Restless Wind Publications
Category:
Romance
Publisher: Restless Wind Publications
ISBN-10: B01B2S4VYO
Copyright: February 12, 2016
ISBN-13: 9781943853229
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
In Paris' Ghostly City of the Dead, Two Unlikely Lovers Unravel a Century Old Curse.
Jana Hayes has a problem. As a professional photographer, she’s used to giving only her best. Yet every photograph she takes of this certain tomb at Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris France, always comes back with a smudge on it. It’s not her camera—she’s figured that much out—so just what is causing it?
Étienne Bolet has been trapped within the borders of the cemetery for more than two hundred years, damned to wander between worlds, living a half existence as he tries to break his curse. Every day he longs to be free from this fearful existence, but it’s not until Jana appears with her sweet smile and curious eyes that he wonders if his chance has finally come.
When Jana discovers her “smudge” is an Ethereal entity, she is both terrified and intrigued. Who is this haunted man whose eyes are filled with pain and sorrow? Why is she the only one who can see him? And why does Étienne look at her with such need and desire?
The passionate magic between the two of them burns hot, and they soon discover it’s only when they give into the feelings between them that they can change their future forever.
Excerpt
“There it is again.” Jaina Hayes bent close and stared at the computer monitor. She scrubbed at the picture on the screen as if the smear could be removed that way. “This is nuts,” she muttered to herself. “Three different days and thirty pictures and every one of them with this flaw? That just doesn’t happen.”
Sitting back, she nibbled on her lower lip as she gazed at the photo before her. It was one she’d taken just the day before at the Père Lachaise Cemetery, one of the several she was using in her new coffee table book of photography, Paris Cities of Silence.
Jaina had been behind a camera for almost twenty years, ever since her second cousin’s wedding when her father—just to keep her busy and out of trouble—had given her a cheap, plastic throwaway and told her to go take pictures. That first roll of film hadn’t been technically artistic—too many cut off heads and thumbs in the frame for that. But for Jaina, photography had been like stepping into a different realm. One where she could see things no one else did. Feel the heartbeat of an unseen world. And because she had the natural ability to bring those qualities out in her snapshots, now at twenty-four, she was an up and coming artist, sought after by galleries and publishers alike. Her name was becoming well known, and she was a media darling.
It was because of her innate talent and skill she’d been selected for this special commission in Paris. The publisher who’d hired her wanted something more than just pictures of graves. There were other books that had that. No, he wanted something unique and different. And he’d chosen her because he was sure she would see something in these cities of the dead others might not. And it looked as if he was right.
She’d already finished with the pictures she’d taken at Montparnasse and Montmarte cemeteries, and had gone through the pictures she’d taken of the largest and most famous graveyard in Paris— Père Lachaise—only to find no matter how many times she’d photographed this tomb, it came out flawed. She’d gone back twice more to try again, and still the weird smudge kept showing up. It was driving her crazy.
“It can’t be my equipment—” Jaina patted her precious camera gently, “—or all the pictures would be damaged. So what is it about this sepulcher that makes the difference?”
She studied the tomb carefully. Not nearly ornate as it’s neighbors, its elegant designs and artwork were much simpler, the lines cleaner. Architecturally, it was a medium-sized square building, barely bigger than the single tomb it contained. It wasn’t one of the better maintained ones in the cemetery. Stained with age, the roof was crumbing at the edges and looked as if it might come down at any moment. Some of the figurines and small statues were disintegrating, and the tiny plot of land around it was badly overgrown with weeds.
But even with all that, even though there were many more picture-worthy graves and sepulchers in the cemetery, for some reason it was this monument she’d been drawn to. This was the tomb she had to photograph over and over again. And she had no real idea why.
As she stared at the shadowed picture, a thought crossed her mind, and she opened a second window to the internet. A few key words and a moment later she was blinking in surprise at photographs that looked remarkably similar to her own.
“Taken at La Recoleta cemetery in Buenos Aires.” She shook her head. “And this one is taken at the St. Louis cemetery in New Orleans. This one at Arlington.” She clicked a few more links and found dozens of pictures just the same. “My God, there are so many of them. And all of them with the same kind of marks I have on my photographs.”
For a long time there was no sound but the steady snick of the touchpad and the sound of the rain on the window outside. Then, after a while, she clicked back to her own work. Thoughtful now, she leaned back and stared at what she now realized was no ordinary image. No. Best to say it outright, whether she really believed it or not.
She’d taken pictures of a ghost.
“The Marquis du Bolet,” she murmured. She traced the etched name of the tomb’s occupant on her computer screen. “Okay, mister. Who are you? And why do you keep messing up my photographs?”
* * * * *
She was back again.
He stood near the corner of the sepulcher in the shadow of the rain-wet trees and watched curiously. By his reckoning, it was the fourth time she’d visited. She was circling the tomb and muttering darkly to herself. Every once in a while she would lift her camera and take a picture then wipe the lens and quickly take another one. While he liked the company, it made no sense. What was she doing? And why did she keep coming back?
It was easy to tell she was an American. It showed in her clothing, her bearing, and he’d been around enough of them in the cemetery to pick up their language. Though what she was saying made no sense to him. Smudges? Smears? He tried to see the monument through her eyes, but still couldn’t understand. Yes, the tomb was filthy. Why would a few specific marks matter to her?
Once, she came so close to him, he could have touched her—had actually reached out his hand to do so, but at the last minute, pulled back. Instead he contented himself with just looking at the intriguing beauty of her face. She was all sunshine and light, her pale hair glowing like a beacon in the soft springtime sun. She had eyes as blue as the violets that grew wild among the graves in the cemetery, and her skin was as smooth and clear as the small pond outside the bedroom window back at his country estate. Her lips, even turned down in the frown she wore now, were delectable, and he wished he had the ability to taste them. Just one time.
She was sleek and shapely, her body curved in all the right places. And in the short skirt she wore, he could admire her long legs and trim ankles. These styles were one of the things that very much appealed to him. So much better than the ridiculous, uncomfortable styles worn by the noblewomen of his century.
He watched as she hefted her camera and made another round of the sepulcher. How many pictures was she going to take? It seemed to him she must have enough already. This tomb was of no historical significance. No one important was buried here. Only a man of noble birth who’d died fighting for what he believed. A man whose true name wasn’t even the one etched in the stone lintel above the door. No. He shook his head sorrowfully. That man didn’t even deserve to have his name remembered.
His eyes narrowed as she let her camera dangle and standing on tiptoe, traced the carvings on the tomb. “Okay, Marquis,” he heard her whisper, “so where are you? Are you going to be in these pictures, too?”
He frowned at her words. Pictures? Impossible. How could she think the Marquis was in her pictures? As he watched, she continued on with her exploration, sweeping her hands gently over his damp tomb as if it were a lover. A shudder went through him, and his cold body heated. He couldn’t help but groan as he thought of how her hands might feel on him.
To his surprise she went utterly still, her head snapping around, her gaze anxiously searching the shadows where he stood.
He froze as well. Could she have heard him? He shook his head again. No, that was another impossibility. No one had ever heard him before, and God knows he’d tried. Over and over again throughout the years until he’d finally given up. He was doomed to this horrific half existence, able to see the living but unable to communicate with them. A type of Hell even a demon wouldn’t contemplate.
But this girl…this lovely woman with the dreamy eyes and sweet smile, could she be different?
Steeling himself against disappointment, he stepped closer. Cupping his hand, he concentrated, putting everything he had into touching her. He willed himself to caress her cheek, wishing all the while he could actually feel the softness of her skin. And he watched, his heart pounding as her eyes widened in astonishment, and she shivered uncontrollably.
She’d felt him.
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