A telephone rang and Sergey jumped. Could it be another call from the stranger who might be his father? But the peal was the old-fashioned ring of an actual bell--it must be the antique phone on the desk. Possibly the mysterious caller, but more likely someone from the hotel.
It was a pity to move Anya. She looked so peaceful, submerged in the warm water, the nightgown now perfectly see-through, revealing the slight and palm-sized curve of her breasts, the dusky color of her nipples, the angular bones of her hips, the shadow of a dark triangle at the V of her legs. Her animated features had settled into restful beauty, with only the slightest crease between her brows.
“Who the hell is calling now?” she muttered, shattering the illusion she was at peace.
He chuckled. “Front desk probably. Want to come or go, ghost?”
“That’s no kind of choice. Either way, bath time is over. Pass me a towel.” She rose up, droplets sluicing down her slim form like a water nymph instead of the windy variety she happened to be.
He averted his eyes, cuffed her ankle with one hand, and handed her the white towel with another. It was a fluffy, luxurious thing, and he was probably in need of a good scrub himself. But he would have to convince Anya to let him shower solo, and he wasn’t in the mood for a fight right now, especially when losing meant being wet and naked with her. Under those circumstances, he would probably manage to convince himself sex with a ghost his estranged father had exploited fifty years ago wasn’t so taboo.
Then he remembered that fantasy of Demyan using her against the wall of a ballet studio, the tragic, pained expression his imagination had given her. When she learned Sergey was her abuser’s son, would she forgive him for keeping the secret?
Her wet nightie slapped loudly on the marble tiles where she tossed it across the bathroom.
He grit his teeth. Will. Not. Look. Not even a peek.
Back in the bedroom, with Anya wrapped in the towel at his side, he called down to the front desk.
“This is Sergey Yuchenko in room 314. Were you trying to reach me?”
“Yes. There’s a woman here who says a Mrs. Sonya Lisko sent her. She has a rack of clothing in tow.”
He blew out a puff of air, impressed they’d made clothes happen so quickly.
“What is it?” Anya whispered.
“Your wardrobe has arrived.”
Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You know, one thing Sonya and I always had in common was our love of clothes. Unfortunately, she got all the curves, and we couldn’t share.”
With a graceful sweep, Anya used her hand to illustrate her sister’s shape, as if a few inches in those places would add to her appeal. He loved her lithe, disciplined body, the way she moved with a musical beauty just as much in her flesh as she did as a ghost.
She’d grown wistful, staring at the floor. “Still, Sonya made me lovely things, and she always shared when she had special fabric. Like the nightgown.” She tilted her head to indicate the puddle of pink satin she’d left in the bathroom.
Her eyes had grown soft and shiny, but not with grief and certainly not with self-pity. If he’d had to venture a label, he might have named love or gratitude that once again her sister was caring for her.
He chucked her gently on the chin. “Once we get you something to wear, I’ll take you to breakfast. My buddy owns a little cafe. Not filet mignon, but he makes a mean cheese omelet.”
“Cheese! That sounds divine. Have I mentioned I like cheese as much as I do fluffy towels?”
In reply, he only laughed and shook his head.
Soon, a rack of clothing arrived at their room. An elegant woman pushed it from behind. She presented a business card from one of the city’s luxury department stores.
At first, she tried to shoo Sergey away, but she slowly seemed to accept his need to hold on to Anya as some sort of eccentricity. Clearly, she wasn’t often called in for early morning emergency wardrobe consultations. So she’d taken to looking at him as if he were a celebrity she was on the brink of recognizing from TV or a movie but couldn’t quite place.
Every garment fit Anya perfectly and flattered her captivating figure. Her sister had sent smart slacks, heels, sleek sweaters--nothing casual, which meant he’d be ill-suited to escort her wherever they went, and that she would surely be overdressed for breakfast at Vadim’s cafe. Still, the sophisticated clothing suited her. He couldn’t imagine her in a pair of baggy jeans and a tattered sweater. She was a diva and made to dress like one.
“Am I supposed to choose something?” she asked, wearing a beautiful low-backed crimson gown unsuitable for any occasion less formal than the National Arts Awards Gala. Where the hell did Sonya think her sister was going?
Oh, right. Perhaps nowhere good, and soon. Were these clothes a final gift, a last chance to spoil her? The thought left his hollow stomach sick.
Oblivious to his concerns, the stylist stood at the ghost’s hip, helping with a side zipper. She shook her head at Anya’s question. “No need to choose. They’re all paid for. But I do want to make sure everything is the right size, or I’ll send for another one.”
Oh, the perks of working for a Lisko. If Anya did get to live again, perhaps this rack of clothes would become a favor owed, or maybe as Sonya’s sister, she’d be enveloped in all this privilege--room service and wardrobe delivery at a luxury hotel--with no strings attached.
He lifted the sleeve of a soft, pink sweater, the sort with an inviting halo of fuzz. He wanted her to wear it, to see her robed in its fleecy plushness, a gentleness, a kindness the world never offered her. And he wanted to show her off, wanted her to see the way men would look at her. Stas Demyan wasn’t the only one who could appreciate her, and the son of a bitch had done a damn poor job of it. A serial predator who stole futures from women.
“Wear this,” he said.
“That’s a lovely top.” The stylist assembled more pieces as she spoke. “And it perfectly suits these brown trousers, and the ankle boots.”
“Yes.” Anya nodded, her eyes wide and sparkling. “I’d love to wear this.” She trailed her elegant fingers over the sweater and lowered her voice to a whisper. “It feels so good, Sergey. Like the towels, and the bed.”
The stylist, well within hearing distance, pulled her brows into a quizzical expression. Sonya did sound strange, like she was a little simple, or an alien from a strange planet, as the bellhops had thought. Really, she was just a sense-starved ghost, craving touch and warmth and softness.
Deeper than reason, deeper than right and wrong, the animal part of his brain whispered, You can give her those things. Every sensual experience she craves.
But good cop wasn’t just an act he put on in the interrogation room. He lived the part. And so from him, Anya would have to settle for a soft sweater and breakfast.
Once the stylist left, Sergey bargained for a shower all alone, trying not to succumb to the fear Anya barely hid behind the haughty lift of her chin, her shrug and clipped reply, “Fine.”
He wanted to wrap her up in every kind of protection he could offer like he’d swaddled her in that towel. But she was strong. She didn’t need protection, no matter how much he wanted to give it.
When she went ghost, the dress she wore fell to the floor, and the spectral nightie hugged her again, her nipples hard through the wet satin. With a blank, empty-eyed expression, she drifted to the window.
He showered as quickly as he could, shaking off the ache of her absence. Weird that he’d gotten used to her so fast, when he’d been almost desperate to say good-bye to Iryna.
He pulled on fresh jeans and the best shirt he’d brought, knowing he would still look like a slob at her side in the smart outfit they’d picked. In the sitting area of their suite, a gentle breeze stirred, and Anya’s ghostly skin sparkled.
Whatever she’d seen out there, whatever she’d remembered, the vila was waking.
Better get her back in her skin fast to keep the ghost at bay. He tried for a cheerful, normal tone. “Ready?”
“It’s not really something you can get ready for, dying. It’s like brand new, every time.”
Shit. And he’d put her through that just to shower by himself. Selfish prick.
He held out one of the thick towels to her, stretching it the breadth of his arm-span. This is my friendship, and protection, for as long as you need it.
Her gaze flicked from it to his eyes, and a reluctant smiled hatched on her lush lips like a chick attempting to break free of an egg. She’d understood what he offered, and she whooshed into his embrace with supernatural grace.
First came the cold of her touch at the nape of his neck, then the weight of her against his chest.
She gasped. Sputtered. Coughed.
“Shh. I’ve got you.” He stroked her hair.
As she quieted and the shivers set in, he used the towel to rub friction and heat into her arms. She clung to him, and the shimmer of sparkly vila clung to her, though it faded slowly as he toweled her off. Then he had no more excuses to hold her, and it was time to get her dressed.
Again, he dropped to her ankle and gritted his teeth as she slid on the lacy rose-colored panties sent by Sonya, who’d thought of everything. Even if he was damned curious to see the shadow of her pubic hair through the lace, to know just how the line of the lingerie would fall against those sharp hipbones.
Will. Not. Look.
“Sergey.”
He glanced up.
Fuck. Flat, fair belly. The faintest blue veins underneath her skin. The undersides of her small breasts, nipples proudly pointing upward as haughty as her chin.
He looked down again, his body flaring like the noonday sun had just emerged from behind a cloud to radiate heat upon him. “Yeah?”
“Maybe it’s just memories, but I have this feeling.” She touched her belly and winced. “Stas is here in Odessa.”
The hairs on the back of Sergey’s neck rose up. This was quite possibly his day of reckoning. Finally, he might ask his father what he’d done to Oksana, and then maybe he could throttle the son of a bitch for two women’s sakes. Or just let Anya have at him instead.
Her stomach growled something fierce, and she laughed. “Or maybe I’m just hungry.”
“Okay. Breakfast first. Then we’ll go to the office of records.”
They brushed their teeth side by side, Anya using a brush Sonya had sent along with other basic toiletries and cosmetics. Then he sat on the counter while she applied a little make-up. He’d never watched a woman besides his mother do it, and there was something so ordinary and mundane about it. He could almost pretend they were a normal couple heading out for a brunch date. Not like he did brunch dates normally.
They left the room hand in hand. Two doors down, Anya stopped suddenly, mid-step. He kept going and almost lost his grip on her hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t…” She leaned forward, but some invisible force yanked her backward with enough power she almost lost her balance. Her free hand clawed at her neck and her mouth twisted in anger. “Ugh.” The guttural cry of frustration came from deep in her little body. “I hate that slipper!”
Shit. How could he have forgotten?
She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand, drawing in deep breaths, seemingly as shocked as he was that for a moment they’d both forgotten what she was--a ghost, and dead, and stuck to a ballet shoe until she had her revenge.
“It’s okay.” He pulled her close and murmured into her hair, which smelled of the flowery hotel soap. “We’ll get you free.”
She sniffed, nodding and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Let’s go get it.”
Back in the hotel room, among the new clothes hanging in the closet, Anya found a purse to match the boots. Sergey spotted a label dangling from its strap. The tag read, For your slipper. It seemed Sonya had indeed thought of everything. Wordlessly, they worked as a team, him holding the leather handles open while she slid the shoebox inside.
They walked through Center City, which bustled with tourists and commuters. A line snaked around the outside of Vadim’s bistro, but when little Rita spotted him through the kitchen door, she skipped outside and brought them in through the rear entrance. Vadim cleared extra menus and boxes of sugar packets away, making two places at the kitchen-end of the bar. He shook Sergey’s hand and slapped him on the back, then grinned at Anya like she was the first girl Sergey had ever brought around, which she was.
When all this was over and she went gallivanting off with a bunch of wild vilas, he would have a hell of a time explaining to his pal why he let this one get away.