The Siren's Touch. Amber Belldene
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Cover Copy
One touch can change everything…
Hitman Dmitri Lisko is determined to avenge his father. Once he takes out the man he believes is responsible for his family’s tragedies, he’s done killing for good. But a mysterious woman may tempt Dmitri to change his plan.
Sonya Truss was murdered in a Ukrainian village in 1968. Now she’s reappeared in San Francisco as a rusalka—the ghost of a wronged woman. And she’s thirsty for the blood of her killer. But she has to make things right before she’s trapped between worlds forever.
Sonya's enigmatic siren powers stir Dmitri's long-buried chivalry, and he finds himself compelled to help her. He also can’t resist giving her a taste of the pleasures she never experienced while she was alive. Soon they discover that touch has surprising consequences. Yet when their shared mission comes to cross-purposes, they must choose between deadly sacrifice—or surrendering to the one act that can save them both.
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Books by Amber Belldene
The Siren’s Touch
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Siren’s Touch
Amber Belldene
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Amber Belldene
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First Electronic Edition: July 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-695-7
eISBN-10: 1-61650-695-4
First Print Edition: July 2015
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-696-4
ISBN-10: 1-61650-696-2
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
This book is dedicated to everyone working to redeem themselves.
Acknowledgements
I must always begin my acknowledgments with the deepest gratitude to my best friend and first-reader, Emily, whose support and encouragement mean the world to me. I am also grateful to all the writing friends who provided feedback on this story—Celia Breslin, Ally Broadfield, Samantha MacDouglas, Paula Millhouse, Mark Pritchard, and Tricia Skinner. The Siren's Touch started as an attempt to write a certain kind of book, and I learned I shouldn’t even aspire to that goal. Sincere thanks to everyone who loved and helped improve the book this became instead.
Author’s Foreword
This book was written before the 2014 conflict between Ukraine and Russia began. I have long been fascinated with countries formerly behind the Iron Curtain. In the research and writing of The Siren’s Touch, I grew especially fond of Ukraine and its people, and I hold the sincerest hopes for peace between those two countries.
Chapter 1
Just one bullet and it would all be over.
But first Dmitri had to find him.
And for sure, his target wasn’t in there. Dmitri scanned the front of Auntie Elena’s cutesy, forest-green house. He hadn’t seen her since she’d moved to the US all those years ago. She could wait a minute longer.
He patted his chest for his pack of Davidoffs, and shook one free. The dry, toasted odor of unlit tobacco promised some relief. But his lighter hand shook so badly the flame danced past the tip of the cigarette twice, three times, and went out. Damn. He took the kind of deep breath that never failed to steady his aim and stilled his hand just long enough to nail the target. Finally, the end glowed bright orange and his lungs filled with nicotine, making the whole world a little more tolerable.
Only a drink would stop his shakes, but the smoke had to do. No more vodka until he’d completed this mission, and after that—a hell of a lot less.
He buttoned his coat against the wind and paced the sidewalk in front of Elena’s place, which was squeezed tightly between two other old, well-kept houses. The curlicues and scallops all over hers reminded him of the illustrations in children’s books—fairytale gingerbread cottages, the ones where Baba Yaga lured unsuspecting children with tempting sweets. Not that anyone had ever read a book like that to him, but he’d seen them somewhere, school maybe.
He marched along the sloping stretch of sidewalk, staring at his feet and savoring each inhalation. A pair of beat-up gray sneakers appeared in front of him. His gaze traveled up a pair of legs clad in purple sweatpants, an oversized jacket, all the way to the wrinkly face of an old lady frozen in place.
“Pardon,” he said, his accented English strange and rough to his ears. He sidestepped and gestured for her to pass him with a flourish that, in Kiev at least, hinted at chivalry.
The pleasantries had no effect. She jumped aside like a pack of angry dogs was snarling at her and dragged her handcart away fast, making to cross the street.
He resisted the urge to look behind him. There would be no rabid wolves, no gang of teenage hoodlums. It was just him. Big. Battered. All in black. Radiating righteous fury now that his target was finally so close. And he probably looked like he’d been hit by a vodka truck, if how he felt was any indication.
“Sorry,” he called out.
She didn’t look back.
He exhaled, raised his smoke to his lips, and watched her flee. Maybe, once he’d had his revenge, he could shake the air of menace hounding him. Sure would be nice not to scare old ladies anymore.
At the curb, the woman’s basket-on-wheels crashed over, spilling fruits and vegetables underneath parked cars. Peppers, onions, carrots, and some long white root he’d never seen before. Three apples went rolling into the street then down the steep hill.
The skinny lady didn’t look like she could afford to lose those apples, and he didn’t want her chasing them down in front of oncoming traffic.
Shit.