. “Concentrate on the other woman. Gemma will find me.”

“And you know this how?” Cat asked.

Paschal tapped a finger to his temple, then closed his eyes, looking more peaceful than he had in weeks.

Ben followed Cat out of the room and onto the balcony overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The suite atop the Crown Chandler property in St. Augustine kept them close to the source of Rogan’s powerful magical haven, a castle he once owned, yet far enough away for them to retain their perspective. Rogan’s castle had been moved over sixty years ago from the legendary Gypsy colony of Valoren to a supposedly haunted island off the coast of Florida. Now it was being renovated as a hotel—a high-priced resort no vacationer would set foot in until he and his uncle had mastered the Gypsy curse.

Now that Paschal had one brother back after six decades of trying to foil the dark magic, he had insisted on remaining close to the structure. He believed, perhaps naively, perhaps not, that all his brothers had been trapped by the same curse. He’d rededicated himself to finding and freeing them all, but so far, despite help from Ben and Cat, they’d made very little progress. Each time Paschal called upon his psychic skill to try to locate another brother, he grew weaker. Older. Ben couldn’t help but wonder how much time his father had left before a family reunion was no longer possible.

“Heard from Alexa?” Ben asked after Cat leaned back against him, the exotic scent of her hair teasing his nostrils.

“A few hours ago,” Cat replied. “She and Damon are being followed. Not sure yet by whom. They’ve stayed away from Valoren because they don’t want to lead anyone back there. She’s having a devil of a time keeping Damon in check, though. He’s convinced the key to finding his brothers is back where it all began.”

“Sounds reasonable. Maybe we should head there ourselves. Act as decoys.”

Cat shook her head. “We’re better off staying on the trail of the sword. We’re so close.”

Ben looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What are you talking about? We don’t know where the sword is. We don’t know where Farrow Pryce is. Or Gemma, for that matter. All we know is that Alexa and Damon met with an antiques dealer in Dresden who said he sold a sword matching the description of Rogan’s to a rich American man and his beautiful wife over three years ago.”

Cat arched a brow. “A beautiful
blond
wife. And I’ll bet that same blonde is the woman from Paschal’s vision. She has the sword. I saw it. It was lying on a table just a few feet away from her.”

“Why didn’t you tell Paschal you saw that part?”

Her frown answered his question. “He’s in no shape to travel. Besides, this woman might be easy to find, but she’s going to be hell to get close to.”

She went into the suite and returned with a glossy magazine, one of those celebrity rags he saw tossed around the lobby of the hotel. On the cover was a statuesque blonde wearing a sparkly dress with some insipid headline about her apparently high-profile divorce.

“That’s the woman he saw on the floor?” he asked.

“Yep. Lauren Cole,” Cat replied. “She’s one of Hollywood’s hottest.”

Ben smirked. “You told Paschal that you had seen only snippets of the experience.”

Her lips quirked into an unrepentant smile. “I lied.”

He had the overwhelming urge to tell Cat he loved her, but he squelched the instinct by dragging her into his arms and showing her instead with lips and tongue and hands.

All thoughts of swords and blondes and his father drifted out of his mind, replaced with the strong urge to divest Cat of her panties. Unfortunately she had a single-minded streak he’d rather not fight.

“Only problem is,” she said, wiping her hand lovingly across her kiss-swollen mouth, “she was involved in some sort of accident today. Its all over the Internet. She’s in the hospital in Los Angeles. We won’t be able to get near her.”

The mechanisms in Ben’s brain clicked and whirled until he made a mind-blowing connection. “Do you think that’s what he saw? Her accident? And Aiden was there? Didn’t Alexa say that when she first released Damon she was knocked unconscious?”

Cat nodded. “Yes, but she came to rather quickly. Lauren Cole was much more severely injured. Some sort of electric shock. Either way, she’s definitely released Aiden. At least partially. I felt a man standing over her, and he was very concerned. His soul felt very, very old.”

“Could he have hurt her?”

When Damon had tapped into Rogan’s magic, he’d become violent. Could Aiden suffer the same effect?

“I don’t think so, but I don’t know. We need to talk to Lauren Cole.”

“Does Alexa know her?”

As the heiress to the Crown Chandler legacy, Alexa had more than just money and jets and hotel rooms at her disposal. She knew everyone worth knowing—including celebrities.

Cat smiled. “She booked us a suite at her Beverly Hills property. Lauren Cole uses their spa. The concierge is very well connected and should be able to wrangle us an introduction to her or, at the very least, someone in her entourage. Alexa wants to stay as far from this as possible. She doesn’t want to tip off the people following her about what we’re up to.”

“What about Gemma Von Roan?”

Cat’s grin turned into a hard frown. “That’s the part you won’t like.”

“Why?”

“I called your friend Mariah.”

Ben had trouble swallowing. The thought of his current lover talking to his former one did not make him happy.

“She’s cool,” Cat said.

Again he remained quiet. If cool equaled cold as ice, then Cat’s assessment was on the money.

He took a chance. “And?”

Cat sidled away. “She used her aviation contacts and found out that Farrow Pryce’s corporate jet has been used twice this week, both times heading to Los Angeles.”

“He’s closing in,” Ben said. “He might already be close enough to beat us to the sword.”

“Then we’d better hurry,” Cat said, that sly look in her eye making his stomach do a little flip. “We leave in an hour.”

The smell hit her first. Metallic and sterile, the odor lured Lauren from the darkness and into the pain. Images of white sleeves and pale hands faded, replaced by the fuzzy outlines of a man and a woman arguing at the foot of her bed. The woman she recognized immediately from the sheer venom in her voice—Helen. But she had to blink several times before she identified the soft-spoken man as her friend and director, Michael Sharpe.

“You can’t let him in here,” Helen insisted, slashing her hand inches from Michael’s middle. Had her nails been sharpened, she might have disemboweled him.

“He’s her husband.”

“Her
ex
-husband. The divorce was final days ago.”

Michael shoved his hands through his hair, bringing the white at his temples into sharp relief against his tan skin. “He’s still the producer. He could shut down production, and then where would she be?”

“Don’t be coy, Michael. It doesn’t suit you,” Helen spat. “The real question is, where would
you
be?”

Lauren moved her jaw, wondering if she had enough energy to open it and beg Helen to back off. Michael was a good guy, even if he was intimidated as hell by Ross. She couldn’t blame him. Michael was a filmmaker, not a moneyman. Once known for costume dramas and quirky films that had earned him two Oscars and a Palme d’Or, he had signed on to direct the Athena films solely for the cash. Luckily for her his immense talent ensured that the four previous Athena films had been exciting, dramatic action thrillers rather than campy toga romps. Helen really shouldn’t give him a hard time for kissing Ross’s ass. Who in this town hadn’t smooched that particular backside at least once?

“He just wants to check on her for himself,” Michael explained to Helen. “He promised he won’t stay long. If he pulls the plug—”

“I’d like to pull his plug,” Helen snapped, and Lauren felt a chuckle burble inside her chest. “If he cancels this film he’ll look like a vindictive, pussy-whipped asshole. He won’t tarnish his prized reputation that way.”

Michael frowned. “Depends on the spin.”

Helen’s grin sharpened with pure spite. “My point exactly. Ross Marchand is a powerful man, but what he knows about spin, I taught him. If he fucks with her, I’ll give him so much spin he’ll think he died and came back as a dreidel. I won’t let him mess with her. Not today. Not when she almost—”

“Died?”

The word croaked from Lauren’s parched lips.

“Lauren?”

Helen practically leaped into her arms, making Lauren feel a hell of a lot better about her long-term mortality. Clearly if she were moments from death, Helen would be treating her with kid gloves.

“You’re alive. . . .I mean,” she corrected, “awake.”

“Apparently both,” Lauren said, winded and achy. The roots of her hair hurt, as if someone were tugging on the strands and wasn’t letting go. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to be set on hum, and the ringing in her ears gave a hollow quality to her voice when she spoke. She squirmed, hoping movement would alleviate the sensations, but the stiffness of the hospital bed beneath her only made it worse. “What happened?”

Helen’s teeth caught on her berry-stained bottom lip. “We’re not sure. Stan’s looking into it.”

And Stan was. . .who?

Her confusion must have shown.

“You remember Stan, don’t you, sweetie? The set electrician? Whatever happened in your trailer cut the juice to half the soundstage. We nearly lost you.”

Lauren shut her eyes tight and tried to remember. All she could see in her mind’s eye was. . .Aiden. Warmth oozed over her body like heated massage oil, sensual and soothing. She could almost hear his voice whispering her name.

“Aiden,” she murmured.

“No, honey. Stan. He’s going to figure out what happened.”

“We know what happened. Someone tried to kill you.”

The voice boomed into the sterile hospital room and, if Lauren wasn’t mistaken, shook the IV drip attached to her arm.

With each step Ross took into the room, Helen widened her stance until she looked like a linebacker about to block an oncoming tackle. “Leave her alone, Ross. She’s been through hell.”

Ross stared at Lauren, not sparing Helen a second glance. “She’s been through worse before.”

With any other man Helen might have unleashed her industry-famous temper, but with Ross she had to tread carefully. He was, after all, her boss on this film. And while Helen had clout to spare in her own right, she didn’t need to be on the bad side of a mogul like Ross Marchand.

“It’s okay,” Lauren forced herself to say.

Helen spun on her, her eyes wide. “You sure?”

Lauren nodded. “Just don’t go far.”

Leaning in, Helen whispered, “If he so much as farts too loud, you call me.”

Guessing that laughing would hurt like hell, Lauren kept her reaction to a reassuring smile. Before she left the room, Helen closed the curtain beside the empty bed near the window, then, after skewering Ross with a look of warning, exited the room. Michael, Lauren noticed, had already left.

“What. do you want, Ross?”

She didn’t want to look into his eyes, but something in his expression forced her attention there. Were they. . .glossy? Ross was a smooth operator, but he wasn’t a very good actor. At least not with her. She looked away.

“You’re really all right?” he asked.

She gave a light shrug. “I’m breathing.”

“I called in a specialist. I’d have moved you to a better room, but the doctors wanted you—”

“I’m fine,” she said, cutting him off. His obvious concern unnerved her almost as much as the tubes and monitors attached to her body. She couldn’t help remembering a time, not so many years ago, when he’d come to her in a different hospital, shaking with the same anxiety and apprehension, sitting vigil at her bedside, professing a heart full of emotions while she drifted in and out of a drug-induced haze.

It had been the night she’d run away from him the first time. She’d just turned eighteen, and, after three years living with Ross and his wife, Donna, her whole world turned upside down. Ross announced that Donna had left him and then iced the shocking announcement by declaring his love for Lauren and asking her to marry him. Stunned and overwhelmed, she’d run away to West Hollywood, searching for her mother or her former friends, desperate to escape what even her very young mind knew was a bad idea.

Yeah, with Ross, she’d lived the high life in Malibu and Beverly Hills, but running with the rich and famous came with a high price—her independence. Not to mention her self-respect.

Ross had been her teacher. A patient guide. Then, over time, he’d become more.

So cool. So manipulative. He’d convinced her that he could not only save her from the streets, but could also make her a star. He’d made good on his promises, too, arranging for her to appear in a few small independent films so she could learn the ropes without the whole industry watching. And since she hadn’t embarrassed herself, she’d hung on Ross’s every word after that—listened and learned and lived.

Her undeniable yearning for safety and security canceled out every bit of street smarts she’d ever learned. Years of depending on an undependable mother, squatting in abandoned buildings and foraging for food had broken her down to utter desperation. When his limo had popped a tire a few feet from where she was hanging on a street corner, she’d seen him as just another hotshot she could grift for lunch money.

But he’d found her act charming. Long after a second car had come to rescue him from the unwashed masses and return him to the golden vistas of the California coastline, he’d stayed with her, grunging his Armani slacks on the curb, asking her questions and listening to her bullshit answers.

And even after his wise-ass butler had coaxed him into leaving that day, he’d come back. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with Donna. His wife had blown Lauren away with her stylish smarts and fearless attitude. Lauren had never met a woman like her before. She wanted to be her. How could she not?

At the time, Lauren hadn’t known what to make of these aliens from her own hometown. At first she’d figured they were just slumming, bringing her little gifts of gourmet cheese and imported crackers to appease their consciences for living such lives of excess. But after her mother lit out on some drug run to Tijuana, Lauren decided to screw her hand-to-mouth life and go with the Marchands back to the Hills. A couple of days turned into a week. Then a month. Then three years.

They taught her to dress properly and speak with correct pronunciation. They found her roles in the community theater they ran in West Hollywood, then had her audition for the parts in indie films. She earned her chops and, little by little, she transformed from a streetwise punk to a sleek, sophisticated actress who could believably spout lines from
Medea
as easily as the lyrics from the latest top-ten ballad.

But then Donna left, just days before Lauren turned eighteen. Ross’s interest suddenly became personal—intimate. He had never, to her knowledge, looked at her that way, no matter how beautiful he’d told her she was or how handsome she’d found him.

How powerful.

How perfect.

Suddenly terrified by emotions and an attraction she’d never expected, Lauren had run back to the streets. She’d learned that her mother had OD’d, and the only friends she could remember had either gone to lockup or had moved on. She remembered meeting a guy—a runaway like her—and buying him dinner with the twenty dollars Ross had given her earlier in the day to tip her masseuse. Later that night she’d been jumped by five gang girls trolling for drug money. With each punch, kick and cut, she learned how much she no longer belonged in the hood. If not for the runaway who’d called the cops, she would have died in a stinking alleyway.

The kid had waited with her until the ambulance arrived, and then had abandoned her when she’d needed him most.

“Lauren, are you okay? Do you need more pain meds? I can get the doctor,” Ross offered now.

Her own eyes filled with moisture. She took a chance at raising her arm, which still felt as if she were being pricked by a thousand pins and needles, and swiped the tears away. The desperation of that moment all those years ago came flooding back. If only the kid had dragged her away instead of calling for help. If only he’d helped her escape, rather than leave her to fall once again under Ross’s spell.

“What do you want, Ross? You can see I’m fine. The film will go on. I haven’t talked to any doctors yet, but I’m sure the movie won’t be delayed for more than a few days. The insurance—”

He cut her off with a hand over hers. She wanted to recoil, but didn’t have the strength.

“I’m not worried about the movie.”

No matter the pain, this time she couldn’t prevent the laughter.

His grin was small and disarming, reminding her of how she’d once fallen so hard for him.

“Okay,” he admitted. “I’m worried about the movie. But I’m more worried about you. First you break into my house and take something that isn’t yours—”

It took all of her feeble strength, but she managed to yank her hand away. Beside her, one of the monitors beeped more quickly. It must be gauging her heart rate.

“Is that why you’re here? Because of the sword? It’s mine, Ross. You know it is. Your lawyer will tell you, or hasn’t he already?”

“You can’t prove it was a gift.”

Any sentimental thoughts lingering in her brain burst into nothingness.

“Can’t I?” she countered, trying to stretch so she at least looked as if she were sitting up taller in the damned bed. “Want me to produce the guy who owns the antiques shop? He’s still there. He remembers us. He remembers the sword. Want to know how I know that?”

His spray-tan face paled. “The guy was a hundred years old,” he claimed, but his voice quavered—just the tiniest bit, but enough to know she’d won this battle. At least for today.

She relaxed, closed her eyes for a moment and thought about Aiden. God, where was he? Where was the sword? If what Helen said was true, her trailer was probably swarming with people by now. Guys from the set. From the studio. From the insurance company. Anyone who took one look at the brilliant artistry of the sword wouldn’t hesitate to steal it.

Maybe even Ross himself.

But he didn’t have the weapon back yet or he wouldn’t have come here to harass her. Nevertheless, for all she knew, Aiden Forsyth and the sword she’d coveted could be gone.

“I’m tired,” she said. Her entire body ached, though she guessed that the liquid dripping into her arm was numbing the true brunt of her pain. She needed sleep. She needed to heal. She needed Ross to get the hell out. Even if she did have the sword, there was no way she was going to give it back.

He patted her hand, then let his palm sit atop her hand for a few minutes. A subtle shake vibrated from his fingers to hers. . .or was that just the aftereffect of her own injury? She opened her eyes and noticed, in this unguarded moment, that Ross’s irises had a dark curtain drawn across them—a look she’d seen too often during their life together for her not to know that something was seriously wrong.

“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll bite. What’s wrong?”