Cursed Luck, Book 1

by Kelley Armstrong

  I’m not sure what I expected. It’d be a small affair, obviously. Vanessa expected only a half-dozen invitees plus guests and security. Then we arrive, and I discover where it’s being held.

  There’d been a time, as a child, when I’d dreamed of being a museum curator. When I dreamed of working here—the place that inspired my love of antiques and history.

  The Cabot Museum of Greco-Roman Antiquities.

  Where I’ll see Josephine Hill-Cabot’s cursed Greco-Roman necklace.

  I hadn’t made the connection, and when I realize where we’re going, I feel stupid. Then I see the line of cars and the steady stream of black-tie guests.

  “I thought it was a small gathering,” I say as we stand on the sidewalk, watching the parade of designer finery.

  “They’ve obviously combined it with another event. Likely a fundraiser. We’ll have exclusive access to a smaller gathering inside.”

  Exclusive access. To the inner circle. At a gala where I don’t belong in the outer circle.

  Earlier, I’d mused that I’d think of my dress as a uniform. I should have infiltrated as serving staff. I’d be at home there, making a few extra bucks, serving champagne and then retreating to the wings with my fellow staff, where we’d alternate between swooning over a gorgeous dress, bitching about demanding guests and snarking about how many homeless people could dine on the wasted food.

  Connolly’s car pulls up. Or it looks like his, but so do a dozen others. The driver’s door opens, and I catch a flash of red-gold hair, and I grin, feeling like the girl sitting alone at a table when her date arrives.

  Then he steps out of the car and hands his keys to the valet, and my despair rushes back tenfold.

  Vanessa has joked about playing fairy godmother. This, then, is my true Cinderella moment. Yes, yes, Connolly is my business partner, and I can’t entertain thoughts beyond that. Yet in this scenario, he plays the role of Prince Charming, and I would be a bald-faced liar if I said I hadn’t twirled in front of the mirror and envisioned his reaction to my transformation.

  The story of Cinderella is a fantasy of privilege. All it takes is a little fairy dust—or a proper stylist and unlimited funds—to transform the drudge into a princess. What the story leaves out is how Cinderella would have felt walking into that ball. Or it tells us she felt incredible, floating on air. That’s a lie. This is how she really felt, seeing her prince. Struck by the horrible realization that all the stylists in the world can’t transform her into someone who fits into his universe.

  Connolly belongs in this scene. When he climbs from the car, when he speaks to the valet, when he strides toward the sidewalk, it’s with the same nonchalance I would feel hopping out of a taxi at a friend’s BBQ. I’m freaking out at the thought of going through those doors, and to him, it’s just another party.

  If he attracts any attention, it’s only admiring glances from women . . . and a few guys. Vanessa mentioned Connolly’s fashion sense, and now that she’s called my attention to it, I feel blind for missing it. The guy is wearing a rented tux. It should sag here, bunch there, something about it seeming not quite right, even to my untrained eye. Yet I don’t see the slightest imperfection.

  Vanessa talked about style and fit and fabric, but all I know is he looks amazing. He strides past guys who looked fine a moment ago, and I suddenly see the imperfections in their attire—pants a little long, shoes not quite the right shade, coat a little tight in the shoulders, royal blue bowtie that doesn’t flatter a skin tone.

  They look stylish and at ease. Connolly somehow looks more stylish, more at ease.

  Before I can finish processing that, he’s in front of us.

  “Sorry to have kept you both waiting,” he says. “I mistimed traffic.”

  That’s it. Nothing about my dress. Nothing about how I look.

  I chide myself. This isn’t a date. If he thought I looked nice, he assimilated that a hundred feet away. Still, it’s just one more lead weight tossed onto my mood.

  “You look nice,” I say.

  He glances down, as if he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. “Ah. Yes. Well, not many choices when it comes to tuxes. Makes things easy.” A pause. A long pause. Then, “Oh, and, of course, you look, well, lovely. That’s a very, er, lovely dress. Now, shall we—”

  “Is there a back-up plan?” I blurt. “Maybe I can sneak in and steal a server’s outfit instead.”

  Connolly frowns at me.

  “I just . . .” I begin. “I think this will work better if you two are guests, and I join the staff.”

  Connolly studies me and then turns to Vanessa. “May we have a moment?”

  “Of course,” she says.

  Connolly puts his fingertips against my back and leads me to the lawn, where we can tuck into a shadow.

  “You do look lovely,” he says. “I’m sorry if I bungled that.”

  “No, it’s not—”

  “You told me I looked nice, and my awkward response seemed forced and insincere. I realized I should have complimented you first, and so I stumbled over a response.”

  “Aiden, no. You aren’t obligated to say anything about how I look. I just . . . I don’t fit here. That’s obvious.”

  His frown is genuine, which helps lift my spirits.

  “I’m not fishing for compliments,” I say. “It isn’t the dress or the shoes or my hairdo. Vanessa looked after all that. What she can’t fix is the fact that I’m a million miles out of my depth here. I’m going to screw it up. Use the wrong fork or whatever.”

  “It’s finger food. There won’t be forks.”

  “Then I’ll be the dolt who asks for one.” I exhale and meet his gaze. “I don’t belong here, Aiden. I know it. You know it. Everyone here is going to know it.”

  I expect a quick blanket denial, which will only make this conversation more awkward. Instead, he considers and then says, “When we were in Unstable, how did I seem?”

  “Seem?”

  “Relaxed? At ease? Before we got the custard, that is.”

  “Unstable isn’t your kind of place. I was mostly thinking about how you must see it, our little provincial town. Terribly quaint. Which is code for backward and boring.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all. However, I wasn’t relaxed, either, because all I could think was that I didn’t fit in. I was glad we left my car behind the library. While it’s just another vehicle in Boston, it seemed showy and ostentatious in Unstable. I felt the same. As if I’d walked into a country fair wearing a bespoke suit. Yet even if I’d been wearing jeans, I think I’d have felt as if everyone knew I didn’t belong.”

  He glances at the museum. “That’s how you feel here. Except no one’s going to notice if you eat the canapés wrong or even ask for a fork. They’re too busy with their own concerns. Looking for networking opportunities. Flirting with someone else’s wife. Wondering when they can get out of their tight shoes. If they notice you at all, it will be as an attractive young woman they might like to get to know better.”

  I must make a face because his eyes warm.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I will stay close enough to protect you. Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

  “Please do.”

  “Then . . .” He offers his arm. “May I?”

  I hesitate and then smile, take his arm, and we head back to Vanessa.

  That isn’t the end of the discussion. It could be—I’ve had my mini-meltdown, and I won’t trouble Connolly with any more of my fears. Yet while he doesn’t dwell on it, he doesn’t presume my chin-up forward motion means I’m feeling fine and confident. He whispers and murmurs asides as we return to Vanessa and as the three of us go in. Words of advice and encouragement.

  Just keep looking forward.

  Watch the step here.

  Vanessa will check us in—we’ll just talk over here.

  Pretend it’s just the two of us if that helps.

  You really do look lovely. Maroon suits you.

  We’ll do a
few rounds of the main party before heading to ours.

  If you need anything, just let me know.

  None of it feels patronizing, and I’ve come to realize that when I feel patronized by him, it isn’t his intention. Oh, it’s certainly not always me being overly sensitive. But the more I’m with him, the less of that I get as he relaxes.

  What seemed condescending had been mostly awkwardness. Now, as he guides me through those first few minutes, I see only kindness and consideration, two of the last things I’d have expected from the guy who walked into my showroom two days ago.

  People say I’m kind, but in my case, it comes easily and naturally. I like people, and I treat everyone the way I want to be treated. That’s how I was raised. I’m naturally outgoing and open. Connolly is neither. And he definitely wasn’t raised to treat others with respect. Sure, if they “outrank” him, then they get respect because he wants something from them. I suspect he’d been raised to treat those “under” him much differently. Yet there is an innate kindness that his upbringing couldn’t quite stamp out. It’s a shy kindness, slipping out only when he’s comfortable and confident that it won’t be mistaken for weakness.

  As he warned, we don’t head straight into the inner party. Following Vanessa’s lead, we tour the main room. I try very hard not to pause at every exhibit. It doesn’t matter than I’ve seen them a dozen times—I want to stop and admire, which would make me stand out in a room where people are treating ancient statues as mere decoration.

  As we circle the room, I discover the piece of advice Connolly left out. That key piece that makes all the difference. I don’t need to worry about what people will think because as long as I’m with Vanessa, they won’t notice me.

  My ego is somewhat cushioned by the fact that they don’t notice Connolly, either. Vanessa walks through a room and draws every eye. Connolly and I get to relax and enjoy the tranquility of the shadow she casts.

  It’s like something out of a movie, really, with well-bred ladies and gentlemen whispering in an undulating wave of, Who is she? as we pass. The guesses follow. Hollywood mostly, possibly modeling, but the money is on “actor.” These people might not have seen a movie in decades, but clearly Vanessa is some major Hollywood star. As soon as they decide that, they try picking apart her styling. The exact fate I feared falls onto Vanessa as they decide she isn’t “one of them.” Beautiful, to be sure. Unearthly beautiful. But that which makes her so striking also proves she doesn’t belong here. Her face is her passport into this party rather than breeding or brains.

  The problem, of course, is that when they try to find fault, they can’t, and I have to hold back a snicker at those whispers. Half-started insults they can’t finish. That dress is . . . Her shoes aren’t quite . . . She’s very clearly . . .

  We hear it all on that walk through the party. And Vanessa’s expression never changes. She scans the party, gaze traveling over faces. More than once it pauses on a handsome man. Yet it never lingers long. She admires and moves on. As for the whispers, it’s as if they’re spoken in a frequency she can no longer hear.

  We pause in a quiet spot. One snarky whisper reaches us, some woman saying she should ask for the name of Vanessa’s plastic surgeon. When her companion replies that Vanessa probably didn’t pay in cash, I start to wheel just to let her know we heard, but Vanessa catches my arm.

  A man on our other side sees Vanessa holding my arm and leans in to whisper something to another man. They both snicker like teenage boys.

  “The well-bred aren’t that well-bred, are they?” I mutter. “It’s like a school dance.”

  “Shall we give them something to talk about?”

  She makes a move to tug me closer, and I acquiesce with a smile. Then she glances at Connolly.

  “Come over here, Aiden, and we’ll really get tongues wagging.”

  He frowns, pulling his attention back from wherever it had wandered.

  She puts out her arm, motioning for him to take it. “We’re trying to make people talk. Play along. It’s fun.”

  He realizes what she means, and his cheeks redden.

  “Perfect,” she says. “Nothing says ‘naughty conversation’ like a blushing man.” She leans toward him. “Pretend I’m saying something truly scandalous. Or sliding my fingers along your thigh.”

  His cheeks flame brighter.

  “Excellent,” she says.

  “Don’t tease him,” I say. “That’s my job.”

  Her brows waggle. “Is it now?”

  “It is.” I lean over toward Connolly and stage whisper. “Is that a rainbow over your head, or are you just happy to see me?”

  He relaxes and gives a soft laugh, shaking his head.

  “I’m missing something, aren’t I,” Vanessa says.

  “Yes,” Connolly says. “And we aren’t telling you what it is. Now, I was looking for a server to get us a drink, but may I instead suggest we cut this part of the evening short and continue to the main event? We must be fashionably late by now.”

  “We are,” Vanessa says.

  “Then lead the way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I’ve seen this scene in movies. We’ll go to a curtain or a roped-off entrance, where the uninvited are subtly jockeying for admission. What do you mean I’m not on the list? It doesn’t matter that they have no idea what the other party is for—it’s private, and that means they want in.

  There is no curtain. No roped-off hall. Vanessa finds a security guard and murmurs something to him, and he snaps to attention. “Follow me, please,” and he’s off, walking briskly toward a side hall. A few heads turn as we pass. Several people even fall in behind us. Then they see where we’re going. To the restrooms.

  We lose our entourage there. Once they’re gone, the guard directs us to a corridor past the restrooms.

  “The Edith Cabot Memorial Room,” he says. “Would you like me to escort you?”

  “No, we can take it from here,” Connolly says. “Thank you.”

  I don’t recognize the name of the room. It’s been a few years since my last visit, and I presume it’s new. It isn’t. As soon as we continue down the hall, though, I know exactly where we’re going.

  “Oh!” I say. “The treasure room!”

  Connolly glances over. “You’ve been to this museum?”

  “Enough times to know my way around blindfolded. I’ve never been in the ‘Edith Cabot Memorial Room,’ though. Never knew what it was called. It’s just always been the treasure room, a.k.a. ‘the door I could never sneak through.’”

  His brows arch.

  I shrug. “There’s nothing as tempting as an unmarked, locked door in a museum. Clearly, it’s where the treasure is kept. I used to sneak here from the restroom, hoping to find it unlocked. It never was.”

  “Well,” Vanessa says. “Tonight it is unlocked. And it contains treasure.”

  I grin. I can’t help it. Connolly smiles over, and I take his arm again. As we walk, a woman slips out from a door marked Staff and converses with Vanessa, confirming our invitations. Then she melts back into her hideaway, and we are free to continue.

  The Edith Cabot Memorial Room is at the end of the hall. While the door is open, the dim lighting makes it impossible to see anything beyond. I expect a murmur of voices, a tinkle of glasses and laughter, but all is silent.

  I’m wondering whether we’re the first to arrive when we draw close enough for me to make out shadowy figures. A few more steps, and the figures coalesce into people.

  I expect the “inner-circle event” to be a scaled-down version of the main one. People in evening wear milling about as servers circulate with champagne and appetizers—sorry, canapés. Instead, it looks like . . . well, it looks like a pub, and not a very lively one at that.

  It’s a small room. Glass display boxes mark it as a museum, but they’re widely spaced, decorations rather than attractions. A temporary bar consumes a quarter of the space. A few people sit. A few stand. The rest . . . well,
there is no rest. A rough scan counts maybe ten heads, and that includes the bartender.

  Two people catch my attention even before we reach the door. They’re the type of people you notice, even when they’re making no effort to draw attention to themselves.

  The man at one end of the bar is an arresting figure, if only for his size. Even sitting, he’s as tall as the woman tending bar, with shoulders twice as wide as hers. “Built like a bull” is the phrase that comes to mind. He’s shed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and has one massive muscled forearm resting on the bar. Maybe in his forties. Dark wavy hair. Dark beard. Handsome, in a brooding way.

  The other man is a ginger. Which would always catch my eye, but in this case, a flash of red-gold hair has me doing a double take, thinking it might be Connolly’s brother. On second glance, there’s not much resemblance to Connolly beyond the hair, and even that is lighter on the man, more of a blond that gleams red in the candlelight.

  What really caught my eye wasn’t his hair but his pose. There’s a stone divan in the corner. I’m pretty sure it’s an artifact. Also pretty sure it hasn’t been left out for seating. Yet the man isn’t just perched on it. He’s fully reclined, one leg lazily over the edge, looking for all the world like a wealthy Roman lounging in his courtyard.

  He even has the attendant maiden crouching at his side, offering him a drink. I think it’s a server until I notice her dress, which is at least as fancy as mine. She’s in her thirties with sculpted arms and an athlete’s lean body and wears her blond hair swept up off a pale neck draped with jewels. It’s a strong look, yet she’s on one knee, holding out a champagne flute for the reclining man and chattering away like a teenage girl. He’s ignoring her completely. Even has his eyes closed, and I wonder whether he’s asleep until he lifts one hand and waves her away as if she were a serving girl at his Roman bacchanalia.

  I can understand her interest. He’s good-looking. Really good-looking. Maybe forty, well built, with a classically handsome, knife-cut face.