The Siren's Dance. Amber Belldene

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 toward her like she was its north. Her words seemed to caress it, warm and wet and with just enough friction to please.

      Somewhere off in the distance, Dmitri cursed. “Shit. We probably should have warned him.”

      “Oh, dear. How could I have forgotten this part?” Sonya squeaked.

      “What part?” Gregor asked.

      “She’s a siren,” Dmitri replied. “She could sex-talk a guy into pretty much anything.”

      But Sergey only had ears for Anya, who was practically purring. “The thing is, Yuchenko, Stas Demyan is a panther, and he will eat a puppy like you for lunch.”

      With her words, the spell broke, her enchantment falling limp like the snip of a taut string. Sergey imagined a panther devouring a puppy until his erection flagged. “Give me a break. He’s older than Gregor, here.”

      “I’m certain he will only be more evil with age,” she said with a bitterness a hell of a lot like his mother’s.

      She was a ghost and a siren, and in her opinion, his father was an evil son of a bitch. This was so not the day Sergey had signed up for when he’d rolled out of bed. Either he was turning as batty as his mother, or the Liskos were pulling one over on him.

      He closed his eyes. “This is a joke, right? Gregor had my wheatgrass laced with LSD, and I’m hallucinating, and the rest of you are laughing your asses off at me. ‘When Yuchenko loses it, he imagines hateful, hot ghosts in tiny wet nightgowns.’”

      “How sweet. The puppy thinks I’m hot.” Anya’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s a compliment, right?”

      Sonya chuckled. “Yes.”

      He groaned. “I don’t want a position in your organization, now or ever. I’m a cop, and I’m sticking to the straight and narrow. So you can cut out this hazing crap.”

      Dmitri snickered and turned to Sonya. “I told you he’d take it all pretty well. Yuchenko’s a trooper. He’s made of solid, Ukrainian stuff. Meat and potatoes with his wheatgrass. No fainting at the sight of a ghost. No hysterics when she turned that siren shit on. We can count on him.”

      Chapter 2

      Anya was freezing; her skin puckered into goose bumps. With each breath, she labored against the weight of her ribs and her muscles as the pleasing pull of gravity hugged her to the earth.

      Each sensation was wondrous. But being alive couldn’t last. She had to remain focused on her goal.

      Find Stas. Be free. Hurry.

      And she wasn’t the least bit convinced this puppy, with his kind, brown eyes, could help. During the drive to the station, Gregor had said Yuchenko was a crack detective who could find anyone. Anya had pictured a hard-boiled cop with pockmarked cheeks and a barrel chest who smoked two cigarettes at once, not this disappointing infant--the last sort of man she wanted at her side when she faced Stas. Even under the strain of meeting a ghost, his fresh, handsome face remained unlined and made her feel every one of the seventy or so years since she’d been born.

      He dropped into a chair and unbuttoned his coat so that it fell open at his sides.

      He was big, with bulky muscles filling out the shoulders and arms of his otherwise too large suit. The ill-fitting navy coat looked sloppy in contrast to his tidy, cropped haircut and clean-shaven jaw.

      “He’s no use to me. He doesn’t even think I’m real.” She put one hand on her hip and let the other dangle at her side where Gregor held it.

      “Yes, he does,” Dmitri said. “He just wishes he didn’t. Am I right?”

      The inspector’s gaze swept over her; then he cleared his throat and averted his eyes. “Yeah.”

      Oh, right. The nightgown. Her skin heated with a blush. Sonya had made the sexy low-cut slip for her as an engagement present, and vilas--the ghosts of jilted brides--were clothed in their wedding dresses in death. The nightie was as close as Anya had ever gotten to a white gown, and it left nothing to the imagination, not to mention the tight, pink satin was eternally soaked from her fatal dive into the river.

      “What exactly is she?” he asked.

      “A rusalka.” Gregor dropped into a chair, holding her fast. She stumbled back a few steps before righting herself to glower at the ailing Lisko. Then she saw the pain etched deep into his face and settled for an indignant sniff instead.

      No. She wasn’t one of those maudlin sirens who perched in trees over rivers, СКАЧАТЬ