Phantom's Touch: Sexy Paranormal (Book 2, Phantom Series) Read Free Page A

a desperate scream. Feminine. Needful. Afraid.
    “Sarina?”
    He dashed back into the cave, but found no inner chamber, no path that led anywhere but into shadow. In a curve in the darkness, however, he spied a strange, bluish light. He drew his weapon and advanced into the alcove, shocked to find a single sword fastened to the stone wall.
    The blade gleamed, reflecting a light that could not exist. A chill slithered through him as the unnatural glow swelled on the hilt, flashing red in the strange gems fastened there.
    Rogan’s sword?
    He’d heard about the weapon. The beauty and elegance of the deadly double edge had been legend among all who’d been invited into Rogan’s inner sanctum. How ironic would it be if he killed Rogan with a thrust from his own infamous blade?
    The honed steel was exquisite—perfectly smooth and, Aiden guessed, utterly balanced. The wraparound handle, reminiscent of coveted Spanish foils, was a stunning web of fine gold. And the jewels? Aiden had never seen gemstones of that color—the color of fury. The color of rage.
    Aiden grabbed the handle. Instantly the red stones flamed against his palm. He yanked his hand back, but the metal fused with his skin, burning hot. His legs buckled against the pain, but though he expected to suffer the crack of his kneecaps against the stone floor, he felt nothing.
    Absolutely nothing.

1
     
    Hollywood, California
    November 2008
     
    “You’re all mine.”
    Lauren Cole chuckled greedily, holding the package close to her chest as she flipped the light switch and locked the door behind her. No one would think to look for her here. With her new movie scheduled to start filming in less than a week, the studio soundstage was normally a beehive of activity—except in the middle of the night. She had less than six hours to enjoy her stolen treasure.
    And enjoy it she would.
    She kicked off her soft-soled shoes and, with a squeal of delight, fell to her knees on the nearest mat in the studio exercise room, clutching the objet d’art she’d liberated from her ex-husband’s house. Even wrapped in a cashmere throw, the metal underneath bit deliciously into her skin.
    The sword was hers. The last and final gift she’d ever accept—or, in this case, take —from Ross Marchand. Her body thrummed with excitement, and she had to remind herself to breathe. Adrenaline overload caused some of her dizziness, but mostly she was simply jazzed to have returned, even for just one night, to the girl she used to be. The conniver. The street kid. The thief.
    Ross Marchand, her ex, had made it his business, literally, to drum her felonious tendencies out of her. He’d taught her to speak properly, dress with style and channel her expert lying skills into genuine acting talent. In the end, she’d worked his red carpets and movie premieres so adeptly, every paparazzo within a two-mile radius of Hollywood Boulevard had wanted to know everything about her—especially the name of her next film, which, of course, the internationally known Marchand would produce. Thanks to Ross, she’d glided onto the Hollywood A-list before her made-up name had ever rolled across a silver screen.
    But as she caressed the cashmere wrap, she knew that sometimes being bad felt oh, so good.
    Then a knock on the door stopped her cold.
    The pounding in her ears kept her from identifying the intruder until he said, “Who’s in there?”
    She exhaled. Marco. Studio security. Diligent, but sweet. She shoved the sword out of the line of sight, then scrambled across the workout mats and unlocked the door.
    “Hey, Marco,” she said, using all of her considerable acting skill to appear relaxed, if not slightly guilty for breaking a rule she and the security guard had confronted on more than one occasion.
    The older man arched a bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Ms. Cole, you know you’re not supposed to be on the set alone.”
    She grinned at him prettily, having learned the power of her smile years