The Siren's Dance. Amber Belldene
“You too.” She had an amiable smile, and Sergey liked her immediately, maybe because of how Dmitri’s sharp edges felt duller and less dangerous with her at his side. She returned her hand to its place hugging the shoebox. “And I want to thank you personally. This is important to all of us.”
“Have a seat,” Sergey said, indicating a table dented by handcuffs and stained by water rings. Sonya put the shoebox on it ever so gently, but no baby whimpered. Of course not. No one carried a baby in a shoebox, but the way she handled the thing sure had him thinking it was precious cargo.
He cut to the chase. “I’m afraid this is hopeless. Aside from a brief stint at the National Ballet, there is no record of Stas Demyan anywhere.”
Gregor turned toward the empty corner of the room and raised his palm toward the blank wall. “Shh. We will find him.”
Sergey sat back in his chair, transfixed. He’d never seen the oligarch at less than full-blown intimidating, and now he was talking to the wall? The guy had to be on some serious meds.
“So, what’s this lead you mentioned?” he asked.
Sonya and Dmitri looked at each other, exchanging one of those wordless communications lovers seem to manage, but that Sergey had never once experienced.
A gust of warm air billowed through the room, as if the heat had just kicked on and blown through the vents. But the building didn’t have a central furnace, just radiators.
Sergey turned toward the door to see if someone had opened it while Gregor angled to the corner again and said, “Hush.”
Shit. He was seriously hallucinating.
Sergey braved a stare right at high-as-a-kite Lisko. “Why are you looking for this guy?”
His gaze flicked toward that empty corner again. “It’s an unresolved matter between Demyan and a woman of my acquaintance, to whom I owe a debt.”
“Okay. So when can I talk to her?”
Another knowing look passed between Dmitri and Sonya.
Gregor jumped in. “She’s anxious to talk to you, and would sincerely like to offer her assistance until the son of a bitch--her words--is found.”
“Great. Then where is she? Can she come down to the station?”
“She’s right here.” Gregor waved toward the corner where he’d been so focused.
Sergey looked to the couple for a clue just in time to catch Sonya’s wince.
“Brace yourself, bro,” Dmitri said.
Right. Were they all nuts? Having a little party on Gregor’s meds?
And then Gregor seemed to take hold of something, and… Hell, a woman appeared out of nowhere.
Sergey held statue-still as his skin tightened and his heart hammered against his sternum. This could not be happening. Shit like this didn’t happen.
The petite woman coughed and spluttered, retching like she had lungfuls of water. The cop in him was chomping at the bit to go to her aid. His inner child trembled like he’d just woken from a nightmare. But he would force reason to prevail. He gripped the seat of his chair with both hands and waited until he had a better grasp on the situation.
When her heaves stopped, Sergey could see the woman was drenched and almost naked. She had to be--what--a ghost? There was no other explanation. But that was no kind of explanation. Ghosts inhabited children’s books with witches, fairies, and demons, not the real world, and sure as hell not his interrogation room.
He tried to blink the vision away. No dice.
Fear formed a ball in his throat, threatening to break free as a scream. He swallowed it and reached for the pistol holstered at his hip. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to put your hands up.”
“Put that away, Yuchenko,” the ailing Lisko scoffed. “She’s harmless.”
Dmitri crossed his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t say harmless. She’s been whispering violent fantasies into Gregor’s ear since we found the little harpy--”
Sonya silenced him with an elbow to his ribs. “That’s my sister you’re talking about.”
Sister. She couldn’t mean…?
Dmitri shuddered. “The things she said. Enough to turn a guy off his lunch.”
The younger Lisko was a former heavyweight boxer who’d done his uncle’s wet work. Sergey didn’t want to know what would ruin the guy’s appetite. Still, he holstered his gun. There wasn’t a single place she could hide a weapon in that skimpy get-up anyway.
The ghost stared at her hand, flexed her fingers, then touched her face. Her mouth fell open, astonished. So small and fragile and pretty. Sergey’s fear bled away, and in its wake came fascination. He couldn’t look away from the ghost.
“Oh, Anya, you’re wearing the pink nightie,” Sonya said.
Anya looked down at herself for a long, tense moment, then rose to her full height. “So what.” She put her hands on her hips, though the ailing Lisko kept his own wrapped around one of her wrists.
“Inspector Yuchenko, meet my sister, Anya.”
Anya and Sonya Truss. The girls murdered in 1968. Impossible.
The ghost’s wet nightgown was almost entirely see-through, a rosy pink just one shade darker than her skin, which showed her nipples and her belly button almost as clearly as cling-wrap would. If it weren’t for the thick hem of black lace stretched high and taut over her lean, muscular thighs, he’d have seen a lot more. Smooth alabaster flesh, or would there be a shadowy triangle there, as dark as her almost-black hair, slicked back with water? Hell, a puddle was forming at her feet, drops falling from her nightie and splashing into a growing pool.
His tongue grew thick in his mouth and his cock was starting to feel the same way. Seriously? A hard-on for a hallucination? Down, boy. But there was just something about her. Or a million things, endless captivating details coalescing into a supremely erotic little bundle of ghost.
She glared at him, her mahogany eyes like glinting blades, her fine brows arched in disapproval. She would make a perfect Odile from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake--the hatefully beautiful twin of the cursed princess Odette.
And then she spoke.
“You think this buffoon can help me?” She scowled. “He’s wearing a mustache of something disgustingly green on his lip. Can he even write his name? I bet his mother irons his shirts.”
Okay. That was a bucket of ice on his blazing libido.
Gregor chuckled but tried to turn it into a cough. Sergey’s hand went to his mouth to wipe at the juice because some ghost--and everyone knew ghosts weren’t real--had insulted him.
“Anushka,” Sonya scolded, wrapping her sister up in her coat. “Be nice. We’re lucky he’s willing to assist us. Otherwise, you may never find Demyan.”
The ghost’s expression changed as quickly as a child who’d realized her spite would not get her what she wanted. “Thank you, Inspector Yuchenko. From the bottom of my heart.” Her voice sounded strange all of a sudden, richly layered with mysterious tones. Beautiful. Hypnotic. He wanted her to say more, wanted to strip off his suit and rub naked against her words, his frozen-over libido thawing instantaneously.
“You’re welcome,” he ground out.
“And aren’t you cute?” This time she lowered her voice, nearly whispering. She seemed to float closer to him, testing the leash of Gregor’s grasp. “You’re like an over-grown puppy. These big hands and feet and this baby face.” She pinched his cheek and then pulled a tuft of his hair. “This military cut turned shaggy.”
His cock had come fully to attention, straining