by AJ Nuest
She wore the key and he was no doddering peasant, pickled from too much ale. He was fully aware she would conjure every advantage to retain what rightfully belonged to his family. Whatever game was afoot, she had seriously underestimated his allegiance to king and country.
She lifted the golden chain, retrieving the key from between the perfect arcs of her snowy breasts, and dangled his kingdom’s most precious object in the air as if it were no more than a trinket, a slight curiosity.
“How did you know I had this key? Did Ollie tell you?” Her shoulders fell. “Oh crud, don’t tell me he actually went to the trouble of hiding it in the armoire. That’s just plain mean.” She swept the chain over her head and tossed the key aside.
What was this? Some subtle trickery to make him drop his guard? The more time he spent in her presence, the more danger he risked of falling under her charms. But lack of bravery had never been his downfall, and this chance to prove his worth might never return. “This Ah-lee you speak of. Is he your familiar? Or one of your insipid gods?”
Delighted laughter wafted through the air as she tossed her head back, exposing the pale, delicate skin of her throat. Her amusement threw him off balance, reverberating down into the marrow of his bones. He licked his lips and, before he could quell the thought, imagined running his tongue along the side of her neck. She would taste sweet, like fresh water after a cool rain.
“Well, Ollie does like to refer to himself as a god, but you’d have to check with him on the particulars. If you asked nicely, I’m sure he’d be more than willing to demonstrate the extent of his…abilities.” She smirked and reached for the veil between their worlds. “Okay, Robin Hood, I gotta get some shuteye. Thanks for the show.”
He had to keep her talking. The first rule in facing an adversary of wits was to gain their trust, and he would never achieve such a goal issuing threats and demands. She was an enchanting vixen, yes, but she was also a woman: more oft ruled by matters of the heart. Though he was unschooled in the art of enticement, he had to do his best to snare her attention…or, at the very least, reassure her of his fealty.
“You are mistaken, Sorceress. My name is Prince Caedmon Eastaughffe Austiere, royal emissary and third in line to his majesty’s throne.” He dropped his sword and executed a formal bow, sweeping the point of his blade across the stone floor in gracious acquiescence. “Please accept my humblest apology. Your luminescence leaves a man grasping for his wits.”
Her ruby lips curved in a timid smile. “All right, that’s enough. Pleasure meeting you, Prince Caedmon, but really, I think it’s time we both hit the hay. I’ll make sure to give Ollie my compliments in the morning.”
He was being dismissed, and to anger her would only warrant his demise. He had one final ploy up his sleeve. “And in preparation for your return? Is there any message you wish relayed to the Rescinder?”
A small frown marred the flawless skin of her brow. “You plan on making this a repeat performance?”
He’d been too presumptuous. Of course she wouldn’t require another audience with him. Braedric was the one she sought. No wonder she meant to end this missive quickly. “Only if my attendance pleases you, shall I return.”
She tipped her head back and forth as if bound in shrewd deliberation. “Well, since you guys went to all the trouble…I guess there’s no harm. All right, sure. Let’s just do it at an earlier time, okay? When I’m not so tired? Ollie says I’m a real bitch if I don’t get my six hours.”
Oh, yes, he would return, but he would not risk coming alone. His father, Wizard Fandorn and Braedric must each be warned. The days of their kingdom were numbered.
She controlled the veil and, for now, held the fate of his world in her hands. He bowed low a second time. “I am at your disposal.”
“Sweet.” She grinned and a dark shadow crept across her visage. Yet, before the veil completely darkened, she reappeared in the glass, her impish smile masking a threat which turned his heart to ice. “Oh, and tell the Rescinder, Sorceress Rowena has been sorely vexed.”
***
“For the last time, it wasn’t me!”
Rowena stopped abruptly outside the front door of Knick-Knack Paddywhacks, her frappe-mocha-latte cappuccino belching a curl of steam into the crisp midmorning sunlight. “You know, this denial of yours stopped being funny about twenty minutes ago.”
Oliver slapped a hand to his chest, mouth agape in mock horror, fingers splayed across the lapels of his Versace suit. “I swear on my doting stepfather’s grave, I had nothing to do with your midnight rendezvous.”
Rowena huffed. His stepfather? Talk about a weak statement. “Oh, yeah? Which one?”
He shrugged. “Whichever one you like, doll.”
She tipped her head to the side and glared at him. Oliver’s socialite mother had escorted four of Fortune 500’s top business moguls to the grave. And a good thing, too, because Oliver had expensive taste.
He propped his elbow on the back of his hand and tapped his cheek. “What about this morning? Was your prince awaiting you on bended knee, glass slipper in hand?”
She squinted at his dramatic sarcasm. “I couldn’t get the door open. It was sealed tight.”
“Hmmm…luminescence, you say?”
Rowena slumped. She was about as luminescent as a baked potato and Oliver knew it as well as she did. “That’s what he said.”
“Tight leather pants?”
She nodded. “And a puffy shirt.”
“Pity he’s not one of mine. He sounds completely fabulous.”
Rolling her eyes, she reached around Ollie for the handle and jerked open the door. The bell tinkled, signaling their entrance, and Violet glanced up from her fashion magazine.
“Morning, boss.” She flipped the pages closed and tossed the magazine aside. The edge of her black-lace camisole rose above the silver bauble in her belly button when she stretched her arms over her head and yawned expansively.
Irritation soured the sweet coffee lingering on Rowena’s tongue. “Really, Violet, could you at least try to act busy when I get here?”
She dropped her arms and her multi-colored bangles jingled back onto her wrist. “Sor-ry.”
Rowena strode to the counter and slapped the brass key onto the glass case. “Here.” The girl was lucky she was the sharpest fact tracker in the greater metropolitan area. “Find out as much as you can about this piece.”
“No problem.”
A spin on her heel and Rowena stormed toward her studio, tossing a hand in the air. “And then dust something.” She shoved the velvet curtain aside and jerked it closed behind her, but the flimsy partition didn’t stop their next words from drifting along the shop’s hardwood floor.
“Geesh, what’s eating her?” Violet whispered.
“Nothing.” Ollie sighed. “Therein lies the problem.”
They shared a chuckle before the showroom went silent.
Rowena tossed her purse onto the worn leather couch and unhooked her canvas smock from the tall wooden coat rack near the back door. The neck strap seemed to weigh down her shoulders with evidence of her overall funk. Oliver was right. Ever since the whole Brad fiasco, she’d lived the life of a nun. His philandering had twisted her into such knots, she’d sworn off men. For good.
But his wandering eye wasn’t Violet’s fault. In fact, if anything, the unwavering support her two friends displayed the last—and final—time she’d caught Brad cheating, had finally given Rowena the guts to put her foot down. She’d sent him packing and, in the process of helping nurse her broken heart, Ollie and Violet had become like family to her…the only one she truly had left.
After centering a stool in front of her easel, she unrolled her leather pouch, displaying her restoration tools. She flicked on the halogen floor lamp, donned a set of dual-lighted magnification glasses and then settled into work, painstakingly flecking away an oily layer of grime from the Renoir’s wooden frame.
In the four years since Brad’s departure, Olive
r had never once lied to her, even at the risk of hurting her feelings. His consistent honesty was one of the reasons they remained friends. No one delivered bad news like Ollie, and when it came to owning a business, Rowena needed someone like him she could truly rely on. He treated her like a kid sister and, without fail, always had her back.
She sighed. She had no choice but to believe him now. Besides, if Oliver had been the instigator behind her late-night visit, he would have undoubtedly taken the credit. Demurring was not part of his personality.
So where, exactly, did that leave her? Whoever was behind the ruse had certainly done their homework. They knew she was into antiques, that she was single and lived alone, but those details were no big secret. The creepy part was how they’d gone to the trouble of researching her family history, and then found the exact piece that had once belonged to her great-great-great—however-many-greats—grandmother.
Sorting through her memory bank, Rowena couldn’t come up with one name. She was an average twenty-seven-year-old woman with a regular, boring life. Her one claim to fame: she spent most of her time living in the past. Plus, the majority of her clientele consisted of wealthy women, pampered wives who were preoccupied with their own agendas. None of them would be interested enough in the little shop owner to go to such lengths.
Ollie swept the curtain aside with a flourish. “I just sold all six pieces from the Braxton estate.”
“Good.”
He strolled forward and lazed on the couch, long legs sprawled in front of him. “My God, those glasses are an abomination. The epitome of a fashion don’t.”
She chuckled. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Which is exactly why I’m here.”
Rowena pushed the glasses onto her forehead and sat back from the painting, cleaning the end of her scalpel with a damp cloth. “What do you mean?”
Violet entered the studio, the cash register drawer balanced on top of a black three-ring binder. She approached the safe and dialed in the combination.
“For your date, darling. Don’t tell me you plan to meet your handsome prince dressed like a lumberjack from Little House on the Prairie.”
Violet froze. She pivoted on her toes and glanced between them. “The boss has a date?”
Rowena rolled her eyes. Yes, her love life had been nothing if not bleak, but she wasn’t about to get all worked up over some silly charade, no matter how much eye candy was flaunted in her face. “It’s not a date.”
“She has a video date.” Ollie flicked his hand in the air and closely inspected his sheer-gloss manicure.
“And there were no lumberjacks on Little House on the Prairie.” Rowena dusted a few brown flakes off the knees of her bib overalls. True, they didn’t exhibit the hippest fashion statement, but it wasn’t like she had any client meetings today. “The show took place on a prairie. That was the whole point.”
“I had a video date, once.” Violet nodded. “Ten minutes into it, this really fat dude did a burlesque striptease.” She stared at the floor a moment before shuddering out of her reverie. “Thank God I met Todd.” She closed the safe door and twisted the lock. “I’m taking off, if that’s okay.”
Rowena’s desk clock showed only a little after three, but Violet had opened the shop, and was no doubt anxious to get home and celebrate her newlywed status with her husband.
“Sure.” Rowena lowered the glasses back onto her nose and leaned toward the painting. “Did you find out anything about the key?”
“Not yet.” Violet scrubbed a hand through her hair, rearranging her wild hodgepodge of fuchsia spikes. “I put out the regular feelers, but no one’s called back.” She held a fist in the air and, when she spread her fingers, the long chain snaked down and the key spun wildly back and forth. “I can tell you both the chain and key are twenty-four carat gold, most likely Byzantine—based on the stamped lettering—and the total carat weight is seven point two three grams.”
“Gold?” Anxiety tightened Rowena’s shoulders as she peered at Violet over the top of her glasses. Had she known, she would’ve been a little more careful. “What’s your best guess on value?”
“Authenticity would have to be established first, and rarity is a factor, but I’d estimate this piece somewhere in the two hundred thousand dollar range.”
A long, low whistle warbled through Oliver’s lips.
Violet dropped the key into Rowena’s outstretched hand. “I wouldn’t let this key out of your sight.”
Chapter Three
The nervous anticipation dancing through her stomach was completely ridiculous…and all Oliver’s fault.
Rowena glanced at the armoire for what must have been the millionth time. Not that her unease mattered. The chance of another late-night visit was highly unlikely.
After locking up shop, she had bribed Ollie with his favorite sushi takeout in exchange for his help with the armoire. Unfortunately, she’d also neglected to restock her wine, and a fortifying glass—or two—would’ve come in handy.
For three hours they had worked, trying to pry open the doors without damaging the structure’s integrity. Nothing they did made a bit of difference. The darn thing might as well have been carved from a solid chunk of mahogany.
In between their futile efforts, Ollie ransacked her closet, sneering in revulsion and tossing things aside until nearly every hanger swung empty. But when he retrieved the Goth purple bridesmaid’s dress from Violet’s wedding, Rowena widened her eyes in alarm.
“Uh-uh. No way am I wearing that thing.”
“It is a sad little frock, isn’t it?” He fingered the opening near the cleavage, adjusted the black silk ties that laced up the bodice. “Still, a little nip here, a small tuck there.” He dropped his arm and faced her. “Do you own a needle and thread?”
Hesitating was her first mistake. Give Oliver an inch and he always demanded a mile. What had started as a few minor wardrobe adjustments turned into her trudging off for a shower and shave, followed by an hour of hair and make-up. Now she just resembled a watered-down version of Elvira.
Following Ollie’s departure—a thick cloud of hair spray trailing him through the door—Rowena picked up her outdated clothes and hung them back in her closet.
The moments ticked by as she paced the length of her flat, trying to stay busy while she repeated the mantra that the impending…whatever it was…was not a date. The seconds dragged into hours. The hour eventually grew late, and a sad little note of disappointment settled in her heart.
When the moon finally reached its zenith in the inky October sky and the armoire still showed no signs of opening, she crawled into bed fully clothed and closed her eyes.
How foolish of her to think a hot young actor who’d snagged the role of a handsome prince would be interested in seeing her again. What a dupe she was, staying up past her bedtime a second night in a row all because of some outrageous flights of fancy.
Whoever was behind this hoax was no doubt laughing their ass off.
***
A soft creak wafted into her sleep. Rowena sprang to sitting and whirled toward the armoire. The door hung ajar. A sliver of light pierced the darkness of her bedroom. Anger sputtered and flared in her chest. Just who the hell did these people think they were?
She whipped the covers off her legs, stormed to the armoire and wrenched open the door.
The frame swung loose and she slammed it against the back of the door with her hand. A crowd of garishly dressed men milled around inside the screen and, when they lifted their eyes, a whoosh from their billowing capes washed past her ears. In unison, they dropped to one knee.
All her bluster evaporated as she studied their bowed heads, quickly assessing the number. Five…ten…thirteen men in the room? How big was the budget on this production, anyway?
“We humbly welcome you, Sorceress, on this twenty-third day of Automne, and beseech your favor. Grace us with undeserved clemency. We were remiss in your initial arrival.” Based on the pointy, gold crown bisecting
his brow, the elderly gentleman played the part of King Austiere. And how very diplomatic his first order of business was to apologize.
“Um, okay. It’s not a problem.” Rowena waited, but the crowd remained on bended knee. Evidently, they expected her to continue, she just didn’t know what to say. Oh, wait…maybe, “Rise.”
The men stood as one and, on a quick scan of their faces, Prince Caedmon didn’t appear among them. What the hell? He’d stood her up and sent these men in his place?
The black robes and long, gray beard adorning the man to the left of King Austiere signified him as “the wizard.” The young man on the king’s right bore a striking resemblance to Caedmon, but his self-satisfied smirk sparked memories of Brad, and Rowena’s first impulse was to knee him in the groin. The rest of the cast contained men of varying ages, all wearing heavy brocade coats with ruffled shirts and plumed, wide-brimmed hats, the pinched dread on their faces reminiscent of someone who recently suffered a proctology exam.
“We may commence.” The wizard opened a palm toward her, politely nodding to the king.
The one who resembled Caedmon puffed out his chest and strode forward. He approached the monitor and placed his palm against the glass. Everyone else in the room leaned in, their eyebrows lifting in anticipation.
And so? What did they expect her to do? Oh, God. This was some sort of late-night interactive theater. So help her, if they broke into an off-key rendition of Rocky Horror’s Time Warp she was out of there. Rowena rolled her eyes and placed her hand on the screen, lining up her fingers to match those of the young man.
A long moment of stress-filled tension hung in the air. Whatever was supposed to happen obviously hadn’t.
The young man withdrew his hand and stared at his palm. “I do not understand.”
Hushed murmurs and some nervous shuffling commenced from the group behind him.
“You have somehow erred,” the wizard spoke loudly. “Braedric has displeased her.”