The Siren's Touch (16 page)

But she would ask him after he’d taken her to bed.

Slowly, so he wouldn’t notice, she returned her attention to him. He stared at the table with the phone at his ear and his lips pressed thin. The grim expression made him almost scary. But earlier, when he’d smiled and his sensuous mouth had revealed his even teeth and crinkled the skin around his crystal-blue eyes, his air of menace had vanished. He was beautiful in the way of so many flawed things.

Dipping her finger into the cream floating in her cup, she considered whether he would laugh more at a dollop on his nose or her own. Then his troubled gaze came to rest on her. No playful gesture would ease the worry etched on to his face.

“Who worked the case?” He squeezed her fingers hard enough to hurt.

She winced, tugging at his grip.

He closed his eyes and, without looking at her, eased up the hold. “Just say it.”

Before her eyes, he turned ghostly white, pressing his palm onto the table.

“Don’t tell him about this, all right?” His gravelly voice was a rasp.

The other man’s response was too garbled to hear, but Dmitri’s nostrils flared.

“Yeah. I get it. But at least don’t go out of your way to let him know, okay?” He ended the call without waiting for a reply.

She expected him to volunteer what he’d learned, but people passed by their table like the second hand on a clock, and he remained silent, his face angled toward the scuffed aluminum tabletop. Finally, she couldn’t wait any longer.

“Dmitri?”

He nodded slowly, his lips still pressed thin. “It’s not good, sweetheart.”

She straightened, interlacing their fingers. “Tell me.”

“The investigator’s report says your dad was mixed up in the theft of the necklace. That your mom ran off with you and your sister and that he found you and killed you all, then himself.”

“No.” Her loud shout reverberated off the high ceiling.

All around, faces turned to stare.

She lowered her voice. “It’s not true. I remem—”

“I believe you. The report is a cover-up. Of what, I don’t know.”

She sensed his silence looming, about to form an impenetrable wall. Leaning far over the table so she was very near to his face, she said, “What are you not telling me?”

“My uncle Gregor was on the case.”

His retreat into quiet gave her time to connect the dots. Slowly, the picture came together, turning her meal into a heavy, sinking stone in her stomach.

“Which means it’s not a coincidence Elena has the teapot and that you can see me. Your family was involved in covering up my death.”

And it even seemed possible his uncle Gregor had killed her if he’d had the teapot. But she didn’t voice the last dot she connected aloud. She swallowed it, sending the fear to join the grief and anger churning her breakfast in her belly.

She inhaled deeply, trying to soothe the queasy feeling. “What do we do now?”

He traced the creases in her palm. Did she have a short lifeline, like the old gypsies in Bessarabska Square used to say if you paid them a
hryvnia
or two to tell your fortune?

He folded her fingers closed, balling her hand into a fist and then encircling it in his own big paw. “I need to talk to him.”

“Okay.”

“Alone.”

“Oh.” She swallowed back another wave of nausea. She’d been certain she could seduce him, one way or the other, but her anticipation slid away like a wet glass dropping right out of her hand.

Maybe she had been wrong to trust him with saving her soul.

A bitter laugh erupted from her throat before she could stop it. She hadn’t exactly had a choice. He’d freed her and he was the only one who could see her. And now, he wanted to investigate his family secrets privately, leaving her alone, a ghost in downtown San Francisco.

What if he abandoned her? Dumped her teapot into a garbage can somewhere and took off back to Kiev?

He changed the grip of their hands so that her fingers slid into his palm. The pad of his thumb stroked down each of her fingernails, one at a time, soothing her. His gaze was focused on their point of contact, somehow making her believe she mattered to him. She followed suit, mesmerized by the tender action of his calloused thumb, now scraping lightly down each finger from her knuckle to the tip of her nail. The touch became erotic as she remembered his rough hand holding her bottom, then lifting and squeezing her breasts.

All at once, the desire that flooded her body turned into trust. But she was not naïve. Surely, a woman was seduced that way every second around the world. And just as surely, many of them were like her, without another choice. It wasn’t only that she wanted him. He was all she had. Everything depended on him.

“Dmitri, I trust you.”

The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed.

She remembered his words in the fitting room. “I know you think you are a bad man, Dmitri Lisko. But you have only been good to me. I don’t have a lot of choices, but you have one. You can help me.”

“We’ll find a quiet corner somewhere. You can ghost and wait for me there. I’ll take your clothes and the teapot and I won’t go far.”

“Okay. But first, can we buy a towel? When you bring me back, my hair will be soaked all over again.”

His dark brows pulled together as if he couldn’t understand her request. Then they relaxed and just as quickly those nice lines creased at the sides of his eyes. When his laugh came, it was the deepest she’d heard from him, booming from low in his gut, shaking his body and her hand. For good measure, she scooped a fingertip’s worth of fluffy cream on to his nose. He shook his head, still laughing, and his smile was heartbreakingly handsome.

She’d never met a man who evoked so many emotions all at once when she was alive, and it seemed horribly unfair to meet him now. But she could just throw that complaint on the pile of injustices that had led her to be a ghost in 2013, shopping with the nephew of her suspected murder. So instead of dwelling on it, she would squeeze out every moment of pleasure from the time she had with him.

A bold idea occurred to her, and she swallowed back her shock. Leaning close, she licked the whipped cream right off his nose and tried not to blush.

His mouth fell open in shock. Then he cupped her face. “I. Am not. Good.”

She pursed her lips. “But you want to be. And not just for me.”

“Maybe.” He glanced at the tabletop.

She arched a brow, waiting for the full admission.

After a moment, he faced her again. “Yeah, I do,” he rasped, nodding his head. “You see right through me.”

“Which is only fair, because when I’m a ghost, you can see through me too. Now, let’s go find that towel.”

She forced Dmitri to drag her through the shopping mall, because her feet fused to the floor before every display, her fingers twitched, unable to resist touching. Oh, all the shiny baubles and rich fabrics, all the smells. Other than the gardens in springtime, nothing in her dull Kiev had been so vibrant. She wished she could show her parents. Poor Mama and Papa and Anya. They would be just as astonished. A stab of guilt pierced her for enjoying all this life while they waited on her to avenge them.

Yet she couldn’t stop perusing the jewelry counters, noticing a necklace to suit Anya, a tie clip to keep Papa’s from blowing up in his face, which it always had even when there was no wind.

“Mama would love this,” she said, pointing at a deceptively simple gold band cast to resemble the grain of wood.

“You were close to her?”

“To all of them in different ways. And they depended on me to run the shop and…” The tear traced down her cheek before she knew it was there. Yes, she had to punish the man that had killed them, Dmitri’s uncle or not.

Dmitri tugged on her arm. “Come on.”

In spite of her grief, she stopped again to examine handbags—so many colors and sizes, the leather so supple. He tugged again, chuckling. There were an astonishing variety of belts, stockings, undergarments. He pretended he wasn’t impatient, but she saw through it. She couldn’t blame him. She was distracted by all things she’d never seen and never would again, while he hung back, aloof and casual about everything, as if this luxury was normal. Was Kiev like this now too? Because the wealth in San Francisco called to mind her fantasies of pre-revolutionary palaces full of jeweled ladies dancing at balls.

But even they wouldn’t have smelled as lovely as the perfume section. The air was thick, and she grew dizzy, flitting from counter to counter, each bottle a work of art. The saleswomen showed her how to spray the fragrances on slips of paper. Chanel No. 5,
Chant d’Arômes
, and a million new scents she’d never seen advertised on the pages of
Vogue
.

“Sonya. We’ve got to go. I need to call—”

“Oh, please. Just let me smell this one.” She spritzed it on her wrist and held it up to Dmitri’s crooked nose. “What do you think?”

He clasped her forearm gingerly and traced his lips along the thin skin of her inner wrist. Delicious goose bumps rose up along her spine and up her scalp, lingering even when he let go. Then he shrugged. “Can’t smell it.”

“Oh.” She sniffed again—its odor was strong. “Why not?”

He tapped his nose. “The smell-thingy’s broke. I can’t smell or taste anything sweet. No flowers or candy.” Absently, he straightened bottles on the counter. “I can smell blood and piss and sweat just fine, but nothing nice.”

How sad—to lose the ability to taste and smell sweet things. It explained the way he’d shoved a whole apple cake into his mouth at once, not bothering to savor it. “How did that happen?”

He looked up from the counter, staring off without focus, unreadable emotions playing across his features. “In a fight.”

The bright lights of the department store blurred into the even brighter lights of the ring, a hundred television cameras pointing at Dmitri. His ears pounded with rushing blood. He told his heart to calm the fuck down. It wasn’t happening now, had been a long decade ago. But somehow, the arena’s cold air blew across his sweat-drenched body, furious adrenaline coursing through him.

“You were in a fist fight?” Sonya’s question brought him all the way back to the present.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. The air made his nose itch, even though no pleasing scents registered. “No sweetheart, a boxing match. I used to be a boxer.”

She frowned. Apparently, it wasn’t her favorite sport. “What happened?”

He rubbed his hand up his brow and across his scalp. “I lost a championship fight in the first round on global television.”

Her frown turned to a grimace, revealing she understood exactly how shameful a defeat like that was.

“Took a blow to the head so hard the doctors told me I had to quit or risk big-time brain damage.” He left off the rest. That he’d lost his only hope to be anything other than just like his dear old dad. “My brain’s okay, but my nose hasn’t worked since.”

He spun a perfume bottle, its cut glass reflecting glints of light onto the shiny countertop. With every twist of the crystal, the lights flew off in different directions, and then moved together like a swarm of minnows, mesmerizing him. It was probably symbolic of some shit, but he didn’t know what.

“Dmitri?” Sonya’s sweet voice held a note of fear.

He curled his fists. She should never have to be afraid. Then his skin crawled, his instincts screaming. He scanned the store, certain those idiots were on his tail again.

Sonya took a step closer, and his cheeks burned. She’d been watching him journey down fucked-up memory lane. She wasn’t afraid of thugs popping up from behind the perfume counter. She was afraid of whatever she’d seen on his face. He glanced away from all the compassion in her doe-eyes, aimed right at his humiliation.

“Everything changed that day?” she asked.

“Yeah. Everything and nothing. Now come on. My past doesn’t matter. It’s yours we’ve got to figure out.”

Under her gaze, his shirt felt too tight. He undid a button at his collar. Her being able to see through him was proving more uncomfortable than he’d bargained on.

Finally, she tucked her hand into his. “Lead the way.”

The housing-goods section of Bloomingdales was deserted. And for good reason. Dmitri could understand indulging in pricey clothing, did it all the time. But a 150-dollar bath towel was total bullshit—unless it was for Sonya and purchased with his lying son-of-a-bitch uncle’s credit card. After all, Gregor always bought the best of everything.

With the luxurious towel tucked under her arm, she trailed behind him, her hand deceptively relaxed in his while the muscles around her eyes strained and her mouth pinched. She ran her fingers along the stacks of linens, lingering as if every touch was the last thing she’d ever feel. She probably worried it might be.

He halted, spinning to face her. “Hey, ghost, I won’t desert you.”

“I know.” She met his gaze squarely.

But her dark irises had a green cast, and once again, the bug-crawl started up his neck and scalp. Damn it. He surveyed the surroundings, finding only display table after display table and an occasional shopper or clerk.

In the corner of the sprawling showroom, they found a posh bed—its satiny spread sported the sticker price of a low-end car. He set down his pack, and she dropped onto the mattress.

He crouched to look her in the eye, resting his hand on her legs, so sexy in the new pair of jeans. “Stay here, I’ll be right back. Five minutes to sort things out with Gregor. That’s all.”

“Okay.” She tilted her head toward the kitchen products. “I’ll see if I can rattle some fine china.”

He opened his mouth to beg her not to, but the greenish twinkle in her eyes revealed his ghost was just joking.

Her lovely lips curved into a reassuring, if forced, smile. “I’ll be fine.”

He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm before letting go, turning her instantly ghost.

Bang.

A gunshot. The bullet whizzed through her translucent form and buried itself in the bed’s headboard.

“Duck,” she said, all-commanding rusalka.

Her supernatural tones compelled him to obey, and he tucked his head and rolled to the floor. The pop of a second muzzled gunshot echoed through the department store. The smattering of patrons cried out and dashed toward the escalator. Shouts from someone speaking in Ukrainian rose above their cries. Gregor’s thugs emerged from behind a display of shower curtains, even more ridiculous than if they’d popped up behind the perfume counter. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see them wearing shower caps.