LITMIR.BIZ

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through the fabric of her soul. She felt…felt more… No, she simply felt, and it was good. The violent fantasy had brought her to life—or some ghostly echo of it—and explained her very existence. She had one purpose and one purpose alone.

      Vengeance.

      The desire shook her, and even without a body, the force was immense, all-consuming. It rattled her thoughts, her feelings, and then the dishes on the table began to shake, the lid to the teapot tapping a rapid rhythm on the oak table.

      Oh God, was she doing that?

      “What the hell? Are you doing that?” He pointed his gun at her again.

      She swished to a door with a frosted glass window. It appeared to lead onto the street. She reached for the handle, but it passed through her insubstantial fingers, sending a cold shudder reverberating through her. That horrid sensation was enough to deter her from attempting another pass through the barrier. She was trapped in a room with this brute, trapped in this un-body, when she had to go find whoever was responsible. Panic shook her.

      “Cut it out,” he shouted.

      Across the room, a door swung, slamming into its frame, further closing off the sunny space. Then an old-fashioned glass and silver stekan bounced to the edge of the table and crashed to the floor, breaking into shards. She couldn’t control the power coursing through her and cried out, flying into a dark corner occupied by a small tree in a pot. Crouching beneath its glossy green leaves, which swayed from the waves of energy radiating from her, the full force of the truth hit her—she was dead, a ghost, without a body. And her family was…

      Still, no memories came. She drew her knees up to her chin and shook her head. The phantom pressure of tears built behind her eyes, although she had no tears, and really, no body at all. She whimpered and began to cry, her own bleating not-quite sobs reminding her of a frightened child.

      Gun dangling at his side, the giant prowled toward her, pinning her in the corner. He frowned, black eyebrows drawing together into a fierce slant. Then he dropped to a knee in an awkwardly humble gesture.

      “Easy, girl.” He laid the gun on the floor in front of him.

      “You can hear me?”

      Rubbing one hand over his bald head, he replied, “Yeah.”

      “And see me?”

      He grunted the answer to her obvious question, and his gaze roved over her knees—and lower. Oh God, her sheer, wet nightgown was only so long. She was probably exposing everything to him. She crossed her heels, pressing her calves into her hamstrings, and reached around her thighs to gather her wispy garment, so that at least a thin layer of cloth covered her.

      His eyes were the cornflower blue of the dress worn by the virgin God-bearer Mary in the holy icons. Although most had been destroyed by the Communist Party, some had survived, hidden in churches, or stowed away in people’s homes at great risk. She loved the vibrant paintings and their air of holy mystery.

      Surely the good Virgin Mary, mother of God, had never wanted vengeance for the horrible things done to her family.

      The big man’s gaze wrapped around her and the memory disappeared, taking with it any clue of who she was. His focus skimmed over her thigh and hip, across her bare arm and back to her face, where his blue eyes widened. Again, the imaginary butterflies fluttered in her memory of a stomach. His lovely mouth fell open too, and a full, pink tongue moistened his lower lip. He rubbed his wreck of a nose and then smoothed his palms down over his thick thighs.

      A power coalesced inside her. Like her fury, it began to fill her from her toes as if, from over her head, a pitcher poured liquid strength into her. A warm buzz tingled and soothed her, turning her furious vibrations into pure power. When the sensation reached her head, she understood, and it shocked her.

      She elongated, reaching her bare arms overhead, stretching her body long, and revealing all its lines to him under the slip of a nightdress.

      There—his tongue reappeared against his lower lip. She smoothed the shift over her waist and hips, highlighting her silhouette. He let out a slow breath.

      She focused on the strange, harsh-looking man who appeared to be as confused as she felt.

      “What is your name?” Her voice came out strange—low and melodic, full of new timbres.

      The oddly beautiful sound seemed to affect him. He stood and bowed his head. “I’m Dmitri Ivanovych Lisko.”

      “You will help me?” With the power in her voice, it wasn’t really a question.

      He fell back to one knee. “Anything, girl.”

      Chapter 3

      What the hell was wrong with him?

      She looked like a drowned rat. An adorable—no, a beautiful, sexy drowned rat. A looping curl of hair plastered itself to her forehead and seemed stuck there, fixed by her death. And that nightgown—fuck, it was wet, not a tiny bit drier than when she’d emerged from the pot. Her mouth was a sweet rosebud, and he wanted to brush the pad of his thumb across it.

      And across those hard, dark nipples straining toward him—Ukrainian women didn’t have curves like that, at least not anymore. They had tight salon-tanned bodies nourished only by raw vegetables, cigarettes and vodka, not lush hips that made his palms sweat.

      Also, they weren’t dead.

      Which was exactly his problem. He had a major hard-on for a ghost.

      A frightened, beautiful ghost. With flashing obsidian gems for eyes, fringed by thick lashes, batting at him flirtatiously.

      Was she coming on to him in some weird ghost way? Her skin glowed like a pearly, rippling surface of water, her nightgown a thin ivory veil over it. A dusky pink tinted her lips and her nipples, and even—unexpectedly—her smooth cheeks.

      “I need something, Dmitri.” Her voice was low and husky, tuned perfectly to the wavelength of his cock, pulling it hard to attention. No, that wasn’t right. Sure, she was hot, but the way his dick was reacting to her was not…normal.

      He tried to play it cool. “Yeah? What’s that?”

      “I need help finding someone.” She tipped her head forward and gazed up at him. Her voice slid over his skin like a tongue down his shaft, weakening him, bending him to her will.

      He retreated. “What are you doing to me?”

      Her luminous white hand covered her face, and her shining brown eyes darted away, clouded. “Nothing. I am doing nothing.”

      He shivered with the need growing low in his gut, awakening his entire body. Was he completely nuts? He turned his back on her, striding toward the hallway where Elena had vanished. Then he thought twice and crossed to the front door. Maybe some air and another smoke—

      The tinkling shatter of glass stopped him mid-stride. The second stekan had crashed to the floor. When she spoke, her voice had changed, now sounding normal, and human, and vulnerable. “Please, Dmitri. I’ll try to stop speaking that way.”

      He spun and found her arms wrapped tightly about her torso, her even white teeth worrying that lush bow of a lower lip.

      Her chest rose and fell with a breath. Did she need to breathe?

      “I don’t understand. I don’t remember anything.” Then came her single sob. “I’m scared.”

      The words lacked the sultry tone that had flipped him on like a switch. Instead, they wreaked havoc on his heart. If there was one tiny shred of honor left inside him, she had found it and plucked it like an out-of-tune guitar string. And he knew he would do anything for her.

      Anything.

      “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

      The tchotchkes on Elena’s shelves began to rattle.

      Apparently,

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