Hotshot hotel developer Alexa Chandler lusts after the property she’s found off the coast of St. Augustine, Florida--a haunted island complete with an abandoned castle she intends to convert into her premiere luxury resort. Inside, the only furnishing--a captivating portrait of a man--calls to her. With a single touch, she unleashes a phantom who has been trapped within the painting for over two hundred years.

Centuries ago, Damon Forsyth charged into a mysterious gypsy enclave on a desperate mission, but found himself trapped inside a cursed painting by his mortal enemy. Over time, he has contemplated little but revenge and retribution--until undeniable need draws Alexa to his lair. Though she releases him from the painting, Damon remains bound to the castle where the portrait hangs. Damon needs Alexa to break the final barrier. Using the dark magic that enslaves him, he initiates a game of seduction--with his freedom as the ultimate prize.

Unable to resist Damon’s fierce sexuality, Alexa surrenders to his ghostly touch, but soon, she must choose between thwarting the magic that holds Damon in thrall...or her own mortality.

Want to read what happens before this? Read excerpts posted originally at my Plotmonkeys blog!

Excerpt

The chain snapped, abrading the skin on the back of Alexa’s neck. Her hand flew to press against the pain and when she removed her fingers, a light streak of blood slashed across her skin.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“Where did you get this?”

Damon’s naked body gleamed with sweat even as he stood in an attack position. Legs balanced, knees slightly bent, arms at the ready, one hand clutching the delicate charm Jacob had given her as if his decision to murder her or not depended entirely on her reply.

She pressed her lips tightly together and reminded herself to breathe. She wasn’t going to let some ghost on the edge of insanity intimidate her, no matter what they’d just done or how delicious the experience had been.

“You need to calm down,” she insisted.

He lunged forward and with a squeal, Alexa tumbled off the chaise and remained out of his reach. Damon was easily twice her size and clearly in a rage. She couldn’t protect herself from a prone position. If he caught her, she wouldn’t stand a chance, martial arts training or not.

His chest heaved with barely checked emotion, only the chaise between them--a strip of furniture he could make disappear just as easily as he’d conjured it.

“Tell me how you came to possess this charm, witch!”

Infuriated, she slammed to her feet. “You’d better watch your tone, mister. I took you out of that painting. I’m nearly positive I can find a way to put you back in.”

Damon leapt over the chaise, his hand reaching toward her. She effectively deflected his first move, but wasn’t quick enough for the second. His hand tangled tightly in her hair and if she moved, she knew it would hurt.

“Let go of me.”

“Tell me how you possess my sister’s necklace,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

“What? You’re insane!”

“That remains to be seen, but I know this charm. Sarina was wearing it the night she ran away, but I found this very broken piece only moments before Rogan’s curse locked me in the portrait.”

“That’s impossible,” she explained, her heart pounding. “Jacob gave me the necklace just this afternoon. He told me it would protect me.”

His eyes blazing, Damon moved his face closer to his. “He lied.”

With a shove, he released her. Alexa’s knees hit the cold stone with a jolt, but she swallowed a painful gasp and instead concentrated on reaching her backpack. Inside, she had a gun. A flare gun, but a weapon nonetheless. She wasn’t sure the exploding cartridge could do any damage to a cursed phantom, even one with corporeal form, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try.

Damon clutched the necklace as he stalked around the landing like a caged predator. One by one, the accoutrements he’d added to the room faded out of sight. First the plush tapestries and velvet screens, then the table and wine, and finally, the chaise. Still naked and struggling with a shame she refused to feel, Alexa was completely exposed to his cruel gaze. Luckily, he no longer seemed interested in looking at her at all. His eyes remained locked on the charm he held tightly in his palm.

The sconces and candles faded last, dousing them in shadows that deepened and darkened as the sky outside the far windows swirled with grays and blacks. An ominous rumbling rolled across the ocean, announcing the coming storm. Alexa took advantage of the darkness and dashed to the backpack, fished out the gun and turned to point the wide, orange barrel at Damon.

But he was gone.

Down the stairs.

“This is the key,” he said triumphantly, mindless of his nudity and looking every inch as strong and powerful as he charged down the stairs as he had when robed in his Georgian-era clothes.

Alexa kicked into her trousers, sans undergarments, and punched into her blouse, fastening only one button before she flung her backpack over her shoulder and headed toward the stairs. A storm was coming, but she preferred to stare down Mother Nature in all her ugly glory rather than stay with a madman in the castle--her castle, she thought with a quiet growl--one minute longer. Staying close to the railing, she went down the stairs barefoot, grateful for the silence.

“This is where the magic originated,” he bellowed, spinning and stopping her dead when his ocean storm eyes burrowed into hers as lightning flashed around them. “Instrument of my destiny?” he shouted. “Not today. Not ever again.”

Alexa’s legs shook, but she continued downward, the gun clutched tightly in her hand, her eyes darting alternately between Damon and the door. She’d never get past him. Not unless she fired. And she couldn’t justify shooting an unarmed man unless he lunged at her again. She’d have to find another way.

Lightning strobed again, the bolts so intense, they brightened the inside of the castle so that the stones practically glowed with electricity, sparking off the tiny flakes of glass embedded in the walls. Thunder blasted immediately after, shaking Alexa straight through to her bones.

With his left hand clutched around the necklace, Damon grabbed the door handle with his right. With a mighty curse that rivaled the sounds of the squall outside, he pulled hard. The door flew open. Raising his fists triumphantly, he moved to step outside, free to unleash his bitter rage into Alexa’s very real and vulnerable world.

A second later, blue light crackled against the blackness outside. The castle shook from the boom that instantly followed. Instinctively, Alexa looked away, her eyes tightly shut, but the howl of pain that accompanied the thunder forced her to look. Damon flew across the slick floor, landing hard against the stone.

Rain shot into the grand hall like a million needle-tipped arrows, but Damon didn’t seem to care. He crawled on his knees until he was standing again, but before he reached even ten feet near the door, another burst of blue light invaded the hall, striking him directly.

Alexa screamed, but his agony made her reaction sound like a whimper. Electric fire burned into him. His body nearly floated upward as the strike continued, longer and longer than any ordinary force of nature. The whites of his eyes and his teeth glowed with cobalt fire.

She reacted on instinct, bolting down the remaining stairs. Sliding behind the massive door, she pushed with all her might. The heavy wood panel resisted for only a second, then flew into place, cutting off the searing pain that had flung Damon’s body backward until he slid across the wet stone and slammed into the bottom stairs.

Any mortal man would have been knocked out cold. Hell, any mortal man would be dead. But, apparently, neither the force of a hurricane nor the blackest magic could kill a phantom. But it caused him pain. Blinding, excruciating pain, judging by how he writhed on the floor.

Outside, the storm continued to rage. The mournful wind and the slam of tree limbs and stones against the windows grew in volume until the cacophony nearly had Alexa running for cover. Instead, she reached for the door, but didn’t touch the handle. What if she was struck, too? She might have cheated death once in the car accident, but chances were she couldn’t pull off such a miraculous escape from the Grim Reaper a second time. Instead, she headed toward the nearest window to the right of the hall.

Unfortunately, the grimy stained glass wouldn’t open. She swung back with her backpack, but the window repelled her strike, even with the water bottles and portable GPS tucked inside. From the hallway, she could hear Damon groaning. She didn’t care. She had to get out.

Reaching inside her pack, she retrieved the slicker she’d tucked inside and wrapped her fist, even while clutching the gun. With a shout that mixed determination, anticipated pain and fear, she punched at the glass. The pane held. Pain shot up her arm like hot fire, throbbing even as she staggered back.

She unwrapped her hand, stepped back a few feet from the window and fired. The cartridge hit the window with shattering force and exploded in a burst of red fire, but once the smoke cleared, the window remained intact.

Shaking, she reloaded. Aimed. But she had only one flare left. Did she really want to waste it on a window that would not break?

Instead, she bolted across the hall in search of another exit. She tried not to look at Damon, crumpled and naked at the bottom of the stairs, his arm titled at an odd and painful angle. But the minute her mind registered his injury, she stopped.

Glancing back at the door, she approached Damon cautiously, the gun aimed at his chest.

“Why is this happening?”

He struggled to pull in a satisfactory breath. “I. Don’t....”

He didn’t know. Big surprise. For an all-powerful phantom who could conjure an orgasm with a single stroke, he certainly wasn’t much help against the big, black magic encasing this castle. This island. Her island, damn it. She wanted it back. Now.

“Give me Sarina’s necklace,” she demanded.

His narrowed gaze burned with unchained resentment. “Never.”

She aimed the gun at his stomach.

“Give it to me or I’ll blow a hole in you that will last for eternity. Obviously, you can feel pain. I’m betting a flare gun exploding in your gut might be considerably worse than a lightning strike. You really want to try and heal from both? I won’t hurt the damned necklace. I don’t know anything about it except what my brother told me. I want out. I want to get the hell away from you.”

His breath ragged, Damon threw the charm and chain. It slid across the floor at her bare feet. Careful to keep her aim steady, she retrieved the charm.

“The magic. Will. Kill you.”

“I don’t believe you,” she spat. “The castle doesn’t want me. It wants you. This necklace protected me before, allowed me entrance. Now, it’ll let me out.”

“You don’t know. You don’t know for sure.”

Alexa straightened to her full height. “I’ll take my chances.”

She darted toward the door again, her insides roiling with uncertainties she’d never show him. Not in a million years. All evidence pointed toward the charm providing her with the protection Jacob had promised. Her world hadn’t turned from fairytale to nightmare until Damon had ripped the chain from her skin.

Tossing her backpack to the ground, Alexa pressed the charm against her chest and reached for the door. Though lightning and thunder continued their raucous dance outside in the darkness, none came shooting toward the castle. She clutched the latch and tugged hard.

Nothing happened.

She dropped the gun and tried again.

The latch was frozen in place.

She swirled on Damon, fury and fear fighting for dominance.

“Let me out!” she screamed.

But no one listened. No one but the phantom lying at the bottom of the stairs, filling the castle with his cruel laughter.

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New York Times bestselling author Julie Leto delivers an exciting new novel in her series about brothers who were cursed by Gypsies--and the modern women whose seductive touches are their destinies...

One more movie and Lauren Cole will be free of her role as an action heroine—and of her producer ex-husband...except that he still has her beloved antique sword. Nothing a little breaking and entering can’t fix, but nabbing the weapon unleashes a magic that reignites her love life and puts her in grave danger.

In 1747, Aiden Forsyth stormed a Gypsy village to save his sister, only to fall victim to a powerful spell that has held him captive for more than two centuries. Finally liberated by a sword-wielding beauty, Aiden learns that in the future, all the world’s a stage—and he cannot tell if this maiden’s affections are genuine or naught but an act. But she holds the key to his freedom, so he pledges to do whatever she asks.

Lauren has never needed a protector—until she’s forced to rely on the sexy warrior who has mysteriously appeared in her life. After all, it may be his age-old enemy who is trying to kill her...

Excerpt

Every muscle in Aiden’s body tightened, as if he’d been pressed between hot, iron anvils. Pain erupted in his skull and for the first time in centuries, Aiden Forsyth remembered what it felt like to face death. He lifted his chin, determined to face his demise straight on, but a slice of fiery steel burned across his middle and he doubled over. He waited, panting, expecting to feel the ooze of bloody heat from his disemboweled innards, but the sensation never came. Instead, he dropped onto a soft, leathery surface.

He’d fallen. But where?

He opened his eyes, but he could see nothing but shadows and a dim blue light. The odors that assailed his nostrils were instantly familiar, and yet, completely foreign. He smelled no blood, but the distinctive salty sweetness of sweat and the cold sharpness of forged steel. And woman. Oh, yes, the unmistakable scent of warm, clean skin and musky desire raked through his senses and brought him to full consciousness.

Where was he?

The floor he laid on was soft and scuffed. Above him, he spied the source of the odd blue gleam, but wondered how stars could be contained within four walls. Though the corners of the room were muted by shadows, he knew he was closed in. Captured. Contained. And yet, more free than he’d felt in hundreds of years.

Cautiously, he moved his arms and saw that he hadn’t been cut open. He bore no injuries that he could see. The more he moved, the more his blood pumped through his body. With a great breath, he inhaled every bit of air he could take into his lungs. The sensation was marvelous. Was he free? Finally? After all these years?

He spotted the woman just a few steps away. Her cascade of flaxen hair draped across her face, then fell in a soft veil over her generous breasts, which rose and fell with weak, but steady breaths. She’d collapsed against the wall, the sword that had been his prison lying across her leg, the pummel nestled between her thighs.

At once aroused and shocked, Aiden crawled to her, his hand hovering above the handle, above her skin. He’d been trapped inside the weapon for centuries. If he touched it, would he end up back inside?

But touching her? She was worth the risk. Familiar and powerful lust spiked through him and he couldn’t resist brushing aside her hair and curving the golden strands behind her ear. Her cheeks were flushed. Despite the blue light above her, her skin was pink with exertion. And he remembered.

She’d wielded a sword like no woman he’d ever seen, though he’d sensed more than seen her prowess with the weapon. Now more than ever, he craved her. Winning her could be the greatest victory of his sorry, sordid existence.

“Lauren.” Her name croaked from his lips, his tongue and teeth unused for so long.

She stirred, but didn’t wake. The sword slid off her body and almost instantly, her eyelashes fluttered.

He smiled, remembering the turquoise blueness of her eyes. Since the first time he’d become aware of her in the dusty Dresden shop, he’d longed to possess her. Years had passed since she’d coaxed her lover into purchasing the sword and when Aiden had finally become aware of her presence again, she could not hold him. Encased in glass out of her reach, even as he’d known somehow that only her touch would release him. How many times had she pressed her fingertips against the barrier between them, clearly wanting him with as much passion as he wanted her? Each instance had caused a surge in his awareness, a spike in the torture that was his prison.

Aiden glanced down at his hands. Scars cut burrows in the flesh around his knuckles. A few from early duels. Some from training. Some from battle. All from the time, centuries ago, when he’d been alive. Was he now truly free of Lord Rogan’s gypsy curse?

With effort, he stood, shifting his weight from side to side to regain his balance. His breeches and shirt retained the dampness from his night ride all those years ago. He tore off his waistcoat, desperate to remove the restraint of the snug material across his chest. If not for the presence of the woman who’d kept him clinging to consciousness for the past few years, he would have stripped his body bare and run out immediately into the daylight. Were they still in her house above the ocean or were they now somewhere else?

A doorknob was just above her head. He glanced around, but between the clutter of crates and machinery in the room and the deceptively mirrored walls on one side, he saw no other exit.

Frowning, he dropped to his knees beside her. Even unconscious, with her lips slightly parted, her skin gleamed with life. The ebb and flow of her breathing, marked by the gentle swell of her breasts, made his mouth water, not only because of the obvious fullness of her flesh, but because of what she was. Who she was. A living, breathing woman. A woman who could touch him. A woman who had touched him. A woman who would touch him more intimately, if he had his way.

And it had been so very long since Aiden had had his way.

He drew his finger over her cheek, causing a moan to escape her lips. The sound resonated through him, tugging hard from his heart to his groin.

“Lauren, love. Time to awaken.”

Her mewl told him she was resisting, or else, was having trouble finding consciousness again. He had no idea why she’d collapsed but no doubt Rogan’s black magic was to blame.

Shifting onto his knees, he cupped her cheek and spoke to her in an insistent tone. “Lauren, open your eyes.”

Her lashes fluttered and she groaned. The sound tore through Aiden. Was she in pain? “Lauren?” he barked.

She instantly reacted, flattening her back against the wall and wrapping her hand around the sword’s handle. He backed away and before he could counter her attack, she had the tip of the blade leveled against his chest.

“Who are you?”

He raised his hands in capitulation. He could disarm her, but he did not want their first interaction to be violent. “I am Aiden Forsyth, my lady.”

She squinted her eyes. “Who? Are you an actor?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, shocked by her assumption. Men of his station did not take to the stage, though he’d seen a fair amount of lively productions in his day. “I loved an actress once, though, if this makes any difference. Breathtaking creature. Threw me over for the son of a duke.”

Her gaze bore into him, but she did not speak. Then she made a quick scan of the room, all the time holding the blade steady. When she looked at him directly again, her eyes lingered, but not in any way he’d describe as flirtatious or coy. She was measuring him as a man would measure any opponent who’d dropped the proverbial gauntlet.

“You’re on the set,” she said calmly. “But you’re not one of the crew.”

She pressed the tip of the sword against his shirt and the bite on his skin raised his ire. He fought to remain still. Cheeky wench, this one.

“I am neither sailor nor actor, madam. I’m a soldier, albeit one from a different time.”

With practiced skill, she slid her legs beneath her and using the door behind her as leverage, stretched to her feet. The blade, buoyed against the ties of his shirt, hardly wavered. Clearly, Lauren Cole was not unskilled with weaponry and that knowledge added another layer of excitement to their interaction. He’d wanted her, longed for her, for years and now she was driving him entirely mad with lust even as she threatened to run him through.

“You’re a soldier? What...are you a consultant on the film?”

“I know not what you mean. I am not from this time, my lady. I was, until moments ago, trapped within the sword you are now holding against me.”

“Trapped?”

Confusion flitted across her keen blue eyes and gave him the advantage he needed. He snatched her wrist, twisted, pulled and shifted his weight until she was not only disarmed, the sword tossed into a shadowed corner. She lay beneath him, her arms pinned on either side of her head and her body flush against his.

The sensation of woman—the feel, the scent, the sound—nearly undid him. His cock tightened and blood rushed downward, leaving his brain deliciously befuddled with need. How long had he fantasized about this very woman, in this very position? Well, not exactly this position.

“Let go of me!”

He groaned. “If only t’were that easy.”

She narrowed her gaze until twin slits of sapphire burned into him. “It’s not hard,” she said, flicking a glance downward, as if she were talking about his private part. “You just shift to the side before I make you sorry you ever touched me.”

“Actually, my lady, ‘twas you who touched me. Had you not, I would not be here, but captured still inside that infernal sword.”

She struggled, but Aiden outweighed her and easily kept her in check. He rather enjoyed the way her hips and groin writhed beneath him. His behavior was wholly ungentlemanlike, but he was too aroused, too alive to care.

He’d free her momentarily. Once he was certain she’d listen. For as much as he’d always craved his freedom, one glance around this room had assured him that this world was entirely unlike the one he’d come from. Even the way she spoke testified to a drastic change in time and place. Aiden had no idea where he was, how he’d gotten here or if any of his brothers had suffered the same fate as he, but he intended to find out at first opportunity. And chances were, he’d need her help to proceed.

Unfortunately, she didn’t seem the least cooperative. She raised her head and in a whirl of movement, slammed her forehead hard against his. Dazed, he had no defense when she shoved hard against one shoulder and rolled him off her body.

When he’d regained clear vision, he found her standing, legs balanced on bouncing feet, arms curved, hands open, eyes wide and focused. She was ready for battle.

He rolled over onto his back and tried to contain his laughter.

“Stand down, my lady. I am not here to hurt you.”

"As you could if you wanted to, you thug,” she said, kicking out with her foot. Her heel connected with his knee and he yelped.

She moved to repeat the painful strike, but he reacted quickly, grabbing her foot and yanking upward so that her momentum sent her flying onto her curvaceous backside. She landed with a thud, but before he could offer an apology for his unthinking reaction, she arched her back, kicked up both legs and landed upright, back in the fighting stance.

Air rushed into his gaping mouth.

She quirked a grin. “Thought all my moves were special effects and stunt doubles, did you?”

Aiden drew himself to full height. A good row was an excellent way to work through the pent-up need. But having the woman who’d fueled his carnal desires as his opponent? He thought he might explode for the lascivious beauty of it.

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