The Siren's Touch. Amber Belldene
the models and rich girls who showed up to party in Kiev’s nightclubs loved his bad-boy thing. But the girl who really turned him on was a fucking ghost, using her supernatural power to command his help. Story of his life.
He dropped onto his ass and leaned his head against a bookshelf. “Sonya, I’ll help you without the siren shit. Turn. It. Off.”
“I don’t know if I can.” She caught the tip of her shimmery white thumb between her pearly teeth.
“Please, figure it out. Because…” She seemed awfully innocent, but he needed her to understand. “Because it does things to me.”
He brushed the flat of his hand across his erection, and her obsidian eyes grew wide.
“It’s a distraction. An uncomfortable one.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try.” Was it possible her ghostly pale skin colored with a blush? Probably not, which meant he’d imagined it. Sucker.
He had to get away from her. Whatever she was, whatever she was doing to him, it was a major distraction from his mission. Once he took out Makar, she could stroke him with that voice all day long, make him do anything she wanted him to do.
As soon as he avenged his father, he could begin his new life, and helping her would be his number-one priority.
“Good girl. Now listen. I have to go out and take care of something, and when I get back, we’ll make a plan, all right?”
Her breaths sped up, her full breasts rising and falling more rapidly. “I’m scared.”
Good for her. He’d learned somewhere courage came from admitting fear. “That seems reasonable.”
“I guess it does.” She tilted her head, and her breathing slowed. “Will you tell Elena I’m sorry for breaking everything? Her lovely teacups and all the light bulbs. I didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah. I’ll tell her.”
“Do you really have to go?” Her voice wavered.
“I really do.” He’d waited a lifetime to find Makar, and he finally had a lead. He couldn’t waste this chance for revenge to comfort a frightened rusalka.
She set her jaw and shrugged, glancing around the room. “Okay. I guess it won’t kill me to wait.”
Was that a joke?
His lips quirked of their own accord and hers spread into a breathtaking smile. What a waste, to put a smile like that on a ghost.
Chapter 6
Sonya flew, which should have been neat.
Who didn’t want to fly?
But the whole ghost thing kind of took the fun out of it. She bubbled with a frightening, furious anger and had no one to aim it at. The need to do something clanged around inside her with no outlet. It set her on edge like a ringing telephone that no one could answer.
Dmitri had calmed her, but he was gone. She dearly hoped he would come back, and soon. If Elena was right, he might be the only one who could help her.
The older woman continued straightening up, sweeping glass and replacing light bulbs. Too bad they had no way to communicate. Talking to her would have been a welcome distraction.
Instead, she decided to snoop. It seemed harmless since Elena couldn’t actually see her. So Sonya looked at every knick-knack on the dark wooden shelves—nesting dolls, more traditional Ukrainian pottery. None of the items revealed much of anything about the unusual little woman though. No photographs of a husband or children. No man’s hat hanging on the coat rack either. Down the hall, a suitcase had exploded in a guest room, and what could only be Dmitri’s clothes were strewn around the room. Hanging on the wall, old family photographs hinted at a large and important family, but no recent pictures had been added to their ranks.
The woman’s bustling energy filled the charmingly cluttered house to the brim, but after close inspection, Sonya was certain she lived alone. A heavy sadness dwelled in the corners of every room, as if Elena couldn’t sweep it away or crowd it out, no matter how hard she tried. Whenever Sonya floated through a pocket of the gloomy emotion, she sunk lower to the ground, consumed by compassion for the lonely woman.
Miniature oil paintings of Kiev’s famous landmarks lined the hallway. One in particular tickled Sonya’s ghost brain like an itch she couldn’t scratch. A brass plate beneath it read Taras Shevchenko National Opera House. She stared at it for a long time, willing the memories to surface, but they refused to obey her.
Back in the living room, Elena flipped a switch, lighting a small blaze in the fireplace and settling into an armchair with an old leather-bound book. The flickering blue and orange flames drew Sonya even though its heat could not penetrate her ghostly form. If she concentrated very hard, she could recall what it felt like to be warm, and the memory silenced the anger rattling around inside her.
After some time, Elena set the thick tome down and slid a glossy magazine with a glamorous model on the cover from her brief case.
The tickle started up inside Sonya’s brain, quickly turning into smoldering burn, and the Opera House came into view.
She bounced out the backstage door on the balls of her feet, and a clap of thunder sounded, warning she had better rush home. But not even a rainstorm could ruin her mood. Her life had been on hold for so long, and finally it was about to begin, with an official apprenticeship to Marya, the National Opera’s costume designer.
She crooked her elbow around her bag—her new but dog-eared edition of Vogue Magazine tucked safely into the satchel right next to the length of fabric Marya had given her. She hurried down the sidewalk under darkening clouds.
The air crackled, heavy with the metallic scent of rain about to fall. She skirted the butter-yellow walls of the colossal building until she reached the plaza and hurried toward Volodymyrska Street. The first ripe drops of rain fell onto her head, seeping through her hair and tracing a cold trail down her scalp. She raced over the slippery cobblestones until she finally reached the shop without stepping in a puddle—surely a good sign. The bell on the door jingled as she entered.
Seated at his usual spot in front of a brightly lit felt mat, Papa glanced up from the necklace. Its glittering diamonds stole her breath. “Hello, dear.”
“Papa, you must lock the door when you take that out of the safe.” She removed her sopping coat.
“Nonsense. A locked door discourages customers. And who would dare to steal from Director Andrich?”
She swallowed an exasperated sigh. “Maybe he’s powerful, but you’re not.”
She marched into the back room where her sewing machine and various baubles in need of polish crowded her small worktable.
Her gaze strayed to her satchel where the Vogue waited. Maybe tomorrow she could copy the sleek dress on the magazine’s cover with the wool Marya had given her.
The shop bell jingled.
“Hello,” Papa greeted the customer.
She peered around the door. In the corner of the shop, her father fumbled at the narrow safe, attempting to slide the necklace inside. A tall, young man in a militsya uniform browsed over the cases of rings. Dark blond hair showed at his temples under his hat. Sonya’s pulse accelerated—it always did when she was in close proximity to militsya men. They could get away with whatever they wanted—from giving girls a hard time to extorting all the profit from neighborhood businesses.
Instinctively, she gripped the door’s handle to rush in and protect Papa, but she resisted—he would have to handle these things himself from now on.
“Were you interested in seeing something?” he asked the young man.
The officer stood over the case of women’s rings, and his thumb played at the spot where his own ring finger met his palm. The gesture