The Siren's Touch (13 page)

The now-familiar teapot steamed alongside a stainless carafe on the counter. There was something just wrong about drinking tea from Sonya’s ghost-home, so he poured them both coffee. He found a stack of blueberry pancakes in the oven. A spoon waited alongside a jar of jam and two plates. His stomach took its turn to grumble. She held on to the crook of his arm like they were on a date, while he served her a plate and then raised it up for her approval.

“More jam, please.”

After adding another dollop of the gooey preserves, he placed it in her hand. But with her other arm tucked around his, she had no way to eat. She frowned down at the food.

“Let me.” He cut her a bite of pancake and raised it to her mouth. She parted her lips, and closed them over the fork. Her eyes rolled back and her guttural sigh was possibly the most erotic sound he’d ever heard. The world shrunk to that fork and her mouth.

“More?”

She swallowed. “Yes, please.”

When she opened her mouth, he remembered the soft heat of her tongue. If he kissed her again, she would taste like jam.

The sound of Elena’s heels distracted him from the fantasy. “This is the best I could do.” She lifted a hanger dangling a black dress. It appeared half a dozen sizes too small.

And this awkward process of eating while they stayed in contact did not bode well for getting her dressed, or for their shopping excursion. How in the hell would she get that nightgown off—one sleeve at a time, passing his hand from one of hers to the other?

Elena held the dress up to Sonya’s shoulders, seeming to anticipate the same problem. “Hold her ankle.”

Sonya’s eyes flashed wide with understanding, and he responded with a smile he hoped was more reassuring than wolfish.

Good idea, Elena. I will kneel at the feet of this naked goddess of a ghost, and behave like the gentleman I’ve never been. Over and over again, all day long in the dressing rooms of San Francisco. Clearly, his auntie’s opinion of him was entirely inflated.

He dropped to his knees, exchanging one hand for the other to maintain their contact. Elena cleared her throat, shooting him a meaningful glance. He turned his face to the floor and closed his eyes for good measure. Maybe the nightgown had left nothing to his imagination, but they could all pretend otherwise for the sake of her modesty. The soft cotton brushed his face as she lifted it.

When she wriggled, he wrapped both his hands around her heel and interlaced his fingers. Her skin was so soft, the bottom of her foot as tender as a child’s. The feel of it affected him the same way her pancake-induced sigh had—with a bone-deep longing that surpassed lust and desire—a promise, an illusion, that for her he could be someone else, the man he’d never had the chance to be. Absently, he stroked her arch.

She giggled, very nearly pulling away. “That tickles.”

He glanced up to find her wrapped in the dress. It was the type that tied like a bathrobe, which meant it more or less covered her, but her breasts threatened to spill out of the neckline, unhindered by a bra.

“I have shoes too,” Elena announced, holding up those stupid sheepskin boots that made every woman look like she wanted to be an American Indian Princess from a Disney Movie.

He grunted his approval. Even if he hated the things, they had to be pretty much one-size-fits-all. “Give them to me.” And, kneeling at her feet, he slid one over her ankle, then the other.

Winding her long hair into a loose braid, Sonya smiled down at him self-consciously. “Okay. We’re ready. No time to fret over how awful I look.”

Thing was, she didn’t look awful at all. She looked amazing, like a bohemian beauty native to the streets of San Francisco. But no good could come from arguing with her.

She extended her hand to help him stand and kept a firm hold once he was on his feet.

He tugged her. “Come with me to the door.”

She obeyed, and again, he peered through the thin band of clear glass in the windowpane. The driver occupied himself with something in the car, but the passenger stood, resting his hands on the roof of the sedan, his eyes glued to Elena’s house. Could he see the shadow of Dmitri and Sonya behind the frosted glass? This thug didn’t look quite as stupid as the other, and his massive shoulders towered over the roof of the car. Big guy. Bigger than Dmitri. And familiar.

Dmitri’s hands shook for want of his morning cigarette, and he closed his eyes, trying to place the thug’s face. Were they those fools who had tripped up Gregor’s Odessa security operation and been chased out of the country? If his uncle had called those idiots, he was more than a little pissed that Dmitri wasn’t calling back. But what could he do—phone Gregor and explain he just had to help a ghost and then he would take out Makar and come home?

“Um, Dmitri, are they coming this way?”

He opened his eyes to see the big one rounding the nose of the car, his coat flapping behind him to reveal his double holsters. The other guy stepped out of the driver’s side. They moved fast, black suits, sunglasses, no soul. No, not the thugs from Odessa. Just two hired guns same as Dmitri, a type as familiar as his own face.

“Go to the car,” he ordered, barreling down the stairs into the garage as quickly as Sonya could follow. Elena’s tiny red roadster left plenty of room in the dark, narrow space.

“How are we going to fit in that?” Sonya asked, voicing Dmitri’s question.

Elena brandished her keys. “Just get in. They are coming up the stairs, and I do not want a gunfight in my house. Enough priceless objects have been broken for one week.”

“I’ll drive.” Dmitri held out his palm.

“Nope. Your job is to hold on to the ghost. Sonya, sit in his lap. That’s an order.”

He threw his bag into the narrow space in the back and fell into the bucket seat. Folding his legs under the dashboard, he pulled her down onto his thighs. Christ, it would have been a tight fit even if he didn’t have a tall woman perched on him. She had to hunch, her shoulder blades pressing into the ceiling of the car.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and flattened his cheek to her spine. “All right?”

“Just fine.” She squeezed his knee.

With plenty of room on her side of the car, his aunt pressed on the garage-door opener. The motor roared to life, letting the thugs know exactly where they were waiting like sitting ducks. Dmitri held his breath and squeezed Sonya. But the sports car was low, and by the time the black-clad legs appeared in the strip of light beneath the rising door, Elena gunned the engine and tore past them, screeching onto the road.

Dmitri laughed. His aunt staged an escape as dramatic as his best getaways. She joined in the laughter, raising her hand for a high-five.

The car slowed. He pressed his foot to the floor beneath the passenger seat as if there was a gas pedal there. “Don’t stop, damn it!”

“I’m flooring it,” Elena replied.

They glided to a halt in the middle of the street, a mere half a block from the house. Sonya pressed into Dmitri hard enough to steal his breath.

Elena slammed down the gas, revving the engine.

“What the hell?” he asked.

Like a giant winch was tugging it, the car began to slide backwards. Dmitri looked over his shoulder, where the thugs stared at each other stupidly. Finally, they sprinted toward the car. Every time Elena pushed the gas pedal, the wheels skidded over the asphalt with a shivering rub. Sonya pressed into Dmitri, her hips into his gut and her spine into his ribs, making it hard inhale.

“Lay off, ghost. Can’t breathe.”

“Can’t.” She gasped. “Something. Pulling. Me.”

Elena glanced away from the displays on the dash. “Where’s the teapot?”

From another person, the out-of-the-blue question simply didn’t follow, but from his auntie, it was a hypothesis. “On the counter, full of tea. Why?”

“I think she is tethered to it. We can’t get away from it.”

He craned his neck to look out the rear window. “Guess we are going to have to talk to our new friends.”

The men approached on either side of the car. Elena threw it into reverse and gunned the engine. Between the supernatural and regular old horsepower, the car practically flew back to the house, leaving the men exchanging more astonished glances.

Elena yanked on the parking brake and hopped out. “Cover me.”

To do that, he needed to clear the car and get a grip on his gun, and he preferred Sonya stay in the shelter of the vehicle. Only, there was no way to get out from under her, and the jogging men would be in range of Elena in seconds.

“Here, hurry.” Sonya took hold of his hand and climbed out of the car so that he could do the same.

He shielded her with his body. Pressing her hand against his lower back, she freed up both of his for his gun.

He took aim, and the men slowed, raising their palms.

“Relax,” the less-dumb-looking one called out. “We’re friends. Just coming by to see that you’re all right. Gregor’s worried about you.” Not quite friendly, but not exactly threatening either. These guys were only sent to spy.

“Who’s your pretty friend?”

“Just like you said, she’s my pretty friend.”

“’Cause Gregor didn’t mention nothin’ about a friend.” The dumber one spoke, reaching into his pocket.

Dmitri swung his gun, taking aim at dumb and nosy.

“Hey, man. Just sayin’.”

Elena appeared at her front door, atop the long flight of stairs. She raised a hatbox, the old-fashioned kind with a strap, just the right size for a rusalka-possessed teapot. The distraction lasted just long enough for less-dumb to snap a photo of Sonya with his phone.

“We’ll just send this picture along to him, so he knows what’s keeping you busy.”

Elena’s heels thudded on the street and she ignored the men, stepping into the car with a kind of royal dignity that she and Gregor, alone among the surviving Liskos, possessed.

“Nice wheels, lady, but you might want to get that engine looked at.”

Elena leaned over the gear stick to smile at him, flashing her middle finger at the same time. “Get in, Dmitri.”

He did, pulling Sonya down on his lap again. Elena passed the hatbox to her. “Take care of that, dear. Not sure what would happen to you if it were broken.”

Sonya shivered, and Dmitri’s mind filled with images of another woman, dead and bleeding by his gun. He hoped he could protect Sonya better—teapot, soul, and lovely body too. A body, which began to wiggle in his lap in a very distracting way.

He sucked in a breath and barked out a clipped whisper. “Sonya.”

“Sorry. I’m just trying to find a good position. I don’t want to squish you.”

He closed his eyes, wondering how long it would take the inexperienced ghost to realize squishing was the least of his concerns.

“I’ll drop you two downtown, and then I’m going to the office. But first, I might call my domineering prick of a brother and chew him out for sending those thugs to my house.”

Gregor wanted to pace. When his legs had worked fine, he hadn’t had much interest—it was Dmitri or Elena who had required perpetual motion, not him. But now, it seemed like the answer to all his problems. Probably because he couldn’t actually do it without looking like the cripple he was.

When the Energy Minister appeared for their meeting, Gregor fantasized. His gaze traced the pattern he’d have liked to walk around his office from behind his desk, following the burgundy border of his immense Turkish rug—each colorful peacock woven into the carpet would be a steppingstone for his once-agile feet.

By the time his next appointment arrived, he found himself too restless to simply sit and imagine walking. Perched on the front of his desk, he greeted a new customer, a Black Sea shipping magnate. The man’s furry caterpillar of a mustache showed plenty of grey, but his eyes still flashed wide when he saw Gregor’s cane resting alongside him at the desk.

Perhaps the man assumed weakness, because his highly reputed negotiating skills fell flat, and Gregor almost had his signature on an over-priced security contract. He poured the man a glass of brandy—the harsh stuff made from mulberries that those Georgian barbarians liked to drink.

Lifting his glass, he said, “You know, Gelashvili, I like you. I’d like to provide your security for a long time. Let me sweeten this deal for you.” He scribbled a number on to a scrap of paper, a hundred thousand euros less than the offer Gelashvili had agreed to. That way, if Dmitri did come back, he wouldn’t have to re-negotiate this contract for a long time.

Although a gentle surge of regret nearly erupted in a laugh—the Georgian would take one look at Dmitri and assume the boy was nothing but a muscle-bound enforcer. Dima would have him over a barrel in half the time Gregor had.

Red faced and laughing jovially, Gelashvili shook Gregor’s hand far higher and lower than was usual for a polite handshake. His friendliness was infectious, and Gregor found himself patting the man’s back when he turned to leave, suddenly aware it was the last time he’d ever see him.

The door clicked shut, and Gregor slid onto the floor, fatigued by his effort to stand, even with the desk to lean against. He ran his fingers through the thick pile of the carpet and hoped his nephew would be back very soon to wear a deep path into it, muddying the colors.

His phone signaled an incoming message. He reached overhead and patted on the desk until he found the buzzing device and examined the photo texted to him.

He dropped the phone and it bounced on the rug.

Her?

How could it be her?

Had she lived? She would be as old as him.

He collapsed onto the rug, trembling. Impossible. He’d pulled her lifeless body from the river and laid it by her sister himself. Two pretty girls in wet shifts. Idly, he’d wondered whether the water or the gunshot had killed her, and then Ivan had dragged him away, holding up a sack of valuables the girl had dropped like he’d earned a prize.

Impossible.

The memories had haunted him. How could they not?

He forced himself to look at the photo again, enlarging her face. So vibrant and alive, pink cheeks and rosy lips. You never saw rosebud lips like those anymore—like they stopped making them in the nineteen forties. He’d never forgotten those girls, their faces etched in his memory. Because a man never forgot his first kill, especially not when she was a beautiful, young woman.