The Perfect Ten Boxed Set

by Dianna Love

  Franco no doubt was a very lonely man, or half-man, with his lack of personal skills.

  “You do understand?” He blocked a closed doorway to the room beyond, waiting for my answer.

  “I understand perfectly.” You twit.

  “Then chop chop.”

  He opened the door to utter chaos.

  CHAPTER 11

  Six hours later I wanted to curse Ling Mai, wring Mister Chop-Chop’s neck, and have nothing whatever to do with fashion, or skeletal models, or high-strung, nervous women again. Give me a cold beer, a bar full of testosterone, and five minutes off my feet. Or even a deep breath—my ribs were killing me.

  Instead one of the models burst through the door, the top of her diaphanous gown already around her naked waist, steely-eyed and demanding a cigarette. Which was taboo. Franco would set her on fire before he’d let one of the gowns be soiled by cigarette smoke, or lipstick, or, God forbid, hair products.

  I’d already learned that the hard way. Do not gel a model before she slips on a gown, only afterwards, when she had less than ten seconds before racing away on stiletto heels. Made me want to whip out a few spells to make my job easier. But only a fool used magic for personal gain, even in small ways.

  The actual promenading didn’t take place on a runway as I expected. Here at the chateau I learned the dozen models strutted and strolled amongst guests lounging poolside, or sitting at intimate cafe-style tables set near the vine-draped arbor. A quartet played Mozart and Bach, while local wines, cheeses, and pate were served.

  Not in the three bedroom-headquarters allotted to model prep. Here we were lucky to get a swig of bottled water. No food. When I made the mistake and asked for a bite, having slept through dinner and breakfast on the plane, Franco raised his hands in sheer horror.

  “The clothes,” he shrieked.

  I quickly caught on that any faux pas created the cry, “The clothes,” whereas all other crises were announced by “Chop. Chop.” or “Girls” stretched into seventeen syllables with accompanying eye rolling and heavy sighs.

  Within an hour I’d crossed Franco off my list of likely suspects, even though my ring, and my upbringing, identified him as non-human. A shifter I guessed, though I doubted he was any higher on the food chain than a rabbit or gerbil. Within two hours he was off the suspect list altogether. No man could plan and execute such a variety of thefts when a dangling thread sent him into a tizzy.

  Sheesh!

  After one emotional outburst, caused by my taking seconds too long to curl hair, one of the longtime models leaned close to me and stage-whispered, “It’s his time of month.”

  “I heard that Collette,” Franco huffed. “You’d be better served closing your mouth; too much bread passes those lips as is.”

  “Should I torch him?” I clutched my heated curling iron tighter, aware if I dug deep enough, and tapped into the ley lines, I could turn the iron into a sweet flamethrower.

  “I’d give you twenty francs,” came Collette’s quick response.

  “I’ll give you fifty,” said a woman called Jade. “But only if I can watch.”

  In spite of jet lag, being a fish out of water and already being overworked, I smiled. Female bonding. Nothing like male bashing to make it happen. Not much of a male but at least something to rally around. Maybe Mister Chop-Chop was going to come in handy after all; if he didn’t drive me over the edge first.

  Between style changes, meeting and remembering a dozen models, and at least that many accompanying assistants’ names, several who warmed my ring, alerting me to their non-human status, I had little time to do anything except crimp, curl, mousse, and gel. There wasn’t a second to spare.

  So much for intel gathering, though some news could be snatched. As the models changed they’d often let slip some interesting gossip about the elite clientele.

  “The Prime Minister’s wife is eyeing the apricot number. She’d look like the Chelsea flower show in it.”

  “Was that the bank financier’s wife by the arbor?”

  “No, that’s his mistress. His wife is near the poolside. She’s the sexy one. The mistress has been with him a good twenty years and looks it, poor woman.”

  “I hear Mademoiselle Robichard is involved with that scientist who’s in trouble with the ECE Council. Obviously crime does pay.”

  Ling Mai might be surprised to know how many people could be aware of potential targets among the clients; some who would be staying the three days the show was in residence, others who came and went, joining the shows at different locations as it moved around.

  It seemed blackmail made more sense than theft though. Maybe both were happening and only one issue had come to light.

  I would report my theories later. If the day ever ended.

  Which I was beginning to doubt would happen when the room grew suddenly still. Like an aviary aware of a predator in its midst, all fluttering, talking, and movement stopped.

  I glanced up into cold, blue eyes. Bran.

  “My office, front room,” he said, then paused, as if he’d thought of something and added, “When you’re done, of course.” Then he walked away.

  No hello. Small talk. Go to hell. He appeared and disappeared like gray smoke on a winter’s morn. Yup, a warlock through and through.

  The models and assistants eyed me warily until Collette broke the silence. “Not good when the new girl gets called on the carpet first day.”

  Great. Ling Mai hadn’t factored for the possibility of my not being good enough as a hairdresser.

  “Ouch,” the girl whose hair I was crimping jerked beneath my hands.

  “Sorry.”

  Another bad sign.

  Now the minutes flew past until Franco bounced into the room announcing, “That’s it girls. Could have been better, but we always have tomorrow.”

  “He says that every day,” Collette whispered, grabbing for her purse and a cigarette.

  Franco ignored her. “Tomorrow. First light. Staff meeting in the library. New girl, chop, chop, mustn’t keep Bran waiting.”

  Could I kill Franco before I was fired?

  Not in front of a dozen witnesses looking at me as if I were on my way to the guillotine. Either that or something else. Raised surrounded by Dad and only older brothers. I often missed the nuances of women’s nonverbal communication. Like now. For all I comprehended the women could be expecting a train wreck where I’d disappear in the fallout, or envious of me having one-on-one time with the big guy.

  If they only knew. Warlocks were an iffy bunch. Arrogant. Egotistical. Selfish. These were the common denominators among them, but their powers could vary depending on what type of warlock they were. Some were sorcerers, others mentors, though I doubted Bran fell into that category. Some sought power, others pleasure; with Bran’s looks I could believe that. The one thing I did know about warlocks was the fact their very name came from the old Scottish meaning oath breaker or traitor. That said it all.

  Wiping damp palms along travel-wrinkled jeans, I glanced quickly at my suitcases. I hadn’t yet been shown to sleeping quarters. Another bad sign? On the other hand having both cases handy gave me a second to snag one of the techno-whiz thingies I’d been handed to use. Technology was so not my thing, but some of the spy toys we got to play with were uber-cool. When they worked.

  I warded my suitcase as I zipped it closed. A simple spell and as natural as breathing. What was mine stayed mine. That was different than using magic for gain, but in this place I expected even a simple spell to backfire.

  Since when had I become such a pessimist? From what Ling Mai had said, big shot warlock had no choice but to keep me. My presence kept Interpol from shutting down his operation on a flimsy pretense while they investigated.

  So either hunk-of-the-year played friendly, or I blew the whistle. Or he cast a spell over me, which I couldn’t counter and I became his patsy as he continued to do whatever the hell he was doing.

  Too bad the knowledge didn’t help unknot my s
tomach as I knocked on the closed office door.

  “Come in.” Even behind thick wood his voice sounded deep and magnetic.

  Pull it together. He’s just a warlock. With a sexy accent. And killer looks. And a royal pedigree. And a fortune.

  So there might be a few intimidation factors.

  But I carried an anathema dagger, more a sweet, lethal knife than a jabbing stick, tucked against my ankle and the power to shut him down.

  There, I’d just evened the playing field.

  Yeah, right. A witch needed all her wits about her to play in the same league as warlocks.

  Good, I loved a challenge.

  I shoved the door harder than I meant, then lunged to catch it. So much for professional first impressions. He looked up from a desk, no less powerful sitting down and across the room, than up front and inches from my face.

  Distance. Think distance.

  He silently released a sheaf of papers he’d been reading. “Close the door. We must talk.”

  Why did that sound like something a principal would utter? Right before the ax fell. Probably because one or two had, back in my wild days. They also showed the same intense, controlled determination Bran’s face now showed.

  Plus my ring was tingling, but on low-voltage, as if it couldn’t make up its mind how much of a non-human Bran was, or how much of a threat.

  I had the answer to that already. A big one.

  I smiled between tight lips as I closed the door and stepped forward, but only one small step, opening my senses to determine if there was a warding in the room.

  Nada. But then he could have taken it down given I was coming.

  I steeled my voice to a casualness I didn’t feel. “I’m here, so talk.”

  “There’s been a development.”

  Van? My heart slammed to the floor. Don’t let him be dead. Please.

  But Bran wouldn’t know of my connection to Van, or why I was here, seeking information on my brother. So I sucked in a tight breath and found myself still bracing for Bran’s next words.

  “I have contacted your superiors. You have to leave.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Why did I have to leave? Van or something else?

  “Is there a problem?” I asked with a lump the size of a fist in my throat. “Something other than you don’t want me poking in your business?”

  Push the fight to his ground. First playground rule of warfare and I had no doubt I was on the front line of a battle.

  I felt a wave a magic wash against me. A compulsion spell followed by, “It’s better for you to leave. Trust me on this.”

  Not in this life, big guy. He didn’t get to jerk me around. I was here, to stay, until I found what I’d been sent to find and maybe a little more. But something had happened to make him change his decision to allow me access to his fiefdom. I raised my hand, pushing against his compulsion as one would push against a stiff breeze.

  Questions jackknifed through me, but before I could voice any of them the door slammed open, right into my backside.

  “Oh, sorry,” a stunning woman said in a foo-foo fancy French accent, her tone implying just the opposite. “I did not realize you were with someone.”

  She spoke directly to Bran, completely ignoring me standing there, one hand massaging a sizable bruise on my shoulder, my ring kicking into overdrive, heating enough to make me want to wave my hand to cool it off. A scent of cinnamon and something else wafted around her, but I was too busy focusing on her to pay attention, that and being aware the compulsion spell had lifted.

  Damn, I’d almost forgotten about her.

  Well, bite me!

  I recognized her from the ops pictures, but again even three-dimensional imaging didn’t do this woman justice. She was everything I once dreamed of becoming when I was a little girl: beautiful, poised, totally pulled together in that no-wrinkle, no hair-out-of-place kind of way fashion models achieved in magazine photos. The honey and amber highlights in her hair alone would take a fortune to keep up.

  This woman looked like she would never have made a social guffaw, never have done anything with less than total assurance and style. Plus she had that take-me-to-bed French accent.

  I hated her on sight, even if she was non-human and thus had extra elements we mere humans didn’t possess.

  Bran’s voice broke through my checking out his cousin. “You needed something, Dominique?”

  The tone bordered on brusque, or frustrated; yet their body language screamed that there was a great deal of familiarity between them. But how familiar? This was Europe and a much more cosmopolitan world. Were kissing cousins acceptable in this world? As if that should be my first thought.

  More to the point, did Dominique know about my mission? And if she did would I-don’t-want-you-here Bran share that intel with me?

  In my mind, though, the one thing I knew for sure was that I was odd one out in the room.

  Dominique raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and shot me a who-dragged-this-in glare though she still spoke only to Bran.

  “Well, if you’re busy I can always come back later.” Then, before Bran could answer, Dominique waved one exquisitely manicured hand toward me. “And you must be?”

  The gum on your shoe.

  Pissing contests were not in the mission plan.

  “Alex Noziak,” I replied, extending my hand.

  Leave it to Ms. Nose-in-the-Air to ignore my gesture.

  Fine, too bad I didn’t scent magic on her. Power, yes, but not magic.

  Interesting. This woman was clearly not all human. But what was the otherness? Fae? Selkie? Some type of an elemental? Why hadn’t I spent more time studying the folklore books Kelly always kept handy? And why didn’t the IR Agency have a tool that could actually identify the type of preternatural? So not helping in this situation.

  I let my hand fall to my side and brushed it against my jeans. Note to self, contact Kelly soon and push her to dig deeper into who or what Dominique St. Clair might be; as well as check the IR contacts to see what kind of warlock Bran was.

  Dominique glanced at Bran, clearly trying to place me, the interloper.

  Bran ran a hand through his thick, jet hair. “Alex is our new—” he looked at me for a second as if searching for the proper word. “Hairdresser. She arrived today.”

  “Oh.”

  What a wealth of dismissal could be contained in one small word.

  Dominique’s lips tightened, her smile slightly more jaded as she slid her attention away from me and focused it totally on Bran. “We really must finalize the last three cities and the contract with Papadolapas is waiting.”

  I’d been shut out by a pro.

  Bran cast me a wary look by glancing around Dominique’s stance, not an easy feat as the woman strategically dominated the room front and center.

  “Alex, we’ll discuss our business later.”

  Yeah, right. Contracts always trumped dismissal. On the other hand, if we were to talk later, it meant I was still here for now. Bran just handed me some time, which I planned on putting to good use.

  Dominique verbally pounced on Bran’s words. “What business?”

  “I was wondering where I got a bite to eat,” I lied, but only partially as I slid myself forward to be closer to Bran’s desk.

  “The help always eats in the kitchen.”

  Ouch. Between her and Mr. Chop-Chop, I wouldn’t have much of an ego left.

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.” My tone was neutral, my emotions anything but, as I slid my fingers along the carved lip of the massive desk and left a small, almost invisible calling card. I could have cast a quick seeking spell, but with Bran being a warlock I didn’t want to alert him that I was invading his private space, and warlocks were damned good at sensing other magic being used. I was hoping he didn’t possess that ability when it came to traditional listening devices.

  I didn’t even glance toward him as I left the room.

  Even before I was down the hallway and headed
toward a safe location where I could eavesdrop, I jammed the listening device into my ear and hooked an iPod to my belt in case anyone wondered why I was concentrating so intently.

  Thank heavens it was free time and I didn’t have to return to the crowded staging room and a dozen chattering models. I avoided the kitchen where the hired help were already eating and escaped through the front door, marching down the crushed shell driveway as if I belonged.

  It took less than ten seconds to hear Bran’s rich voice coming through loud and clear, and the tone indicated he wasn’t happy.

  “That wasn’t called for,” he said. “We’re already down two personnel; no need to make it three.”

  “Bran, darling,” Dominique’s voice oozed appeasement. “You know models and assistants and. . .” she paused, then continued; I could imagine her waving one manicured hand toward the door. “And people who fuss with hair.”

  “She’s a professional, Dom, a hairdresser.”“Whatever.” Dominique’s tone tightened. “They’re easily replaced.”

  She actually sounded like Ling Mai for a moment. Lose an agent, find a new one, no big deal.

  Dominique continued, “You shouldn’t be bothered with such trifles. You know I handle those pesky details so you can focus on what you do so well.”

  Oh, that held a wealth of unstated meaning. What was it, besides clothes, that Bran did so well? That question moved to the top of my to-find-out list.

  There was silence. Not a comfortable one. The sound of someone moving in the room. Bran probably. Doing what? Creating space from his cousin or giving him time to think? “You mean designing.”

  He sounded weary, as if carrying something heavy. I hadn’t heard this side of him yet.

  “Yes, designing,” Dominique continued, adding, “And finessing the clientele, who I do believe even now are waiting for your appearance.”

  “You make me sound like a gigolo.”

  I could hear her give him an air kiss that actually sounded dismissive. “Do be a dear and put in an appearance. These women always buy more when they associate your clothes with you.”