1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Five

by Julie Kenner

  “I won’t go into everything we’ve done since Christina first saw the hint of his essence,” Mal put in. “The bottom line is that he was trapped inside a gemstone—presumably by the fuerie. That stone ended up in a gem-encrusted brooch owned by various royal families.”

  “The brooch is in the shape of a phoenix.” Liam’s mouth curved into an ironic smile. The brotherhood had come to call themselves the Phoenix Brotherhood specifically because of the unique manifestation of their mortality. They could be killed, yes, but they were born again in fire.

  “Coincidence?” Raine asked.

  Christina shook her head. “I don’t think so. As far as we know, the fuerie don’t know how to shield a gemstone’s energy. But this stone seems to be shielded. When we were tracing the provenance, we saw that the brooch came into existence in the fourteenth century. Before that, the stone was in an ancient Egyptian ornament. But during the Renaissance, an artisan worked it into the brooch. And that artisan had a reputation as a sorcerer.”

  “Of the fuerie?” Dante asked

  “More likely one of the rare humans who understands energy the way we do,” Mal said. “Perhaps he discovered a way. Perhaps the fuerie hired him to make the brooch—and to shield it.”

  “We may never know for certain,” Christina said. “But the bottom line is that it disappears from the map periodically, but then pops up again. The shield is wearing off. And that means we can find it. We can acquire it.”

  “Where is it?” Dante asked.

  “It went recently into the private market and Michael Folsom hired an intermediary to acquire it on his behalf,” Liam said, referring to a local Manhattan billionaire who had a penchant for collecting unusual things.

  “Are the fuerie after it?”

  “I don’t know,” Christina said. “They may have lost interest centuries ago. It’s floated around museums and private collections. It’s in the city now, but I haven’t detected the fuerie in this area in weeks.” She looked at Dante. “Have you?”

  He shook his head. His power was nowhere near as strong as Christina’s, but he was constantly reaching out, searching his surroundings for the slightest hint that the fuerie were nearby.

  “And we’re certain that it’s Merrick in this gemstone?”

  Liam and Mal exchanged glances. “As confident as we can be until we free him,” Mal said. “But we’re also confident that time is short. His essence is escaping—and we’ve confirmed that the stone has acquired a flaw, and I think his essence is being pulled out. He’s fighting to remain, but if he’s drawn fully out into the ether...”

  “Then his essence will be dissipated throughout the universe, and we’ll lose the consciousness that we know as Merrick forever.” Dante sighed. “Well, fuck.”

  “How much time?” Raine asked.

  Christina lifted a shoulder. “We’re not sure. Days. I doubt we even have a week.”

  “So we get him back. Hell, we go in today. We’ll extract him from the damaged stone and tuck him safely away in another until we can find a host for him.”

  “Who will be the host?” Christina asked.

  Liam shook his head. “I don’t know. It would take an extraordinary human to be willing to merge with him. We were fortunate when we arrived in this dimension that the priest’s visions had told him of our coming and he had found men and women willing to take on the burden.”

  “We’ll find someone in this century,” Dante said. “It may take a while, but he’s been trapped for thousands of years. A few more will be only a blip.”

  Mal nodded agreement. “We will. If we have to scour the earth to do it. So that’s essentially the plan. We’ll touch base with the intermediary to negotiate acquisition of the brooch at any price before it’s delivered to Folsom. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll fall back on surveillance, pinpoint the location, and acquire it by less legitimate means.”

  Dante grinned. “You mean steal it.”

  “Of course.”

  Liam shifted so that he faced Dante more directly. “You’re on point. We’ve learned that the intermediary is staying at the Algonquin Hotel.”

  “Fine,” Dante said. What the hell. A new mission would keep his mind occupied. God knew he needed an escape from his memories and regrets. “What’s his name? Have we got a dossier?”

  “Her,” Mal corrected with a quick glance toward Liam. “And we do.”

  Liam handed Dante a thin folder. He opened it—and found himself staring into the eyes of Brenna Hart.

  The only women he’d ever loved.

  The woman he could not have.

  The woman who, he was certain, absolutely hated his guts.

  Chapter Two

  “Brenna! Oh my god, oh my god! Look at you!”

  I bite back a grin that is equal parts amusement and embarrassment. Despite having just turned thirty-five, Whitney Green is bouncing like a teenager in the lobby of the famous Algonquin Hotel.

  “Stand up! Stand up!”

  Since there’s really no battling Whitney when she is determined, I comply. She takes a step back and looks me up and down, her eyes narrowed in professional appraisal. “Brenna Hart, you are amazing. I swear you look just like you did at twenty-three.”

  I laugh. “You know I love you, Whitney, but you are such a liar.”

  “Don’t even. You’re gorgeous and you know it.”

  I don’t, actually. Pretty, yes. Gorgeous, no. But I’m fine with that. In my work it pays to be able to blend. Glam it up if I need to mix with celebrities or politicians. Dress it down for the working-class folk. Minimal makeup and gray suits if I’m doing the corporate thing. I’m a human chameleon, and that works for me.

  Today, I’m somewhere between glam and corporate. I’ve got that day-at-the-salon glow coupled with the tiger-in-the-boardroom mentality. I discovered long ago that it pays to know what my clients find both attractive and trustworthy. For Michael Folsom, that’s competence coupled with a moneyed privilege.

  No problem there; I can pull that off in spades.

  In Folsom’s case, it doesn’t hurt that he wants to get me in bed. And I wasn’t averse to using that knowledge to drive up my price. After all, any type of risk increases my fee; that’s the nature of the business.

  In his case, the job itself was reasonably easy—convince the daughter of an elderly earl to sell me a lovely Renaissance brooch rather than donating it to the British Museum. Honestly, she practically tripped over herself to accept my first offer on Michael’s behalf.

  But the fact that Michael very obviously wanted to celebrate after I pulled off the deal? Well, anything that tilts toward intimacy, my emotions, or starts to smell like sex is going to have me ratcheting those fees up.

  I played fast and loose with my emotions once before and I’d lost big time. Now I keep my heart locked up tighter than most of the museums I work with. That’s not to say I’m not open to sex—frankly, it’s a sport I enjoy, and at thirty-six, I think I’ve developed a nice little toolbox of skills. But if I even smell a relationship, I take the next train to singles-ville with no regrets and no looking back.

  Not that I explained any of that to Michael. I just caught the scent of interest and upped the price. No harm no foul, and the worst that could happen was that he walked. The best, my already happy bank account got another dose of glee.

  In Michael’s case, it was the latter. And, frankly, he wanted that brooch so much he would have paid a whole lot more.

  As my mind has been wandering, Whitney has been chattering and leading us through the lobby toward the Blue Bar, the cozy watering hole inside the hotel. The space itself is narrow, with dim lighting highlighted by glowing blue fixtures scattered about and walls of drawings by Al Hirschfeld featuring all sorts of Broadway shows.

  I especially love the whimsy of the sparkling lights set into the bar itself, and the Sinatra tunes that are pumped out through the sound system never fail to make me smile.

  We take seats at the bar, order dirty ma
rtinis, and settle in to drink and catch up. We met in London when I was doing an internship at one of the premiere auction houses and she was trying to make it as a model. Now she lives in New York and owns a salon that is constantly booked solid with celebrities and socialites. I still live in London and work as a private acquisitions consultant. In other words, people hire me to get things for them.

  It’s an excellent, lucrative job with all sorts of benefits, not the least of which is traveling. And it’s all the more fabulous because I invented the job myself, which means that I call all the shots, make all the decisions, take all the risks, and reap all the rewards.

  My life more or less fell apart when I was twenty-three, and from my heartache spouted an epiphany. Now I rely only on myself, and I expect nothing from anyone else.

  It makes for much less disappointment, that’s for damn sure.

  “—total brats,” Whitney is saying, as we move along our conversational map. “He refused to discipline them. Just refused. And conversation? Good god, the man thought that talking about the television lineup was scintillating. I don’t know how he earned the fortune he did.”

  “You told him to take a hike,” I say.

  “Eventually.” She flashes the crooked smile I remember from our wild London days. “First I used him shamelessly. His cock was the best thing going for him.”

  I have just taken a sip of my martini, and it’s all I can do not to spit it out when I laugh.

  “You seeing anyone serious?” she asks me.

  “Not even remotely.”

  She leans forward, her breath evidencing the three martinis we have each now had. “Speaking of you and your love life, do you remember the guy you dated when we lived in London?”

  My heart does an unpleasant skittering thing. “You’re kidding, right?” I dated only one man in London, and it was the most emotional, sensual, mind-blowing relationship of my life. It was also the relationship that ripped my heart out, stomped on it, kicked it to the curb, and had me swearing off men for over a year. Which on the whole was a good thing. After all, battery-powered boyfriends don’t tell you they love you and then walk off into the sunset on the arm of another woman.

  Now, of course, I have my new and improved fuck ’em and leave ’em approach to dating. But I still keep the vibrator in the top drawer of my bedside table.

  Whitney has the decency to wince a bit, even as her cheeks turn pink. “Sorry. That was stupid. I mean, you don’t forget the biggest asshole to ever warm your bed, right?”

  I press my hand over hers and look her deep in the eyes. “Whitney, I love you. But you get no more martinis. I mean, why are we even talking about this?”

  “What was his name?”

  I really don’t want to talk about this, but like the Energizer Bunny, Whitney will just keep going and going.

  Besides, I can say his name without it hurting. It’s been thirteen years. My wounds have healed and my scars have faded. And, frankly, he did me a favor. If not for him, I wouldn’t have my job, my approach to life, any of it.

  “Dante,” I say. “Why?”

  “Because I think he’s behind you. Sitting at that table near the door.”

  Suddenly, it is very, very cold in here. And at the same time, it’s very, very warm. Beads of sweat pop up at the base of my neck, and my underarms feel suddenly damp. Honestly, I’m having a little trouble breathing.

  Not possible. Absolutely not possible.

  I reach for my martini and take a long swallow. And then I take another.

  “No way,” I say, as the warm flush of alcohol hits my veins. “Why on earth would he be in New York?”

  “You’re in New York. I’m in New York.”

  “Yes, but—” Okay, actually, she has a point.

  “Aren’t you going to turn around?”

  I remain perfectly still.

  “Well?” Whitney demands.

  “Give me a second. I’m thinking.” Honestly, I know I shouldn’t look. Dante Storm had swept into my life just as his name suggested. I’d been twenty-three at the time, awed and amazed that a man fifteen years older than me would be even remotely interested in a somewhat introverted girl who couldn’t even make up her mind what canapé to choose, much less what to do with herself for the rest of her life.

  We’d met at a party thrown by the owner of Dashiell’s, an auction house on par with Christie’s or Sotheby’s. I was spending a year abroad, interning there while I tried to decide if I wanted to simply jump headfirst into life or go back to the States and finish my dissertation.

  I suppose I was primed for a distraction, and Dante was a distraction times ten. Even now, I can feel the way my chest tightened and my pulse kicked up when he walked through the wide double doors, the black dinner jacket and slacks making him look like a man from another era. A man with dark blond hair swept back from his face in a way that highlighted his hypnotic, golden eyes. His wide shoulders looked as though they could bear the weight of the world, and something about his regal posture suggested that they did.

  I’d never seen him before, and I knew he wasn’t a regular at Dashiell’s. Even so, he strode into the room like he owned it—and drew the attention of every person at the event, male and female, as he did.

  How is it possible that I can barely remember the name of the guy I slept with last week, and yet I can recall everything about Dante. His scent, all spice and musk with just a hint of cinnamon. His touch, so deceptively gentle that when it turned rough it was all the more exciting. The scar that sliced from his shoulder down to his hipbone. A reminder, he’d called it. But I’d dubbed it a map and let my kisses follow it home.

  And his tattoos. Five amazing, brilliantly colored birds in a cluster on his back. Phoenixes, he’d said.

  He’d had a way of making me feel alive. Beautiful. Vibrant.

  With Dante, I felt as though I was lit from the inside. At least until he’d snuffed that light out for good.

  He’d hurt me, more than I’d ever been hurt before or since. And I absolutely, one-hundred percent have no interest in seeing him now.

  Really.

  Oh, hell.

  I turn.

  And the moment I do, I’m certain I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.

  He hasn’t changed. Not one iota. And I know that I must be seeing him through the eyes of my youth because he is fifteen years older than me, and fifty-one-year-old men do not look that hot. Even celebrities can’t hold back Mother Nature the way that Dante can.

  Except, dear god, he has. He is still perfection. Frankly, from my new thirty-something perspective, he’s even more perfect than he was before. I’d been intrigued by his older-man persona, but now I’m simply drawn to his masculinity. He’s a man, not a boy. And so help me, my pulse is pounding, my skin tingling in anticipation of his touch. And despite thirteen long years, it feels as though not a moment has passed, and the wild burn of our connection still courses through me.

  A connection I crave but can no longer trust.

  I swallow, realizing that those wild, golden eyes have been taking me in, and I know the man well enough to know that he has seen my reaction. My weakness.

  I turn back to Whitney, certain that I am flushed.

  More than that, certain that I am wet.

  Fuck.

  I close my hand over the clutch-style purse I’d put next to me on the bar. “I should run,” I say. “I have a meeting in the morning. Sign it to my room, okay? And I’ll call the spa tomorrow. We can plan on lunch before I go back.”

  “Oh, hell,” she says. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “No, really. It’s okay. I just need to—” I cut myself off because I’m doing a terrible job of lying, but I really want to get out of here. I start to slide off the stool, but when I see Whitney’s face—her tiny little wince—I know that I am completely and royally screwed.

  Honestly, I don’t know that I even needed to see her face. Because the moment I stop moving, I can feel
him behind me. The heat of him. The way he upsets the fabric of the universe, so that the air around him seems to thrum, making my body suddenly hyperaware all over again.

  Double fuck.

  I draw a deep breath, then plaster on my corporate smile. I turn in the chair, planning to say something witty, though I haven’t worked out exactly what that might be yet.

  Or perhaps I’ll just meet his eyes then walk away, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he is part of my past and needs to stay there.

  In the end, I do none of those things.

  I turn.

  I see him.

  And before I can stop myself, I pick up my martini and throw it in his face.

  Chapter Three

  I push past him, keeping my head down because looking at this man would be a very bad idea, and I don’t stop until I reach the elevator bank.

  Unfortunately for me, there are no elevators waiting, and my fantasy that I will be magically whisked away from him is only that—a fantasy.

  In reality, he’s walking straight toward me, his long strides eating up the ground between us. He is looking right at me, and he is moving with such bearing and confidence that for a moment I have to wonder if I imagined tossing a drink all over him.

  But no, as he gets closer I see that his shirt is damp and his hair is slicked back, as if he’s used the vodka as hair tonic.

  “Not the greeting I’d hoped for,” he says as he approaches. “But probably one I should have expected.”

  “You walked out on me, you bastard.” I snap the words out, surprising myself. First I toss alcohol, then I verbally pounce. For a woman who prides herself on being icy calm in high-level negotiations, I am running seriously hot.

  Apparently, that’s what three dirty martinis in under an hour will do to a girl.

  “Yes,” he says. “I did.”

  His easy acknowledgment doesn’t smooth my ruffled feathers in the least. “Not only that, but you walked away from me on the arm of another woman.”

  At that, I think I see something like pain flash in his eyes. But he offers no rebuttal or explanation. He simply says, “It’s been a long time, Brenna. And I didn’t come to talk about the past.”