“Yes,” she cried, undulating atop him, increasing the maddening tempo of their lovemaking until Aiden lost all track of time and space. It was as if they were floating in midair, nothing to anchor them except each other, nothing to stop them from toppling into blissful oblivion.
When his sex surged and spilled, he cried out in hot abandon, then watched her climax as well. Then, in a move as quick and unexpected as her initial attack, he spun her beneath him and kissed her long and hard and desperately. Only when she pushed on his chest did he stop his assault, panting.
“Slow down, tiger,” she said with a laugh in her voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but what of me?”
“You planning to leave?” she asked.
He shook his head, his lips aching for hers. “I am not a fool, my lady. But am cursed. This pleasure cannot last.”
***
Lauren knew it was morning only because her stomach growled loudly enough to wake her. Unlike the pampered little starlets who could subsist on a few leaves of lettuce and a snort of blow, Lauren needed real food first thing in the morning. And a comfortable bed, she thought with an ache stabbing between her shoulder blades. What the hell was wrong with her mattress?
She sat up and forced her eyes open. A red light beamed into her eyes, and she rolled over, catching a rather rancid sniff of leathery sweat.
Where was she?
The workout room?
Memories flooded her: powerful images of a magic man and the sword and—
Oh God
. She realized then that she was naked. But where was the bed? The sexy gown? Hell, where was Aiden?
“Aiden?”
Her voice echoed, hollow in the empty space.
She sat up.
“Aiden!”
He didn’t answer, but just outside she heard the dull thump of hammers and the tinny whine of table saws. Holy crap, she’d spent the night in the workout room next to the soundstage. Had she locked the door? Because if she hadn’t, she was going to provide one hell of a show if someone decided to pop inside.
She found her clothes and threw herself into them as quickly as possible. She hit the lights, and, though momentarily blinded, she rubbed and squinted until her eyes watered and the room came fully into view. No Aiden. No simple bed. No sign that the aches in her body—the delicious, languorous aches—were anything but a powerful dream.
Until a whisper teased across her neck. “Good morning, my lady.”
Only Aiden wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
She glanced at the sword, cradled once again in the cashmere blanket.
“Don’t do that,” she insisted. “Make yourself visible.”
“Alas, I cannot.”
“Are you back in the sword?” she asked.
“If I were, could I do this?”
She gasped as an invisible hand copped a gentle feel of her left breast, followed by the press of moist lips at the center of her breastbone. She reached out and the atmosphere stiffened, but provided no real resistance. He was there, but not there, doing decadent things to her body that no one could see. Not even her.
But she could feel.
Oh, boy
. Could she ever. She gulped. “Then…you…are…real.”
Her voice shot upward as his lips rounded on her nipple and suckled through the fabric of her tank top.
“Did I not prove that last night?” he murmured against her flesh.
The hammering outside grew louder, and she could hear the rough voices of the crew shouting over the power tools. She attempted to push him back, flailing when she could not feel him.
“It’s daytime, sweetheart. Time to end this fantasy.”
He chuckled, the sound oddly echoed. “We’re nowhere near the end of our fantasy, my lady.”
Lauren couldn’t suppress the smile that teased the edges of her mouth, particularly when his warm fingertip traced her jawline, leaving behind an imprint of intoxicating heat.
“Why are you invisible?”
“I am apparently corporeal only in the night. The curse remains.”
“Why didn’t I free you all the way?”
“I know not.”
Her chest tightened. “Maybe you are a ghost.”
“I am not or would have been only a spirit last night. Ghosts do not become corporeal—they have left their earthly bodies behind.”
A curl of heat tickled Lauren intimately. He had an earthly body, all right, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. “You’re a phantom, then,” she surmised.
“Pardon me?”
“A phantom. I read a script about a being that could flit in and out between reality and fantasy—ghostly sometimes and other times solid. Very solid,” she said, a flush of heat pinkening her skin as the muscles in her inner thighs instinctively tightened. He wasn’t even touching her there, yet her body ached to compress around him.
“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.”
Five
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.