by Kat Ross
Anne didn’t reply. Her breath caught.
“You’re not wearing knickers,” he murmured.
“I forget sometimes.”
“Very careless of you.”
She gripped the arm of the chair. The aria was gaining momentum, Carmen declaiming that love was a rebellious bird none could tame, a gypsy child who has never known the law. Don José smoked a cigarette at stage left. He pretended disdain, but he kept glancing over at Carmen’s antics.
Then Gabriel’s fingers tightened painfully around her thigh. Anne jumped and the pressure eased. He muttered a distracted apology. She followed his intent stare to the row of seats just before the orchestra, which were even more expensive than the boxes. A muscle worked in Gabriel’s jaw as he leaned to her ear. “Jorin Bekker is here,” he said in a low voice. “And Balthazar is with him.”
Anne could only see the backs of their heads, but she knew right away which one he meant. The tallest man in the row, with black hair and a lean, muscular build. She’d only seen him for a few seconds atop the tower at the Chateau de Saint-Évreux, but he’d left an impression. Balthazar had a dangerous, magnetic quality Anne had noticed even in the midst of her own misery at what she’d just done.
“We should leave,” she said firmly. “Before the intermission begins.”
Gabriel nodded but seemed unable to tear his eyes away. She searched for the heavyset, bearded profile of Constantin but didn’t see him. Jorin Bekker must be sitting near Balthazar, though she didn’t know what he looked like.
“Now, Gabriel.”
He let her take his hand and pull him from the box. The final notes of the aria were fading as they hurried down the stairs and through the lobby. One of the attendants looked at them with surprise.
“My wife is unwell,” Gabriel muttered, striding through the doors.
Anne didn’t relax until they’d passed the Saint Hubert shopping arcade, halfway back to the hotel. Gabriel seemed lost in dark thoughts. “That mercenary piece of merde,” he said at last.
“How do you know him?”
“He served Neblis, too. He was her lover.”
Anne could only imagine what sort of man he must be. Neblis was a daēva who had learned to call the spawn of the Dominion to her service. She’d used necromancers to control them. The wicked queen vanished centuries ago, yet many of her Antimagi still walked the earth.
But an alliance with Bekker didn’t fit with what Anne knew about Balthazar. He’d helped Alec and Vivienne at the Picatrix Club. Alec in particular seemed to like him.
Gabriel glanced at her. “Do you remember when I told you I was sold as a child?”
“Of course. I’d hardly forget it.”
“Well, he’s the one who bought me.” Gabriel gave a mirthless laugh. “He became my mentor, for lack of a better word.”
“Is he Duzakh?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, but I never trusted him. He’s hard to read. Unpredictable. Every time I think he’s changed, he does something self-serving. If he’s with Bekker it complicates things. Balthazar is … not a man to be trifled with.”
“Will you call it off?” she asked, trying not to get her hopes up.
“No.” Gabriel’s mouth tightened. “But I owe him double now.”
She could see the vengeful, obsessive, calculating thoughts spinning through his head plain as day.
Gabriel said nothing more as they walked back to the hotel. Nor did Anne. But the moment the door to their room closed, she pulled the dress over her head and stood there in her stockings, a challenge in her eyes. Gabriel’s gaze darkened. Wherever he’d gone for the last twenty minutes, he was back now. He wordlessly stripped his clothes off, remembering the fake nose at the last moment. It left a trace of glue on his upper lip. He started to make a joke and Anne pushed him back on the bed.
“Wait—” he managed.
But Anne was already straddling him and he was ready for her. She knew the landscape of his body intimately, knew what he liked and how to push him hard, straight over the edge.
“Slow down,” Gabriel muttered. “Anne…. Nom de dieu, please….”
She wouldn’t. She rode him until he bucked under her, hands twisting in the sheets, jaw clenched against the moans in his throat. The walls of the hotel were cardboard thin. When Gabriel finally grew still, she slipped away. She felt his eyes on her back as she poured a glass of water from the pitcher.
“Anne?” He sounded tentative. “Come kiss me.”
She drained the glass and poured another. “In a minute.”
“You’re mad at me,” Gabriel said quietly.
“No, not you.”
“Then why do I feel like I was just punished?”
She turned and lifted an eyebrow.
“In the nicest of ways,” he amended hastily. “But still.”
“I don’t know.” And that was the truth. She did feel angry. Close to breaking something.
“Come here. Please.”
This time she relented. Gabriel settled her on the pillows, then crawled down to the bottom of the bed and took her foot, propping it on his chest. His thumb pressed into the arch. She couldn’t prevent a sigh of pleasure.
“Don’t shut me out,” he said. “It won’t work that way.”
“What won’t?” she murmured.
“Marriage,” he said placidly.
Anne barked a laugh. “We’re in trouble if you’re the mature one in this union.”
“See? You are mad.”
“It’s difficult when you’re rubbing my foot like that.”
“Then I won’t stop.”
He dug his thumbs into the pad of her big toe, not too hard but just right, and the tension started to bleed away. Anne stared up at the cracked ceiling.
“I know there will always be another,” she said at last. “I just don’t want to think past one at a time. Can we do that?”
“Yes. I will put Balthazar completely out of my mind.” Gabriel made a poof gesture with his free hand. “There, he’s gone.”
“That easy, eh?”
“What? I forgot whom we were speaking of.” He started massaging her calf with long, deep strokes along the muscle. “I’m sorry about tonight.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“We didn’t even finish La Habanera. It’s my favorite aria.”
She looked down at him. “Will you go to Brazil with me?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.
“Good.” She lay back. “Do you want to know why Brazil?”
“No.” And then he was crawling back up the bed. “Unless you want to tell me.”
His mouth was very close. “Later. Can I kiss you now?”
“Oui.”
Anne did. When she finally came up for breath, she gave him a stern look. “You know I could wrap you up in bonds of air and steal you away.”
He smiled against her lips. “I know.”
“Maybe I should make you my captive. Keep you in this bed forever.”
“I could think of worse things.”
Gabriel kissed her again, his body covering her with silky warmth, and this time it was slow and tender and neither of them cared who heard.
15
Balthazar watched the performance with glassy eyes. He sat in the orchestra section, barely three feet from Jorin Bekker, but it might as well have been a mile.
The last few weeks had been an object lesson in humility. He’d started with high hopes but they faded as it became clear Bekker trusted him not a whit. Yes, he invited Balthazar to lunches and dinners and receptions — a mind-numbing parade of them — but his men subjected Balthazar to a painstaking search before each and every one. They were all minor functions with middling bureaucrats. Save for these brief occasions, Bekker was surrounded by his wolf pack at all times.
It had been the most tedious month of Balthazar’s long existence. He was coming to despise Brussels, and himself for being stupid enough to fall into the trap. Lucas had spent the time diligen
tly monitoring Bekker’s two main properties. The townhouse in the city was just for show. Bekker only used it to Travel by gateway to his estate in the Ardennes, which appeared impregnable. Lucas had managed to get as close as the high wrought-iron fence. A cadre of armed guards watched it day and night. There was no way inside except by gateway and Bekker had not invited Balthazar to pay him a visit.
Balthazar didn’t have the heart to tell Lucas they were out of their depth, yet his tolerance for Bekker’s company, not to mention the rapacious scoundrels he associated with, was near the breaking point. And once the surviving members of the Duzakh turned up for Bekker’s conclave, the odds of an unpleasant end to the whole affair would rise dramatically. They would plot against him as vigorously as he had plotted against them. Balthazar doubted his dubious place in Bekker’s affections would afford any measure of protection.
Now he felt a sudden twinge of apprehension. As if someone was staring at the back of his head….
Balthazar turned and scanned the seats behind. The house was packed with glittering couples in evening dress. His gaze drifted up toward the boxes … then darted back as a woman waved a white-gloved hand at him. She pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow.
Balthazar knew her instantly, though she’d been in her early thirties when they met and now she must be near fifty. One of his old flames. They were legion, but he never forgot a single one. He gave her a faint smile and turned back to the stage.
Act Two proceeded apace, the luckless Don José falling deeper under Carmen’s spell and deserting from the army to join a band of gypsy smugglers. When the audience streamed from their seats for the intermission, Balthazar saw her beckon. He made his way out to the marble-tiled entrance hall, where he spotted her waiting in one of the alcoves.
“You look as enchanting as ever, Marisa,” he murmured, bending over her hand.
“Balthazar.” She looked pleased to see him, which made him glad. It also came as a relief that she appeared no older than she should have. Fine lines around the eyes, a bit plumper, but still an attractive woman. Her dark hair was piled up, accentuating her firm neck, and an amethyst the size of a pigeon’s egg nestled in her cleavage. “My God, have you discovered the elixir of youth? You look even more dashing than when we danced at that party in Deauville.”
“Clean living and mountain air,” he demurred.
Baroness De Smet laughed. “You’re an awful liar. I think it much more likely an excess of sinning has preserved you.” She gazed at him fondly.
“And how is the baron?”
“He died six years ago. Thrown from his horse during a hunt.”
“Please accept my condolences.”
“And you? Never married?”
“I’m afraid I’d make a poor husband.”
The understatement of the century.
Baroness De Smet gave him an amused smile. “And why should one woman lay claim to you and deprive the rest of us?” she said lightly.
“There’s little danger of that. All the respectable ones can smell a rogue from miles away.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not respectable then,” she replied merrily. “Are you living in Brussels now?”
“Just visiting. I have business with Jorin Bekker.”
They both glanced at Bekker, who was surrounded by eager admirers. The baroness looked suddenly guarded. “Ah, Mr. Bekker. He’s a staunch patron of the arts. Why, he’s donating some of his finest paintings to the Royal Museum. The king is holding a gala in his honor this Saturday. Will you attend?”
Balthazar made a rueful face. “Alas, I seem to lack an invitation.”
She eyed him speculatively. “Come lunch with me tomorrow. Say eleven-thirty? I must hear about all your adventures.” She gave a little sigh. “Brussels is very dull.”
“I’d adore it,” Balthazar said.
“Number 12 on the Ixelles Ponds.” The creases at the corners of her eyes deepened as she smiled, but it didn’t detract from her beauty. Quite the opposite. Marisa had been a charming companion, never asking for more than he wished to give and with a quick wit. He doubted her life was as dull as she claimed.
They chatted for a few minutes more, until the sound of the orchestra tuning up their instruments drifted through the open doors. Balthazar escorted her back to her seat and resumed his place, mulling over their conversation. Bekker hadn’t mentioned the gala. Why?
An obvious reason came to mind. He would be exposed somehow.
Balthazar glanced at his arrogant features, fixed with a bored expression on the stage. Bekker only came to the opera to burnish his public reputation and conduct a little business on the side. He couldn’t care less about the arts. His beneficence must be some ploy to ingratiate himself further with Leopold and his cronies.
Balthazar was hardly aware of the rest of the opera. Afterwards, in the landau, Bekker stared at him thoughtfully. “You’re a friend of Baroness de Smet. How do you know her?”
Of course, he’d noticed the encounter. Nothing slipped past Jorin Bekker.
“We met at a resort in the south of France years ago. The Baron was alive then.”
“I wish he still were,” Bekker said with bitterness. “She owns the De Smet fleet now. I want some of their ships to expand my routes, but she won’t sell. Stubborn woman.”
Lars sat on Bekker’s left, a necromancer named Axel to his right. Their eyes flickered between Balthazar and the street outside.
“Why don’t you just build your own?” Balthazar asked.
“Because I want hers. I don’t have the time.” Bekker looked eerily like a child in the soft illumination of the passing street lamps. His lips were full and rosy, his cheeks smooth as butter. “I know your reputation, Balthazar. Perhaps you can persuade her to change her mind.”
Balthazar tilted his head. It took every ounce of will to keep from laughing. “Are you asking me to be your whore? In the literal sense of the word?”
“Call it what you want. You promised to be of use, and I’m starting to wonder exactly how.”
Balthazar exhaled a long breath. He looked at Lars. “I feel so cheap right now—”
“Don’t be an ass,” Bekker snapped. “Think of it as a personal favor.”
“She did invite me to her home,” Balthazar admitted. “For lunch tomorrow.”
Bekker smiled. “I expect you to cultivate the relationship. The timing is perfect. I’m expanding my operations in the Congo and I’ll need those ships, preferably by the end of the month.”
Balthazar leaned back and covered a yawn. “I’m sure I can deliver. With the proper inducement.”
“Good. See that you do.”
The landau drew to a halt at the Metropole. Balthazar got out and gave Bekker a lewd grin. “I’ll tell you what she says tomorrow.”
Bekker didn’t bother to reply. The landau sped away.
Balthazar stood at the curb, any trace of humor gone from his dark eyes. Perhaps the Fates were smiling on him at last.
The Baroness De Smet rolled to her side and touched his mouth with a cool finger, tracing the outline of his lower lip. Bright sun streamed through the tall windows of her bedroom. Balthazar knew what she was thinking. It was one thing to see each other under the soft light of the chandeliers at La Monnaie, another in the stark light of day. He’d swept her up in the drawing room and carried her upstairs to her bedroom, and after that she’d been too distracted to think very clearly. But now she was.
“How is it you haven’t aged, Balthazar?” she asked softly. “Not a single day.”
He turned to look at her, propping his head on one hand. “I was younger than you thought when we met. Only nineteen.”
She gave him a slight frown. “Even still….” Her gaze slid down his chest to the dark curls of hair, the lean, smooth muscle. “You barely look thirty.”
“Thirty-nine, I’m afraid.” He smiled. “If you must know.”
“I’m not complaining.” She sighed. “But you make me feel terribly old.�
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Balthazar brushed a lock of hair from her shoulders. “You’re still beautiful.”
A flush rose in her cheeks. “I’m sorry you’re leaving. You’re a friend. And, I think, a better man than you let on.”
He lay back on the pillows, crooking an arm behind his head. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”
“I wouldn’t breathe a word.” She touched the ouroboros hanging on a slender chain around his neck. “I remember this. You were wearing it in Deauville. A snake eating its own tail. It’s very unusual, isn’t it?”
“My good luck charm,” he said lightly.
“Maybe it keeps you young,” she teased. “I should try to find one for myself.”
“I’d give you mine, but then I’d wither up and die.”
She chuckled. “Oh, you mustn’t then.”
It was the first time in ages Balthazar had bedded someone without engaging in a little robbery on the side, but he wouldn’t do that to Marisa. Not twice. Yet he’d still taken the talisman from the trunk at the train station before he came here. It was like a strange compulsion. Balthazar didn’t feel properly naked without it.
She gave him a fragile smile and sat up, wrapping the sheet around herself. “It isn’t easy being a widow of a certain age, Balthazar.”
He arched an eyebrow as she moved to her dressing table and sat down. “Come now, Marisa. You could have anyone you wanted.”
She gazed at him in the mirror. “Ten years ago, perhaps. But I don’t wish for a husband who only wants my money.”
“Why not? Men don’t seem to care. Look at all those gargoyles at the opera with their stunning young wives. I doubt they married for love.”
“You’re a cynic, Balthazar.”
“At least you’re rich,” he said bluntly. “Be thankful for that.”
The baroness didn’t seem offended. “I am.” She gave a small laugh. “What a self-pitying fool I must sound.”
“Never that, Marisa. I know how women are treated in society, even the wealthy ones.” He studied her in the mirror as she combed her hair. “You don’t like Jorin Bekker, do you?”
Her eyes met his, wary again. “No, I don’t. But I’ll go to the gala in his honor just the same. I can’t afford to snub him publicly. He’s too close to Leopold.”