The Siren's Touch. Amber Belldene

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СКАЧАТЬ and as crystal blue as his own. “Speaking in euphemisms is a way to distance yourself from your actions.”

      No shit. “I’ll try to remember that.”

      The teapot bounced half an inch off the table. But Elena didn’t seem to notice. Damn his paranoid imagination.

      “Auntie, I need to eat.”

      Elena opened her mouth and reached for the teapot. Her jaw jutted in a classic Lisko expression, warning an argument was queuing up on her tongue. But her mobile phone rang, and she frowned at its screen. “This is my department head. I need to take it.”

      “No problem. I’ll just keep eating. Pass me that block of cheese.”

      She ignored his request and spoke into her phone as she disappeared down the hall. “Hello, Matthew.”

      Dmitri lunged to reclaim his gun from where it lay on the far side of the table. He tucked it into his waistband and returned to his seat.

      Once again, the teapot jostled like there was a frog inside.

      He had to be hallucinating. Holy hell, he’d never been this hungover. Then again, he’d never been on a thirty-day bender either. Quitting cold turkey after a vodka-soaked month was bound to be rough on the system. The teapot was definitely not jittering, only his sanity. Caffeine might help.

      He lifted the little round thing by the handle. A gust of steam poured out as deep-brown liquid trickled from its spout into his mug—an antique glass cup wrapped in silver filigree. In his hand, the teapot shook, jostling his arm.

      Damn it. That was no hallucination.

      A sudden puff of steam collided with his face. He set the teapot down and wiped his moist eyes. When he opened them again, he was certain he’d lost his mind.

      Hovering over Elena’s postcard-perfect traditional Ukrainian table setting was a shimmering tea-colored woman. No, not a woman.

      He reached for his weapon, knocking his chair to the floor. Scrambling across the room, he got as far as he could get from that…thing.

      Back pressed to the wall, his heart drummed against his sternum. What the hell was she?

      She dripped brown droplets of smoky Russian Caravan onto the table and gasped for air with her gossamer hands clasped at her neck. Her brown eyes stretched wide in her heart-shaped face.

      Had he completely lost his mind? “Fuck.”

      The thing yelped, flying away and leaving a sprinkling of tea droplets in her wake. As they fell to the ground, she grew whiter, becoming the soft, shiny color of a perfect pearl.

      A ghost. Holy hell.

      All his skin rose up in goose bumps. Could you shoot a ghost? Or a hallucination? He was damn sure going to try. He took aim.

      She coughed and coughed and coughed some more, making a horrible wet retching sound. Then she darted to a spot near the window, bending her spectral shape over to hack, as if she could clear her throat. Only it didn’t seem to be working.

      Without thinking, he lowered his weapon. “Breathe, girl. Be calm.”

      Slowly, she straightened, and her chest rose and fell in the rhythm of breath. The sun shone through her translucent form, highlighting a smoking hot set of curves under a long, wet nightgown. Large brown nipples poked through the ghostly, damp fabric, and a dark vee between her legs drew his gaze.

      Hell.

      This wet dream of a sexy, drowned ghost was proof he’d jumped into the deep end. Whether she was real or imagined, he should be scared to death. But instead, his hands jerked with the urge to pound on her back until she could draw a breath.

      Her brown hair was the color of dark chocolate, falling in loose, damp waves. And her eyes were round saucers. Her lips formed a perfect cupid’s bow, and the bottom one trembled.

      Perfect. He’d hallucinated a sexy, frightened ghost.

      And, yeah, his body was reacting. But not with fear.

      Chapter 2

      Her lungs were on fire. Burning. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat constricted. Coughing, a gasp, more coughing.

      So wet, so cold.

      Panic swirled and churned inside her like the water overhead. If only she could get a mouthful of air, get the river water out of her lungs…

      Cough.

      Bright light shone around her. She blinked. It had been night. She’d been on the riverbank…running. Perhaps she’d died? Was this heaven?

      Again, she was gripped by the urge to expel water from her lungs, but it was all in her head. Her body was…

      Gone?

      No. She could sense it, but it was different…less.

      Peering down, she saw right through her bare feet, utterly transparent and floating over a tea service, onto which she dripped brown sludge.

      How rude.

      She raised her hands before her eyes—transparent.

      She was a ghost. Had to be. She must have died in the river. But at that conclusion, her thoughts came to a jarring halt. No other memories volunteered themselves. Who was she, and what had happened?

      A low voice rumbled. “Fuck.”

      She squeaked at the crude word. The frightening man pointing a gun at her elicited another squeak. She had to get away, and with the mere thought, her ghostly body swished toward the wide, bright window, opening onto a street like no place she’d ever seen—strangely colored houses, bizarre automobiles in every shade imaginable, and a huge swath of sea. Was she in Odessa? She’d never been there before.

      Her breath came fast, but now she could tell they weren’t really breaths, only the habit of inhaling. No air came in, and she didn’t need it. Panic, which used to grip her chest and turn her heart into a sewing machine at full speed, now only made her mind race and her thoughts tangle.

      “Breathe, girl, be calm.” The big man lowered his weapon. His voice was gravel crunching under tires on a country road. The same habit of breathing forced the empty breaths to come slower. Her ghost chest rose and fell, but she couldn’t feel it, only see. Could see her breasts, fully outlined by her wet nightgown—a sheer bit of fabric that could never dry.

      Oh, sweet Jesus, she would be indecently clad for eternity.

      She squeaked again.

      The man’s frosty blue eyes roamed over her, lingering on her breasts, her belly, then flicking to the spot between her legs. An unfamiliar feeling flitted through her, the remembered sensation of butterflies in her tummy, although she no longer had a tummy. She covered her private parts with one outspread palm and hid her breasts with her arm. Although it was no use—her limbs were as sheer as her nightgown.

      Still, he must have taken her meaning, because СКАЧАТЬ