Free The Phantom and the Psychic: A Paranormal Erotic Tale by Sophia Jones

*****
    “Are you my psychic?”
    The petite, curvaceous brunette arched a sle nder brow and graced the man with a smile.  “I’m a psychic, yes.  You must be Mr. O’Toole.  I’m Alyssa DeAngelo.”  She stretched out her hand to the elderly castle owner, her bewitching smile still in place.  
    O’Toole fumbled with the ornate handle of the heavy wooden door before he managed to clasp her hand in his. 
    Dominic shook his head, surveying the scene with equal parts amusement and disdain.  Old fool’s clearly smitten.
    “Come in, Ms. DeAngelo, come in.”
    Through the open entranceway, Dominic savored the glimpse of blue Italian sky and lush green hills visible beyond Castello Rocha’s paved courtyard before O’Toole ushered his guest in and hefted the door shut. Christ, what I wouldn’t give to be free of this infernal castle!
    Enclosed in the dark interior once more, he turned his attention to the woman.
    “Please, Alyssa’s fine.  Ms. DeAngelo is my grandmother.”   Her voice was rich, husky.  The kind of melodious, sinful tone that would have given him a cockstand centuries ago. 
    “Well, if your grandmother is as fine a lass as you, then she must be a beautiful woman indeed,” said O’Toole with a flirtatious grin. 
    Dominic snorted.  “Say what you mean, O’Toole.  You’d like to plant yourself between those luscious thighs and die a happy man.”
    Neither the man nor the woman acknowledged him.  No surprise there, though unexpected disappointment stabbed through him.
    “Bah, some psychic you are ,” he muttered, his tone dismissive and angry.  A part of him had hoped ...
    She laughed.  “Mr. O’Toole, how does an Irish sweet talker like you end up owning a castle in Italy?”
    The old man’s merry eyes turned wistful , then sad.  “Through my beloved.  We always talked of moving to Italy one day.  Buy a hotel, kick back and let the tourists make us rich.”  His voice broke, and Alyssa placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  He continued, “Well, my Mary, she passed away before we could make any of that happen.  But there was the insurance money, and nothing left for me at home ...”
    She finished where he faltered.  “So you bought this beautiful, old castle to honor the dream you two shared.”
    O’Toole nodded.  “Aye, this beautiful, old, haunted castle.”  He looked undone, his body slumped in defeat.
    Hand remaining on his shoulder, she led him through the dark foyer and into the somewhat brighter great room.  Still sullen, Dominic followed, hovering behind the pair.  Muted sunlight crept in from a dozen large, dusty windows, revealing high arched ceilings, elaborate crown molding, and an immense chandelier.  She guided the old man to a maroon divan, then sat down beside him.
    In a gentle voice, she asked, “Do you have any more information on the murders ?”
    O ’Toole shook his head, “No, just what I emailed you.  It started with my very first guest.  Young, healthy lad.  Found him dead the next day, his door still locked from the inside.  Had to bust it down.”
    “Right, no marks on his body, no signs of a struggle in his room,” Alyssa confirmed.  “The police said it was a heart attack.”
    “ Aye, and then a woman, exactly the same thing, in the same room a few weeks later.  Two people dead of heart failure.  That’s when I closed down for the season.  Maybe forever.” Despair laced his words.
    She reached for O’Toole’s hand and gave it a squeeze.  “I’m here to help.”
    Dominic interjected, voice heavy with scorn, “I’d like to give you something to grope, you fraudulent wench.  Sure you’re here to help ... to help relieve the old bastard of the last of his money.”
    She turned O’Toole’s weathered hand over, and traced her pale little fingers over the deep grooves and fine lines.  “Did you know palm reading isn’t about predicting the future?”
    O’ Toole shook his head, seeming content with his hand