Phantom's Touch: Sexy Paranormal (Book 2, Phantom Series) (6 page)

“I shall be whatever you wish me to be,” he promised, “but I fear you must keep the sword near you.”

“Forever?” Not that she minded a lover who was invisible during the day and amazingly solid at night, but as an actress whose first order of business once she finished this film was to shed her Athena image, she couldn’t imagine carrying a sword around with her everywhere she went.

“I am bound to the sword,” he explained. “I cannot make my way in your world until you free me completely.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“I’m not entirely certain you can,” he said, intoxicating her yet again with breathy words against her skin. “But imagine the delight we’ll both enjoy while we find out.”

Ross Marchand shoved his hands into his pockets, his teeth grinding and his jaw aching. He stopped himself by remembering the cost of his veneers. He wasn’t going to lose control. Not for her. At least, not yet.

He had other things to worry about. Bigger things than his ex-wife and that stupid sword. Like a film about to go into production without a leading man. And that little problem with his finances.

“Do you want me to call the police, sir?”

Nigel lingered a few steps behind him, in the space between the Louis XIV settee and the wing backed chair once reputed to have been owned by Winston Churchill. His butler had left himself enough space to make a quick getaway from Ross’s home office. Smart man.

“No,” Ross croaked, glancing down at the tool, so carelessly discarded, that had cut through the case. He’d seen the high-tech gadget before. Hell, he’d paid for it. He wondered if the crew on his latest spy thriller, which had wrapped two weeks ago, realized it was missing. “I know who took it.”

“Well, of course you do,” Nigel muttered, his British accent, which Ross had long suspected was an affectation, slipping a bit. “Shall I put in a call to the former Mrs. Marchand and ask her to return your property?”

Ross snorted. As if Lauren would do anything Nigel asked her to. Even the entire U.N. wouldn’t attempt anything as hopeless as trying to barter peace between his second wife and his butler. Nigel had nearly been a casualty of the endless warfare during his seven-year marriage.

“Don’t bother.”

“You think she’ll deny taking the sword?”

Nigel’s voice rose an octave. He seemed to be taking the whole situation as a personal affront, especially since Lauren had been clever enough to charm her way past security on the butler’s night off.

“Of course she won’t deny it,” Ross said. He took one last look at the empty case atop his mantel. He needed a drink. Something rare. Something expensive.

After a second Ross realized the butler had mentioned, prior to the news about the missing sword, that he had a second matter that required his attention. He slid into the custom-fitted Aeron chair behind his desk, took two cleansing breaths and then spoke.

“You had something else to tell me?”

The butler’s lips tightened into a pucker. “There’s someone waiting for you on the lanai, sir.”

“Someone?”

The butler straightened to his full, if not quite average height, and adjusted his shoulders until his gray suit molded to his fit frame. “The gentleman was averse to giving his name, sir, but achieved entrance to the house by showing the guard this.”

A business card? That was all it took to make it past security?

Ross snatched the small rectangle and knew immediately by touch how the stranger had bypassed his front gate. Custom designed and embossed on hand-tanned leather, the cards came from Ross’s very private collection. He handed them out to only the biggest movers and shakers in the entertainment industry—and a select few power brokers from outside the film world. There had been quite an uproar in the gossip rags two years ago when one of Ross’s cards had been entered into evidence in the murder trial of a notorious mobster. It was an uproar he couldn’t quite shake—and he had no one to blame but himself. His expensive tastes meant that the company he kept often left a lot to be desired.

“What’s the guy look like?”

A twitch of a smile itched the corner of Nigel’s mouth. “Rather cosmopolitan, sir. Impeccably dressed and groomed.”

“Not an actor?”

Nigel’s nostrils flared, as if he’d suddenly caught a whiff of rotten eggs. “Certainly not, sir. I’d guess a businessman of extreme influence. And if he’s local, then I’ll eat my hat.”

Ross chuckled, picturing Nigel taking a bite out of the bowler he liked to wear, particularly when he ran errands in Ross’s classic Aston Martin, like stopping by the tailor or the dry cleaner or the gourmet market. “Yeah? Well, let’s see just what sort this joker is. Grab a bottle of Macallan and two glasses and meet me on the lanai.”

Nigel nodded and instantly disappeared. Good man, Nigel, even if the British butler was straight out of central casting. Ross had hired him fifteen years ago, when he was more interested in creating a persona for himself than he was in collecting genuine articles. But whether Nigel was from Birmingham, England, or Birmingham, Alabama, had made no difference to Ross. The man knew Ross’s secrets, and without exception Nigel had kept them all.

After checking his hair in the mirror, Ross ambled onto the patio to find a well-dressed man standing near the ledge overlooking Malibu. When he turned and nodded in greeting, the sun glinted off dark eyeglasses, further obscuring his face. He didn’t look familiar. But he had to be, if he had one of Ross’s cards.

Ross strode forward and accepted the man’s proffered hand.

“Mr. Marchand. The view is truly stunning,” the stranger said, gesturing to the blue-green Pacific sparkling just below the house. “I’m surprised you bother to make films when you can sit here and watch the waves. Amazing. Terrible and beautiful.”

Ross forced a grin, but had other things on his mind beyond the ocean, which admittedly was awe-inspiring, though he certainly hadn’t bought this house for the view.

“You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name. I can’t say the same.”

The stranger whipped off his glasses, revealing sharp, dark blue eyes. “I apologize. We spoke on the phone about six months ago in regard to an item you purchased from a Dresden collector. An item I was—still am, actually—interested in taking off your hands.”

The blood Ross had managed to cool down to a simmer before Nigel had announced his mysterious guest flared again.

“You mean that damned sword?” he barked, yanking his hand back.

The stranger nodded coolly.

Ross took a deep breath and tempered his anger. Slowly he pushed his ire at his ex-wife aside and brought his negotiating skills to the forefront. Clearly this man had gone to a lot of trouble to bid for the weapon m person.

“I’ve had many inquiries about the sword,” Ross admitted. “But I certainly don’t recall. sending any collectors my business card or inviting them to my home.”

The man grinned, then moved toward the shaded granite table near the edge of the infinity swimming pool. He slid into a cushioned chair with ease, extracting a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his barely perspiring brow. “I thought you’d appreciate my tenacity,” he said in a tone that implied Ross actually did. Which, he supposed, was true. “A friend acquired your card on my behalf. Talking over the telephone can be so cold and impersonal. A possible exchange of cash for a commodity of this magnitude requires a personal interaction.”

Nigel opened the sliding glass door, a tray with two Riedel glasses and Ross’s prized bottle of single-malt balanced expertly in his hands. With a barely perceptible shake, Ross stopped Nigel from striding forward. He wasn’t pouring out his best stuff for some asshole who’d managed to breach his security, no matter how clever he’d been in arranging a face-to-face.

“What’s your name?”

“Farrow Pryce.”

“And your business?”

“Varied and diversified. You can have your man check me out, if you wish. I’ll wait.”

Ross narrowed his gaze. Over the years he’d learned to read people. Observe. Make judgments. His instincts came from his gut, and so far he’d been wrong only once. Twice, if he counted Lauren. But their nasty breakup and divorce notwithstanding, she wasn’t a bad person. Stubborn and headstrong, sure. Tricky and conniving, absolutely. But without those qualities, she might have buckled under the stress of Hollywood. Happened all the time.

He motioned to Nigel, who proceeded forward and delivered the scotch to the table.

“What was your name again?” Ross asked.

The stranger turned and answered directly to Nigel. “Pryce. With a y. First name Farrow. Family name. Cumbersome, really, but unique. Makes me particularly easy to investigate.”

Brief eye contact with Nigel assured Ross he’d have background information on this man in a flash. In the meantime, Ross could at least find out how a collector interested in that damned sword could manage to show up on the very morning it had been discovered missing.

“What brings you here today, of all days?” Ross asked, sliding the scotch to his visitor.

Pryce took a sip, hummed in appreciation of the smooth scotch, then set down his glass. “Is this a bad time?”

“No worse than usual,” Ross replied.

Farrow chuckled. “Then I’d like to make your day considerably better.”

Slipping his hand into the pocket of his tailored suit jacket, he pulled out a slip of paper. He flattened it on the table, then slid it silently across the table to Ross. A cashier’s check. Ross glanced down, raising an eyebrow as he eyed the amount.

“That’s about fifteen times what I paid for the sword,” Ross commented.

“Twenty. When I want something, I do my research.”

“Have you been collecting swords long?”

“Not at all,” Farrow replied, swirling his finger around the tulip edge of his glass. “I honestly couldn’t care less about any but the Dresden sword.”

“Think that’s wise,” Ross asked, sliding the check back toward Pryce, “telling me how desperate you are?”

“Under other circumstances, no, it wouldn’t be wise at all. Giving you that much power in the negotiations would be quite detrimental. But you see, money is not all I have to offer you, Mr. Marchand. Though honestly, I can’t imagine what commodity you need more. Particularly now.”

Ross stiffened, but forced another sip of scotch. “I’m a movie producer. I always need money. And in much larger amounts than what you’re offering.”

“If I were offering to finance a film, of course you’d need more.” Finally Pryce lifted the scotch glass and took an appreciative sniff. “But what exactly is the price of saving your life?”

Ross slammed his glass down. “Is that some sort of threat?”

Men a hell of a lot scarier-looking than this one had asked Ross the very same question recently, but there was a cold malevolence in this man’s eyes that made Ross wish he hadn’t sent Nigel away so quickly. How in the hell did this guy know about his troubles? So far he’d defied the Hollywood rumor mill. The bastards riding his ass tended to keep very low profiles.

Farrow Pryce looked entirely unruffled, as if discussing the longevity of Ross’s life bored him to tears. “Calm down, Mr. Marchand. I did not come here offering you an obscene amount of money for an antique sword to insult you. And I see no need for us to work against each other when working together can be so much more beneficial. You have something I want—the sword—and I have something you need: money.”

Ross didn’t have time for this shit. He wasn’t going to play into the hands of some outsider who’d somehow stumbled onto the truth about Ross’s financial situation. Besides, the damned sword was just one more reminder of his fucked-up marriage to Lauren. He should be glad she’d taken it. Now, once the movie was over, they’d be entirely through.

“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have the sword anymore, Mr. Pryce. You’re too late.”

If Ross had thought the man’s eyes were icy before, he was mistaken. They were suddenly glacial. “You sold it?”

Ross snorted. “If only. It was stolen.”

“When?”

“Last night. You’re about twelve hours too late.”

Pryce immediately whipped out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial button. Before Ross could stop him, he was shouting to someone on the other end about finding out whether some man named Rousseau had gotten the sword. The name didn’t sound familiar, but Ross had so many offers for the sword since he’d shown it off to his associates that he hardly kept track of names anymore.

Glancing over his shoulder at the windows to his study, he wondered why he’d held on to the damned thing so long anyway. At first he’d simply wanted to show Lauren that she couldn’t have everything she wanted. Then, when things between them had deteriorated, he’d used the antique to hold on to her. Long before he’d turned his eye toward her buxom costar, he’d sensed her moving away from him, exerting her independence in little ways that ate away at the bonds of their marriage. He’d given up so much to make her a star. And this was how she repaid him? By robbing him in the dead of night?

“Find out if and how he got it and where it is now,” Farrow snarled. “You have an hour. Don’t disappoint me.”

Ross had to admit the man had the intimidation factor down pat.

“You’re wasting your time,” Ross informed him, snatching his scotch and downing the last of the smooth liquor in one fiery gulp. “I know who stole the sword.”

“You’ve called the police?”

“No point. Proving the sword doesn’t actually belong to her is more trouble than my lawyers say it’s worth.”

“Her?” Farrow asked, his eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“My ex-wife.”

It took the man a second, but his scowl relaxed into a confident grin. “The stage producer or the actress?”

“Lauren Cole.”

He tucked the check securely into his pocket.

“Clearly, then, I am dealing with the wrong Marchand.”