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“ D id you hear that?” I ask, stopping just over the threshold so that Damien has to walk around me.

He cocks his head, frowning slightly. “Hear what?”

“A second ago.” I hug myself, fighting a chill. “As I came in. I thought—” I cut off my words, realizing I have no idea what I was going to say. That I’d heard my name? That I’d felt an odd sense of being watched?

I shake my head, feeling more than a little silly. “Never mind. Ignore me.” I smile up at him. “I think my husband let me drink a little too much this evening.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s a shame because your husband asked the realtor to leave a bottle of Champagne on ice. But I suppose he can drink it all by himself.”

I fight my own grin as I slide into his arms, realizing that the strange sensations that had set my skin to tingling are now only a memory. “I can probably handle one glass,” I whisper. “Besides, we have to toast the house. Champagne is almost a requirement. Champagne and sex,” I add, reaching up to tug one end of his bowtie, unraveling it in a single, smooth motion before deftly undoing the first two buttons at his collar.

“I do love the way you think.” He brushes a kiss over my lips before stepping away with a promise that he’ll be right back. I feel his absence keenly—strangely—like a sharp stab of loss coupled with fear. I’m about to call out for him, but then his shadow slides into the room, followed immediately by the man himself with a bottle of champagne and two empty flutes.

“Nikki?” He puts the bottle and glasses on a sideboard and then hurries toward me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I laugh, the sound tinny to my ears. “Maybe I am a little spooked.” I shrug. “The house does have a history, after all.”

He brushes his fingertips down my bare arm. “Everything has a history. And I think you and I know better than anyone that your past doesn’t have to taint your present.”

I close my eyes as he pulls me toward him, and my arms go tight around him, this man who knows me so well. Who knows the demons from my past that still haunt me.

Demons he helped me fight, even while fighting his own.

We’ve survived so much, and we built something wonderful.

This house will be wonderful, too.

I draw in a breath as I step back, then smile up at him. “I think we need to explore. And drink a toast in every room.”

“Mrs. Stark,” he says, his voice teasing. “Are you intending to get me drunk and take advantage of me?”

I flutter my lashes. “I guess you are as smart as everyone says.”

He laughs, then pours us each a flute of bubbly. We toast the living area where we’re standing, a cozy space anchored by a stone fireplace and softened with worn wood floors and high, beamed ceilings.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. The built-in shelves that line the walls. A vintage loveseat positioned near a coffee table. A wide picture window, beyond which the surf shimmers in the moonlight. I smile, feeling strangely at home in this unfamiliar place.

Damien takes my free hand and leads me into the charming kitchen. A vintage dining set sits in the nook by the bay window, and I imagine lazy mornings with coffee and the ocean as our backdrop. A hallway leads to the bedrooms, including a spacious master with a set of French doors that open onto a private patio.

Every room is in perfect order—dust-free and tidy, just as a vacation rental should be. But this is no typical vacation rental. Because mixed in with the generic trappings that ensure a traveler’s comfort, there’s also Hollywood memorabilia scattered throughout. Framed photos from Vivien’s most famous films line the hallway, and a small glass case in the corner of the den houses props from her movies—a sequined clutch, a feathered hat, a delicate tiara. It’s like walking through a time capsule, each piece a connection to a history that’s always fascinated me.

Still, despite the Hollywood decorations and the strange trill of sensation that had spooked me as I entered, the place feels almost generic. As if it could be the cover photo for a vacation rental catalog.

Honestly, I’m almost disappointed.

Not that I’d wanted to move into a haunted house, but I’d let myself believe that this cottage was somehow the connection between Vivien Lorainne and myself. Instead, it just feels like a house that contains a few photos and props.

And yet….

I can’t deny that something about this place feels familiar. And not. Like stepping into a memory that doesn’t belong to you. Which, of course, makes no sense whatsoever.

“Well?” Damien’s hand presses lightly on the small of my back as we return to the living area.

“It’s incredible,” I tell him, and despite that little knot of disappointment, I mean the words completely. “But you have to stop buying me presents every time you turn around. Especially such extravagant ones. People will think you’re spoiling me.”

“People would be right.” He takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. “So are you saying I shouldn’t give you the one present I still have left?”

I cross my arms as I shift on the cushion to face him better. “Um, excuse me? The journal is already mine. Hand it over.” I hold out my hand, palm up, and he reaches into his interior pocket for the small journal, then puts it in my palm so that the embossed initials — VL— are facing up.

But there’s something else, too. Whereas before, I’d only noticed Vivien’s initials, now I’m looking at those initials surrounded by an ouroboros.

“I don’t remember the snake being on the cover,” I say to Damien. “Do you?”

He frowns at the journal as I scowl at the design of a snake eating his tail. Unlike the embossed initials, this has been burned into the leather. Like a brand.

Damien’s brow furrows. “Honestly, I can’t remember one way or the other.”

“I can,” I say. “It was just the—”

“What?”

I shake my head, suddenly realizing that I’m uncertain. I was excited to see Vivien’s initials. As for the design surrounding them, maybe my mind just ignored that.

“It must have been there,” Damien says. “It’s not as if someone would have branded the journal between the time we bid and the time we picked it up.”

“Right,” I say. “We just didn’t notice.”

Our eyes meet, and I can’t help but wonder. But Damien only shrugs as if he’s not concerned at all. And if he’s not, why on earth should I be?

“It looks good this way,” I say as I move my finger around and around. Tracing. Following. “Yes,” I say as if I’ve just made an important decision. “I like it.”

Damien takes the journal, surprising me by tracing the outline of the snake himself. “It’s almost as if it knew,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

“It? Knew what?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

His smile is slow as he passes the journal back to me, then slips his hand into his pocket again, this time pulling out a velvet jewelry box about three inches square.

I look from the journal to the box to Damien. “You really are spoiling me. What on earth do you have there?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

I take the box, the velvet smooth against my fingers, then lift the hinged lid. Inside, nestled against black satin, is Vivien Lorainne’s snake bracelet. The one listed as “Display Only.” The one I’d admired and mourned as unavailable.

“Damien,” I whisper. Tears prick my eyes as I carefully lift it out of the box. The silver coils gleam in the dim light, each curve impossibly intricate. Tiny emeralds glint in the snake’s eyes while turquoise stones dot the band, their color deep and mesmerizing. “Damien, this is…”

I trail off, unable to find the words. “But it wasn’t for sale. How—?”

He only shrugs, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You wanted it.”

“Thank you.” My throat is clogged with tears as I slip it onto my wrist. The silver is cool against my skin, and the weight of it seems strangely comforting. “I don’t even know what to say.”

He takes my hand, then brushes a kiss across my knuckles. “You don’t have to say a thing. It suits you.”

I glance down at the bracelet again, watching the way it catches the light. For a moment, it almost seems to shift, the emerald eyes gleaming like they’re alive.

I tilt my head, studying my husband. “You said all our luggage is here?”

“All unpacked by elves.”

I grin. “In that case, Mr. Stark. I think you should wait here. As they say in the movies, I’m going to go slip into something a little more comfortable.”

“Oh, really?” He settles in, his arms spread on the back of the sofa, looking relaxed and powerful and so sexy I consider just forgetting about the silky 1940s-style negligee I’d bought for our night after the auction.

But no…I want to seduce my husband properly. “Have another glass of champagne,” I suggest, picking up my flute before heading toward the master bedroom. “And remember—anticipation is half the fun.”

“It is, Mrs. Stark,” he says, his voice so full of heat it’s almost a caress.

I resist the renewed urge to forget the damn negligee, then hurry to the bedroom.

I find the garment hanging in a chifforobe, and I quickly strip, then slide it on, enjoying the feel of the satin over my bare skin. I’d found the negligee in a consignment shop, and since it’s from the forties, I’d had to buy it for this trip. Now I’m glad I did. It’s ankle-length, with thin straps and a low-cut bodice. Sexy as hell, and yet somehow demure, especially when paired with the matching—albeit sheer—robe.

For a moment, the memory of that strange voice when I’d opened the door comes back to me. The voice. The snake branded onto the journal. It must mean something, but—

I shake my head, having lost my train of thought. Apparently cocktails and Champagne aren’t a good combination if I can’t even hold a thought in my head for a moment.

I run my palms over the negligee, enjoying the sensual feel of the material under my hands. And what do thoughts matter, anyway, when soon enough Damien’s kisses will send all thoughts scurrying, leaving nothing but hot, delicious need.

With a happy sigh, I do a quick turn in front of the freestanding mirror in the corner of the room. It’s a period piece as well, its gilded frame curling into intricate flourishes at the edges.

I turn away from my reflection, then look back over my shoulder in what I hope is a seductive pose.

And then I freeze.

It’s gone in an instant, but for a moment—the briefest of moments—it wasn’t me reflected in that mirror.

It was Vivien—blood trailing down her forehead, her eyes wide with terror, and her mouth open in a silent scream.