A woman of mixed race born into slavery found love in the arms of her owner's son. Separated by his death and her murder, she's cursed to live a ghostly life on the land she once longed to flee.

Dr. Travis Moreland-internationally renowned expert on paranormal phenomena and a spiritual medium-helps spirits cross over to find peace, but he's never met a succubus. Hearing of homeowners desperate to rid themselves of one such specter, his curiosity is peaked.

After he meets Dominique, however, he questions his sanity and longs to respond to the siren's call... Return To Me

But he wasn't going to go there, because he was a man of science. Scientific research, years of study, lab work, and hands-on fieldwork. It didn't matter if he was a medium and talked to ghosts and spirits, or that he'd been that way for as long as he could remember. Gut instinct was not logical, and therefore must not be adhered to. Only science and helping lost souls cross over to the other side mattered.

He leaned toward the door to slip the key in the lock, lost his balance when the bags shifted against his side, and landed against the door. It swung open as he stumbled through it and landed on his face amid plastic sheeting and sawdust.

He sneezed. Sneezed again. Pushed himself up on his knees, disengaging his arms from the luggage straps as he went, and sneezed three times in succession.

"Terrific," he muttered, reaching into his back pocket for a handkerchief.

The door creaked behind him, and he turned in time to see it shut. Then he heard the distinct sound of the lock engaging.

His heart leapt to his throat. He pushed to his feet and grabbed the brand new brass doorknob. It wouldn't turn.

"Okay. Okay." He took a deep breath, nearly choked on the dust he'd upset when he stood, and slowly let it out, trying not to cough. "You can stop it right now. I'm not going to play your little games. You're not going to scare me away." Displaced spirits could be such pains in the ass sometimes. He slowly glanced over his shoulder, turned and tried to scan the darkness of surrounding room.

Light. He needed light. His eyes had yet to adjust to the room that was pitch black except for the faintest hint of glow coming through the grimy front window next to the door.

He almost laughed at his foolishness-or maybe it was nerves-but he bit his tongue. He didn't need light. Ghost hunters work in the dark, you dolt. Yeah, but why was this place giving him a major case of the creeps?

The air temperature suddenly dropped by at least twenty degrees. The hairs on his neck stood at attention.

That's why, he thought, as he dove for his bag that held his Geiger counter.

While he rummaged through the dark, trying to locate his electromagnetic equipment, a brush of cool fingers flitted over his cheek. He froze.

"Who are you?" he asked in the strongest voice he could muster.

The invisible hand fluttered over his jaw, along his throat. He had visions of every horror movie he'd ever seen. The bony hand of death reaching into his chest to grab his beating heart.

Damn it, not now, he silently commanded his imagination.

"Who are you, and why are you here?" he said again, and then shook his head at himself, a silent chastisement. If he'd taken more time to investigate the history of the place before rushing to the scene, he probably wouldn't have had to ask such stupid questions.

A throaty, feminine laugh filled the room, crackling the charged air around him.

Goose bumps raced down his sides. That invisible hand settled on his chest, over his heart.

He'd never felt a physical touch from a PSI being before. It was new, exciting, and terrifying. No wonder those construction workers had run off.

Damn, he wished he had an assistant to back him up so he'd know that this was real and not his overactive imagination at work. He'd look into hiring one as soon as he got back to New York.

The air temperature dropped some more, and he fought the urge to tremble.

A deeply Creole accented voice murmured right next to his ear, "Welcome home, lover."