The Perfect Ten Boxed Set

by Dianna Love

  “I see you’re already smiling,” Ling Mai noted.

  “Yeah.” For now.

  “The team is counting on you, Miss Noziak. Become the witch you were meant to be.”

  Now why’d she have to say that?

  CHAPTER 8

  As I exited Ling Mai’s office I saw Stone leaning against the wall down the hallway. The hallway I had to pass to return to the infirmary or get to my room. I could be a chicken-shit and take the long way around to avoid him, but I doubted I had enough whomp left in me to make it.

  So I squared my shoulders as if that didn’t have me clamping down on my lip from the pain and started walking toward him. Two could play the we’re-just-being-casual crap.

  I gave him a jerky chin nod as I drew even with him but kept walking. Maybe he was waiting for Vaughn.

  “Hold up,” he snarled as I passed him.

  Or maybe not.

  I stopped, not graciously. If he had something to say to me he’d say it, one way or another.

  “I’ll walk you to your room,” he said, as if getting an escort from the agency’s main instructor was par for the course.

  “I can find the dorm myself.” I started walking.

  His hand on my arm had me stopping short, sucking in an oath at the whiplash of pain his action had caused.

  “You up to this?” he asked, surprising me. Stone wasn’t known for being a warm and friendly kind of guy. First week of training when one of the other recruits, one who didn’t make it, dared to bitch aloud about her sore muscles and bruises, Stone handed her a straw and told her to suck it up or leave. She left but not because she’d wanted to.

  I turned to face him. This time I was the one snarling, “Say what you have to say.” What was unsaid was I held little patience and less energy to take a lot of bull. But Stone was a smart guy. He could fill in between the lines.

  “Look, I know you’re concerned about your brother.”

  I raised my brows. “Ya think?”

  “Don’t go running off half-cocked here, Noziak. We’re a team. Not a bunch of crazy cowboys.”

  “Never was a cowboy,” I said, in spite of my Idaho roots.

  “Cowboys and wild-ass Indians only get people killed and missions blown.”

  “I already told you, I wasn’t a cow—”

  “Don’t play stupid with me.” He gave me one of his get-it-or-get-out laser looks. “You go off the reservation and I’ll be on you so fast your head will spin.”

  Now he was just pissing me off. “I may be half-blood Shoshone, but I’ve never lived on the rez. Not planning to start now.”

  “You’re on my rez, and don’t forget that. Play with the team or—”

  “Or what?” I stepped into his space, so close I could read the fury in his irises. Or maybe it was an echo of my own mirrored there. “What’ya going to do to me, Stone? Force me to put my life on the line? Oh, wait, you’ve already done that. Will do it again. Smack me down till my ribs are cracked and every muscle screams? Nope, can’t do that either because I’m already there. Threaten me? Been there, done that, didn’t get a t-shirt.”

  “I can make sure no one in this agency lifts a finger to help your brother,” he said, his tone so cold it froze the marrow in my bones. “And that includes you.”

  That quickly he won this smack down, because I had no doubt, no doubts what so ever, that he’d follow through on his words.

  “You’re a bastard, Stone.”

  “Been called worse.”

  Yeah, I bet and probably by his friends.

  I took a step back, shaking my head, wishing I could place a gnarly black hex on him. My daddy taught me better than that. But damn it was hard.

  Before I lived up to Stone’s low brow expectation of me I shrugged off his arm and started walking again.

  “Walk the line, Noziak, or pay the price.”

  His voice followed me down the hall.

  CHAPTER 9

  In the bright morning sun the Chateau du Parc looked like any typical fairytale castle built in the eighteenth century in the south of France. Not that I had a whole heck of a lot of experience with fairytale castles. Or fairytales. Or white knights or any of that crap. Though I had already faced a few dragons—of the human kind. Ogres, too, and a couple of witches. High school in Mud Lake had been brutal and that was before I realized how many non-humans lived among humans.

  I shook my head and glanced around, seeing a white stone facade covered with English ivy mirrored in a reflecting pool, one turret tower, identical windows echoing each other across the front.

  What the hell was I doing here?

  I stood rooted on the grassy verge facing the ten-bedroom pile of stone, my knees trembling. Jet lag or indecision? Or both? A dozen sleek, very expensive vehicles angled around the drive—Peugeots, Rolls-Royces, a vintage Lamborghini. My brothers would be in car-envy heaven.

  I jammed the thought of Van away. I had to in order to focus on the business at hand. The sooner I found a connection between the people in that chateau and Van, the sooner I’d find him.

  I glanced around, wondering what I did now. The scent of lavender mingled with the high-pitched squeal of peacocks.

  “Damn it, Ling Mai, I hope you know what you’re doing,” I mumbled, shaking my head, which reminded me that flying commercial wreaked havoc on a beat-up body. But I was here, looking for a lead, any lead on Van. Oh, yeah, and taking down a foo-foo dress designer.

  He chose you.

  Meant nothing. I was not here to play footsie with some guy. No doubt he’d chosen me because he thought I’d be a push over, but if he had he’d underestimated me.

  Focus on the business at hand. Send healing thoughts Van’s way and pray for a bloody miracle that he was found quickly and alive. On second thought, no blood wanted.

  Straightening shoulders crumbling with exhaustion, I stepped forward, one suitcase firmly in hand, one bright silver hairdresser’s valise carrying the tools of my trade clutched in the other. My calling card meant to get me through the front door and into the haute couture world of single-name Bran. I ignored the pain still banding my rib cage. Doctor said a few more weeks and I’d barely notice.

  How did Ling Mai make this mission sound so reasonable back in Maryland? Logical even. My undercover role was to be one of three hairdressers to the small cadre of models who showcased Bran’s designs to select, very wealthy, and very connected women in exclusive locales around the world. The chateau was one example. Only thirty-five minutes from Paris, in the heart of Bordeaux country, the building slept seventeen, and could host twice that many across its nine hectares of land. Heck, that was barely twenty-two acres. No way could someone farm for a living on twenty-two acres.

  “This is so not Idaho.”

  Front door or back? Arrive like a guest or an employee? My instructions were simple. Report to Franco, who handled the day-to-day details of staging fashion shows, a new one in a new location every few days, or find Dominique St. Clair, pronounced like sand clarhair, cousin of Bran and CEO of Bran Inc.

  Unfortunately neither person was in sight. No one was. It was just me and the peacocks. No doubt these people had some security around, but if they were, they were discreet.

  “Don’t give me any grief.” I nodded to the nearest bird. “I know a few spells that can have you plucked and stuffed for a meal in the blink of an eye.”

  “You.”

  The shout startled me, as did the slim-built man rushing toward me, haircut soldier-straight, Caesar-style, and dyed bulls-eye, blood red. Rings lined both ears; his casual pink polo shirt was iron-creased. I didn’t even know anyone who owned an iron.

  I glanced around, making sure I was alone before asking, “You talking to me?”

  “No, the peacocks, dahling.” The words huffed. “What took you so long?”

  Now I noticed two burley security guards shadowing him. He waved them off as I mumbled, “Long flight.”

  “Spare me your excuses and get moving. I can�
��t have you standing around all day gawking.” He scanned me from head to toes, very quick, very professional, and very dismissive. “Love the hair. Is it real or an extension? Doesn’t matter. With those cheeks and your dusky coloring, very exotic. You’ll look stunning in the emeralds and oranges. Hurry. You’re late already. Chop. Chop.”

  His accent was a blend of cockney, French, and something else I couldn’t quite place. He accompanied his Gatling-gun delivery with clapping hands, then pivoted and sashayed toward the rear of the house before I could answer or ask any questions.

  As if I could even form any. So I tightened my grip on my luggage and followed. Not that the man gave me another option.

  “There.” He pointed toward a shadowed door. “Through the kitchen. Second bedroom on the right. Your first gown is all laid out. Let’s hope you’re not too bony for it.”

  He almost disappeared before I stopped him, showing restraint by only using my voice and not a smack of palm to his head or jaw. “I’m not a model.”

  He paused, his nose pinched.

  “I’m the new hairdresser.” I raised my silver tote, and my brows, in explanation. “I’m to report to Franco.”

  “I’m Franco.” He elongated the syllables in his name until they rolled several times, but he still didn’t look convinced.

  “I do hair.” Great. Here three minutes and I was already reduced to sounding like an idiot. “At least that’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “Well.” He fisted hands on hips that made mine look positively round and fluttered his head. “No one tells me anything. ‘Keep it sharp, Franco,’ ‘We need more energy, Franco,’ ‘Bring in a new girl, Franco,’ but do you think they’d tell me anything? Noooooooooo. Last to know.”

  “I’m sure the young woman commiserates with you, Franco, but now is not the time.”

  The dark, measured voice came from behind us and had me bracing. Not a normal reaction.

  I was glad I had held myself still when the man stepped from behind me onto a grassy walkway bordering trimmed shrub hedges.

  Bran.

  Man, oh man, his picture did not do him justice. He looked a lot like the soccer star, David Beckham, with that height and those broad shoulders, and that same rough-edged hardness. A deep-set slant to his eyes had me wanting to step backwards.

  And then there was the way his casual jacket hung on him. No wonder he was making a name for himself in fashion. If his clothes offered even a hint of the power he possessed, they’d make a woman feel unstoppable.

  “You know I can not work under these circumstances,” Franco’s voice rose in pitch.

  “Of course you can, you have so far.” Bran kept his gaze even and steady on mine. Enigmatic, yet inviting me to tease the over-pompous Franco. Tempting.

  I caught myself biting my lower lip. Smiling at the majordomo’s expense was probably not the best way to ingratiate myself on the first day on the job.

  “Hi.” I swallowed as I set my suitcase down to extend a sweating palm, stealing a quick glance at my ring. The device was tingling, warm but not as much as I’d expect. So did this tingle mean a preternatural or was it simply my nerves on hyper-drive? “I’m Alex Noziak. The new hairdresser.”

  “Bran.” His grip was steady and strong. He exuded sexy, but I doubted he could help himself. Not with the way his dark-blue eyes looked at a woman as if she were the only other human on the planet. Then he stepped closer. An intimidation move? Most likely. But I wasn’t about to give an inch, even if it meant rubbing thigh to thigh with him.

  Oops. Bad image.

  “Noziak?” he murmured, an aged bourbon over ice sound, sending a frisson of electricity down my spine. “An unusual name.”

  “My father’s.”

  He continued to imprison my hand, which I didn’t like because touching his skin was volatile, as if I were plunging my hand into a hot circuit and holding on.

  I swallowed deeper and added, “It’s Shoshone.”

  Franco gave me a blank look.

  “You know, Native American. Indian?”

  “Explains the hair and bone structure.” The slight man shook his head. “Shame. Exotic always sells.”

  Bran spoke again, “And Alex is a man’s name, no?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I’m not.”

  “I see.”

  Holy crap, even talking to him was like dancing among landmines.

  I snatched my hand back, and tightened my smile. Point to Bran. Ten seconds and he’d gotten under my skin. Not a good sign. Nor was the fact I couldn’t learn more about him other than he was clearly hiding something. But what?

  Blocking Bran out, like that would be possible, I shot Franco a quick glance, “If you tell me where to set up my equipment and let me know what you want, I’ll get started.”

  Yeah, it was kind of running away but a smart fighter knew when retreat made strategic sense.

  “Wait.” Bran’s voice stopped me and had Franco stepping away. Far enough to give Bran and I a semblance of privacy. Or he was smarter than I was.

  I stood my ground as silence, broken only by the high-pitched screams of peacocks, swirled around me. Bran simply stood there, his dark eyes shadowed, secrets hidden in their depths.

  “If you don’t mind, it’s been a long flight and I’d like to get settled,” I uttered, when he made no move to speak.

  “This is my business,” he said, his tone no longer inviting—a whispered threat, curling the hairs along the nape of my neck. “Do not forget that.”

  “Why should I?” I’d played with bullies before. They didn’t scare me. As long as I didn’t get lost in the darkness of those eyes.

  “You report to me here.”

  “Sorry, no can do.” I kept my tone light and flippant, smothering the urge to tell him where he could take his demands and shove them. “I have my own orders.”

  “I’ll not let you destroy my business.”

  “Then stay out of my way and let me do my job.” Each word came evenly spaced as I curled my fingers tighter around my suitcase handles. Threats tended to piss me off.

  “Oh, Mr. Franco,” I called, putting an end to any response by Bran. “I’m ready to get set up.”

  Franco looked shrewdly between his boss and me before shrugging. “Fine. Follow me.”

  I did, aware that turning my back on Bran wasn’t easy. And then I stopped in my tracks, glancing over my shoulder. He stood where I’d left him, his eyes hooded, his stance so still it looked like he wasn’t breathing. Maybe he wasn’t.

  That’s when the heat from my ring kicked in. But ring or no ring I had just realized what he was.

  Warlock. Yin to yang.

  Enemy to witches.

  CHAPTER 10

  Bran, the man in charge, a freakin’ warlock. I should have known this assignment wasn’t going to be a cakewalk.

  He said nothing more as I walked away from him. Score one for me. Maybe anger was the way to deal with him. Keep him at a distance. And boy would that be necessary, especially until I was able to determine what kind of warlock he was, and if he recognized me as witch-born.

  That would not be good as witches and warlocks made oil and water seem compatible. We had not always been blood enemies, but more times than not we played on opposite sides, no matter what. It was as if we were separate halves of a whole and always worked better against one another rather than together.

  At the least he could neutralize my magic abilities, such as they were, but more common was to usurp them for his own use. Think of walking zombies, which explained the cold shiver down my back as I followed Franco’s scuttling form.

  I rolled tense shoulders, ignoring what that did to my ribs, and focused on my first objective, which was to infiltrate the corps of models and attendant personnel: seamstresses, assistants, stage crews, the works. Tackling the High-and-Mighty could wait a bit. Not long but a bit. Until I got my feet under me. Or hell froze over.

  One challenge at a time. I’d tried to tell Ling Ma
i that being a hairdresser was one thing, being a fashion hairdresser was a whole other profession. It was the difference between being a professional mechanic and a Jiffy Lube serviceman. The first focused on big issues and survived by their reputation; the latter ran clients in and ran them out, bada-bing, bada-boom.

  But Ling Mai had only smiled, nodded her head, and given me twelve hours to prepare and pack. Hardly enough time for me to tuck my own hair into a no-nonsense French braid and grab some clean clothes. Now I wished I’d dressed a little spiffier, less jeans and washed cotton shirt and more sissy. Like Vaughn, or even Kelly. They should be doing this girlie thing, not me.

  I followed Franco through a doorway made for much shorter people, aware his hips swayed more than mine, and stepped into a blue-and-white-tiled kitchen. I opened my senses for warding spells but caught none. Interesting. Either warlock Bran felt very secure in protecting his own without any magic insurance or he guarded only what really mattered to him.

  Crossing stone floors we emerged into a short hallway from which I caught a quick glimpse of the main entryway with a grand staircase and a hundred thousand dollar chandelier.

  So not my world.

  Franco flipped his hand to the right. “Through there is the billiard room and library. To the left the dining room.” He eyed me. “For the guests.” He enunciated each word in case I didn’t catch his drift.

  I did, tightening my hand on my silver valise, aware my fingers were sweating and not because of the heat. I could sense ley lines running beneath the old house, like faint breezes whispering against my skin. When in need they could be tapped into like a backup generator for magic use. But they could be unpredictable, so working around them always meant being extra aware. As if I needed a reminder with X-factor Bran around.

  “Back here is our en suite. Wardrobe and assembly are staged from here. The first show is in.” Franco glanced at a fancy gold Swiss watch, as I shifted my focus from magic and danger to the more mundane. “One hour. The models are waiting for you. Suzette is your assistant; she will get you anything you need. But do not be a little piggy, you are here to work, not play. The chateau is off limits to you except on business. Remember that.”