Phantom Pleasures - Chapter Four
Friday, March 28th, 2008
Welcome back! to anyone who is here for the first time, welcome! Normally, on Jungle Madness Friday, one of the Plotmonkeys posts a fabulous contest. This week, however, I’m continuing my series of excerpts from my upcoming paranormal romance, Phantom Pleasures and today, we’re on Chapter Four! If you’d like to start from the beginning, click here!
But there’s still a contest! If you post a comment, you’re eligible to win a $20 gift card from Amazon.com. The winner from yesterday is posted at the end of this chapter. Enjoy!
-4-
This time, the awakening came slowly.
No rush of air.
No blinding light.
Just the gradual saturation of life into his body, the gentle peeling of his skin away from the moist oil and canvas that had held him captive for what he guessed must have been centuries. The moment his boot hit stone, his vision cleared. The red-headed woman was sprawled on the ground at his feet.
He hoped she wasn’t dead. Pity if such an enchanting female perished only to initiate his freedom.
On bended knee, he reached to touch her, but stopped before his fingers made contact with her alabaster cheek. Her auburn hair, pulled back tightly from her face, gave him pause. How many centuries had elapsed since the gypsy woman had warned him that a woman with flames in her hair would be the instrument of his destiny? Her predictions, thus far, had proved ominous. He’d married his wife, Anne, partially because of her station and dowry, and partially because her burnished tresses garnered renown among the whole of King George’s court. He’d been so curious if the gypsy’s prediction would prove true, he’d sacrificed his bachelorhood.
Yet despite the fire in her hair, Anne had proved cold as the Thames in winter. He’d then found himself with Renata, his mistress, drawn by her passionate mien and crimson curls. Too late he’d learned she used henna the first night they’d met and changed her hair color on whims of fancy. Sweet-natured and warm, Renata had been a welcome distraction during his sojourns to London, but she had not affected his destiny in any way.
Except on the night of his imprisonment, when he’d thought–for a brief, insane instant–that Rogan had trapped her in a painting.
He glanced from the woman on the floor to the portrait on the wall, now devoid of a subject. On the night of his sister’s disappearance, there had been a redhead in the portrait. In a corner shadow. In a doorway that did not exist. She’d lured him and therefore, had yanked him out of his time and in to this new world where machines flew in the sky and women, like the one now crumbled on the floor, ordered men in uniform about as if she were queen.
At that thought, he touched her. A lock of hair had escaped the severe queue she’d tied at the nape of her shapely neck, so he merely brushed the hair aside. She moved, made a sound quite like a cat’s mewling.
