“Did you hear what the guard said about the chopper? Could someone be coming to your rescue?”
“My son pilots various aircraft, but he’d have no way of knowing where I was, unless your people were sloppy. Were they?”
She had no clue. Her part in the kidnapping hadn’t commenced until after Paschal had been delivered to the hacienda. Though she had met the young K’vr neophyte who’d executed the crime. Mean, yes. Devious, clearly. Overly bright? Not so much.
“Good chance.”
Paschal was silent for a moment, prompting Gemma to adjust the rearview away from the nearing headlights in order to focus on Paschal’s face. In the darkness, she could see nothing.
“Paschal?”
“Yes, it’s him. Head”—he paused, then after a few moments finished with—”east. On the other side of a thick ridge of cypress. Along a river. Very lush.”
She knew the trees. They bordered the property on the east side, but they were now heading south. “That ridge is behind us. And how do you know where they are?”
Paschal chuckled as if she’d just told him a quaint joke during a leisurely drive rather than asking him an unanswerable question in the midst of a car chase. Seconds later, gunfire pinged off the back bumper. With a yelp, Paschal pushed his way through to the inside of the car, then with a series of grunts and curses, into the front seat.
“A little birdie told me,” he replied.
She twisted the steering wheel, throwing the car into a sharp bank to the left around a clump of scrub oak. Behind her, one truck sped by. The second completed the turn and remained about fifty yards behind.
“I hope this little birdie can fly us out of here.”
Paschal gulped audibly, bracing his hands on the dashboard. “That’s the idea.”
She tossed Paschal the gun.
“Take out the tires,” she ordered.
He glared at her. “Do you know how difficult that is to do? This isn’t a movie.”
“And you’re not Sean Connery, yet I find you strangely attractive.”
Gunfire pierced the car again, this time shattering their back window.
“Not Sean Connery, indeed,” he said with a huff, rolling down his window and shifting his body so he could fire behind him.
Gemma lowered herself in the seat and concentrated on moving forward. She glanced at the sky but saw nothing resembling a hovering helicopter. Paschal cursed each time his bullets whizzed impotently past their mark. When one finally connected with the front passenger tire of their pursuers’ vehicle, he slid back into the car with an enthusiastic pump of his fist.
The sport utility vehicle behind them swerved, hit a tree stump, then flipped and spun before landing with a thud along the trail. Gemma slammed to a halt.
She hadn’t realized how wildly her heart had been pumping inside her ribs until a dead silence, invaded only by the running engine, settled over the scene.
And then—chopper blades.
Paschal got out of the car. The wind kicked up dirt, sand and leaves, causing him to duck back in. Only after the helicopter landed and a stunning brunette jumped out of the vehicle did he emerge again, Gemma with him.
“Professor Rousseau, I presume?” the dark-haired woman said, running in a half crouch toward them, her hand extended.
“Just as I presume you’re my little bird,” he replied.
“I’m more cat than canary, but I’m glad you received my message.”
“That’s a potent psychic power you have there, my dear.”
She waved at the pilot. “It’s becoming damned useful, but it won’t stop bullets. The SUV you eluded doubled back. We saw them from the air. We need to get you out now.”
Gemma’s heart lurched and she pushed Paschal toward the waiting helicopter. “Get out of here. I’ll delay them.”
“And you are?” the woman asked.
“Someone who’s about to ensure not only an escape, but that you have a clear shot from here to Rogan’s castle.”
“How did you—?” the woman questioned.
“Never mind,” Gemma said.
In the distance, headlights broke through the darkness. They ducked and ran toward the copter. The woman slid open the door and waved Paschal inside.
He stopped, turned, grabbed Gemma by the shoulders and kissed her soundly.
In an instant, she visualized him in his youth. Virile. Charming. Irresistible. If only she’d met him then, she might not have focused on such single-minded pursuits as magic and power and legacies. She might have, once in her life, wanted to have sex for reasons beyond working her way up the K’vr ladder of leadership.
“Come with us,” Paschal said, shouting over the increased grind from the rotor blades.
“I’ll meet up with you,” she promised. “But first, I have to throw Farrow off the scent. Send him in another direction.”
“What if he doesn’t believe you?”
She laughed and yanked him toward the door. “You underestimate my powers of persuasion. Go! Unlock the magic. But don’t forget who it rightfully belongs to.”
Finally, he ducked inside the copter, and gave the pilot—who she assumed was his son—a pat on the shoulder before buckling himself in. The dark-haired woman turned to her. The headlights were close enough so that Gemma could see the outline of Farrow’s personal Cadillac Escalade.
“Punch me,” she yelled at the woman.
“What?”
Gemma threw a swing, connecting with the side of the woman’s head. She stumbled but didn’t fall.
“You did
not
just do that,” the woman yelled.
“Yes, I did. And I’ll do it again if it means saving my damned life. And yours. Now punch me.”
In a blurred spin, the woman kicked. Gemma felt her jaw snap just before she hit the ground hard.
In a haze of pain and disorientation, she watched the helicopter rise into the air. As the sound of the blades receded, she registered commands coming from the direction of the car.
“Gemma? Gemma?”
Farrow.
She attempted to grin, but the pain spiked and she rolled onto her stomach.
“What happened, baby? Were they headed to that island? I just got a communiqué. Where’s Rousseau going?”
Mustering all her strength, will, resolve and stubbornness, Gemma pushed one more lie through her bleeding mouth before she surrendered to the darkness.
***
“What have I—?”
Alexa cut off his shock with a kiss.
He indulged her for a moment, then pulled away. “I nearly…” Shame shook his voice and turned his eyes to liquid silver.
She splayed her hands on either side of his face. “But you didn’t. You’re free of the evil, Damon. Now, finish what you’ve started.”
She clutched him tighter with her legs and he immediately knew what she needed. Back against the door, he thrust inside her again, this time more gently, until she tumbled over the brink into ecstasy.
Still holding tight to her, he braced his forehead against hers and tried to catch his breath.
“Don’t say anything.”
“We can’t stay here.”
She lifted his chin. “You can take me anywhere, just not by magic. No. More. Magic.”
He lowered her to the ground, swept up their clothes and then lifted her back into his arms, this time cradling her against his chest. As he marched up the stairs and into the study, he said nothing. He tossed the remnants of their clothes onto the chair, then laid her gently on the chair near the fire.
She started to speak, but he’d already turned away. He filled two goblets with wine, downed one, refilled, then handed one to her. He grabbed the cloak from the corner of the chair and spread it over her to chase off the chill. The brooch, a massive fire opal that flamed in the light from the hearth, sat heavy on her shoulder.
“I am sorry, Alexa.”
She reached for his hand, but he stared down at her fingers as if she were poison. Or, more accurately, as if he was.
She took a sip of the bold red wine, closing her eyes as the flavors of oak and berry washed over her tongue, quelling the shivers running up and down her spine.
“You should have waited for me,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have used the magic.”
She patted the plush footstool in front of her, but he clearly preferred to pace.
“I could have killed you.”
She twisted her fingers into the necklace with the triangle charm. “No, I don’t think you could.”
She relaxed against the cushioned wingback and lazed in her nudity, enjoying the way the wine warmed her from the inside out. She wondered how and if Damon, who now knew not to call upon Rogan’s magic, was going to reclaim his clothes. Besides the ripped shirt that now lay tangled with her mangled outfit, he’d vanished his breeches, his last act of magic before she’d coaxed the evil out of him using her most powerful weapon—her sexuality.
Who knew?
The thought, coupled with the wine and the headiness of victory, made her chuckle.
“I see nothing funny about what just happened,” he chastised.
She waved her hand at him. “I was just wondering about your pants. Poof!”
Frowning, he glanced down at his naked body. This, for some unknown reason, made her laugh harder.
“You’re incorrigible,” he said, pointing his finger before stalking to the wardrobe, where he pulled out a new pair of breeches and punched his arms into the sleeves of a white shirt.
“No, I’ve just learned that life is too precious to waste on regrets. The charm protected me, Damon, but there’s no telling what the magic might have done to you if I hadn’t thought to ravish you.”
“It’s safe to say,” he said, tying the stays on his breeches with a firm tug, “ravishment is a welcome defense against the evil, but I’d rather avoid that situation in the future.”
“Agreed.”
In the quiet lull, she hooked her finger and motioned him to join her. Not quite as resistant as before, he managed to settle on the footstool in front of her, his long legs stretched across the carpet, nearly touching the fireplace grate. She hooked her arms around his neck and eased him back against her. Seconds later, the cat poofed into the room and immediately settled into Damon’s lap.
No matter how much wine she drank, a difficult question sat like a weight in the pit of her stomach. “Why did you risk everything? All you had to do was wait.”
Damon buried his fingers in the cat’s fur. “I’ve waited two hundred and sixty years to be free. Darkness came. You were not here. I rationalized that you could not find an answer, so you chose not to come.”
She rolled her eyes. Men, even those from the eighteenth century, could be so incredibly stupid. “I was running late. Women do that from time to time. I’d think I’d be worth waiting for.”
He took her hand and kissed each of her fingers. “No one who knew me in my time would deny I’m a fool where women are concerned.”
Chuckling at his own joke, he retreated to silence, and they enjoyed a rare and comfortable moment. So many struggles were ahead of them—the least of which was his transference from phantom to living and breathing man, but Alexa had no doubt they could face the challenges together. Even now, she suspected he was keeping something from her, but she wouldn’t force him to share. What had just happened between them, what had been happening over the course of the last week, had sapped her emotionally. She needed time to sort through the aftermath. She figured he needed the same.
But that didn’t give either of them a reprieve from discovering a way to counteract the magic. “What was that room down there? It was practically outside.”
Damon gave the cat a generous scratch behind his ears. “Practically, but not quite. Rogan used it for spiritual purposes, I understand. I’d completely forgotten about it until I read more of Sarina’s diary. She wrote that he called it the castle’s heart. He invoked the magic of the Gypsies there. I thought perhaps—”
“Now, see, that’s where you’re going wrong,” she said, gesturing with her goblet, which was suddenly in need of a refill.
He quirked a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Not in reading the diary,” she insisted. “It’s actually about time you did that, after all the trouble Cat and Rousseau’s son went to in order to get it. But I have my doubts about you re-creating the castle and its furnishings in order to locate the source of the magic. I understand what you meant to accomplish, but you’ve done every room now, haven’t you? Have you found anything?”
Damon cradled the cat in his arms as he stood and retrieved the decanter. “I thought perhaps the answer was in the mosaics. Rogan had several of them, nearly one in every room. I re-created them tile by tile, but when I called to the magic, nothing responded.”
“Maybe what’s wrong is that what you’re re-creating is just that—a re-creation. You’re not conjuring the actual objects, are you?”
He frowned. “I cannot say one way or another with any certainty.”
After dropping the cat, who curled up near Alexa, Damon poured her wine and then abandoned the decanter. Hooking his hands behind his back, he paced the room with long, pensive strides, his unfastened shirt billowing around him, his bared chest gleaming in the firelight. His skin still shimmered with sweat, and Alexa’s mouth watered for a salty taste of him. She’d come so close to losing him—perhaps forever.
She cleared her throat. “Then let’s assume the objects you conjured are just magical copies. Nothing could exist for nearly three hundred years without fading or cracking or being destroyed. Everything you’ve created looks brand-new.”
He gave a curt nod. “Go on,” he urged.
“As I promised,” she said, not hiding the reproach in her voice, “I spent the day trying to work out a solution. And I realized that while re-creating the castle might give you a clue as to the location of the magical source, you are working on too many suppositions and not enough facts.”
“And what are the facts?”
“That when you materialized in this castle, there was only one object here with you.”
Damon crunched his brow. “The cat?”
Dante mewed nastily.
“No, he’s ghostly like you.”
“You mean the painting?”
She nodded. Instantly, Damon dashed out of the room.
“Damon, wait!”
He did not. Still naked, she wrapped the cloak around herself and ran toward the landing.
Damon had removed the painting from the wall. His likeness, frozen in oil, stared back at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was peering close to the canvas, looking over every single detail. In the shadowed corner where he’d claimed to have first spotted the redheaded woman. Along the edges where the canvas tucked tightly into the frame. In every fruit basket and representation of fire.