LITMIR.BIZ

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clenched and her body trembled, but the house didn’t, as if she’d reined herself in.

      “Tell me who.”

      She opened her mouth, closed it, and frowned. “I don’t know.”

      “Fine. Tell me your name.”

      She screwed up her pretty face, twisting cheeks and brow and lips in an awful mixture of confusion and grief. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

      She spun away and the fabric of her wet nightgown pulled tight across her chest, revealing a hole rimmed with blood and blackened by…a bullet?

      He froze. It had to be a bullet hole.

      “Were you shot?” His heart paused, waiting for her to answer.

      Her puzzled gaze flicked to the same spot.

      “Show me the wound,” he demanded.

      She wrapped her pearlescent fingers around the damp fabric and tugged it aside. Then she hesitated and worried her lip some more. Was she modest?

      “I can see everything you’ve got under that wet slip. Don’t bother being shy.”

      She set her jaw, nodded and slid the wide neck down over her shoulder. The wound appeared healed, a livid scar over her left breast.

      He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined a crimson stain blooming across her skin in that spot. In his mind, it grew bigger and bigger, until she was covered in blood.

      No!

      He opened his eyes to see the ghost. Her wound wasn’t pulsing gushes of blood. It wasn’t front and center on a tanned and freckled chest, near to a vital heart. It would do no good to plug this bullet hole with his clumsy hand and apply pressure even as hot scarlet liquid seeped around his fingers. This ghost wasn’t that blood-covered woman, who’d worn only cotton panties and gasped, clutching at his wrists as he’d tried to staunch the bleeding bullet wound.

      Dmitri heaved, what little he’d eaten fighting to come back up. The room spun and he stared at his bare feet, trying to get a grip, trying not to think about that other woman—

      About the way she’d thrown herself between Dmitri and her pimping scumbag of a boyfriend. About the way the bullet had pierced her bare skin, at first only leaving a tiny black circle. About how a bubble of blood had gurgled at her mouth until she’d coughed it away.

      Her man, sprawled behind her, had died instantly, killed by the same bullet. But she wouldn’t die—only stare at Dmitri with eyes growing glassier and glassier.

      This pretty thing was not the girl he’d killed. But damn it—his heart couldn’t tell the difference. It thundered in his ears, racing toward something.

      A second chance?

      The possibility of redemption?

      Could he save this one, this ghost of a girl, at least?

      His eyes trailed up her delicate white neck, and desire overtook him, blending with his more honorable urges. When had a neck ever been so sexy? Ethereal white skin stretched over tendon and muscle, appearing temptingly soft, even though untouchable.

      Before he thought better of it, he raised his hand, his knuckles burning to rub across that pearly surface.

      She yelped, hurling herself backwards.

      Surprised, he examined the hand he’d lifted to stroke her. From her side, it must have looked like a giant fist, rough from all the street fighting before he’d gotten serious in a real boxing ring. His index finger went to the bridge of his nose. Some women preferred a thug like him over a pretty boy. But not her, and that was only right. She was some other kind of woman than the ones he dated—if nightclubs, vodka, and half-numb screwing could be called dating.

      She must have been a knockout—a real class act. With all that hair. Probably a shade lighter if it were dry, it would be a glossy and rich brown. And that curvy hourglass of a figure—his hands could easily wrap most of the way around her waist.

      “Please, don’t look at me like that.” The sultry voice was back, dazing him with desire as if she’d just gripped the back of his head and pressed her tongue into his mouth for a kiss.

      She whimpered. “Please…”

      Poor thing. She wasn’t doing it on purpose. She needed his help, not his lust. And, in the unlikely event she liked him, she was still a goddamn ghost. Not like he could really touch her.

      “I’m sorry. You just…do something to me. Your voice, your skin, your…” He waved his hand at the glorious body he would very much like to bare and touch, in the flesh.

      “I know. I can’t seem to help it. I don’t mean to—”

      “Don’t worry. I can tell you’re not the type—”

      “Dmitri?” Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked closed and Elena’s heels tapped on the hardwood floor before she appeared. “Who are you talking too? Do you have one of those damnable headsets on? I swear they’re getting smaller by the day.”

      The scantily dressed sex ghost hovered at his side, clearly visible in Elena’s line of sight. Which very likely meant she couldn’t see her at all.

      Shit. It had to be true. He was completely bonkers.

      His aunt drew near. “Is your call finished then? What was all that racket? I could have sworn I heard—” Her foot crunched on the shards of glass littering the floor in a wide blast pattern, and she let out an exasperated sigh. “Damn it, Dmitri Ivanovych Lisko. Both my teacups? Those were a gift from…”

      He tuned her out, keeping his eyes glued to the ghost. Her supernaturally beautiful face flickered between curious and fearful as she tracked his aunt’s movements around the room. “She can’t see me.”

      He shook his head.

      “Or hear me.”

      “Nope.” He scratched his head, trying to make sense of the whole damn thing.

      “Dmitri?” Elena’s heels clicked out an arc behind him.

      He pivoted on his heels. “Huh?”

      “Are you on the phone or not? And what on earth is going on?” She reached into a closet and pulled out a broom.

      “Nah. Not on the phone.” At a complete loss, he glanced back at the girl. “I’m just seeing ghosts. Or, ghost—one of them.”

      Elena began to sweep the shards of glass into a neat pile. “Don’t be ridiculous. You said yourself that you’re hungry and fatigued. You need a meal and a good night’s rest, and then you’ll listen to reason about this thing you seem to think you must accomplish.”

      Ouch. The euphemism cut coming from her. But there was no way he wasn’t killing Boris Makar.

      Dmitri ignored her, searching out the ghost with hungry eyes. She’d flown over to his aunt, if fly was the right word. Perhaps float was better—there was no obvious method of propulsion. She seemed to be experimenting and tried to grab the broom from Elena’s grip, but her ghost hand passed right through it. She grimaced, then filled her sweet round cheeks with air and tried to blow Elena’s hair. Nothing. The ghost glanced back at him and held her palms up, shrugging.

      Elena stopped sweeping and followed his line of sight until she was staring right at the ghost. A frown pressed down her brow, and she bustled over to him more quickly than her short legs should be able to carry her.

      Standing on her tiptoes, she touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “No fever.”

      “Nah. I feel fine since I ate.” Fine, except for the layer of sweat forming on his lower back and clamming up his palms. Fine except for the buzzing fear in his veins. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “If I’m hallucinating, it’s because I’ve gone completely nuts, not because I’m hungry.”

      The

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