Of Demons & Stones: A Tri-Stone Trilogy

by Anne L. Parks

  Of Demons & Stones

  A Tri-Stone Trilogy

  Anne L. Parks

  Fireside Publishing, LLC

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Epilogue

  Get a Free Novella from Anne

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Anne L. Parks

  Copyright © 2017 by Anne L. Parks

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Someone's watching me.

  A cold shiver sweeps through me, even in the early-summer morning humidity. My skin prickles. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. A few people scurry around the marina. I glance at the faces as I pass. No one I know.

  More importantly, not him.

  I cross over the bridge and head away from town. Hopefully, I can escape the eerie sensation and focus on the additional mile I've added to my five-mile run. Old Mill's Road is lined with tall trees that lead the way to the coast and not heavily traveled. In fact, the only people who use it are the multimillionaires who own massive estates spread throughout the semiprivate enclave.

  A car sits along the curb with the driver's door open. I cross to the opposite side of the street to pass and keep my eyes on the man standing next to the vehicle. His posture is rigid, and his jaw clenched, as he pushes buttons on his cell phone. I tug on one of the earbuds and let it fall to my shoulder. My self-defense instructor's admonition rings in my head. Look, listen, and be aware of your surroundings.

  I make a quick assessment of the man as I pass by—about six feet tall, broad shoulders, chiseled jaw. The deep creases in his forehead evidence his experience in life, and only enhance his looks. He runs his hands through his light brown hair, cursing about the amount of money he wastes on a phone that dies as soon as an emergency arises.

  I smile. I feel your pain, buddy.

  Glancing up at me, he manages a frustrated smile and returns to muttering under his breath. About ten steps past him, I turn around and pull my phone out of the armband. What the hell am I doing? I have this route perfectly timed to get me home, in the shower, and to work on schedule.

  "Do you need a cell phone?" My heavy breathing breaks up the words.

  His brilliant blue eyes narrow, his gaze moves up and down my body, before he focuses on my face. Where do I know you from?

  "Yes, thank you." His deep voice is controlled and kind of sexy. "Mine's not working."

  I pull up the number pad and hand over my phone.

  "Car not working either?" I peer around him to get a glimpse of his steel-gray Maserati Quattroporte. The body style is different than the ones I've seen, so I'm guessing he has an early release of next year's model.

  "No, hence me standing on the side of the road."

  I raise my eyebrows and suppress my laughter. Hence? "What happened?"

  "It stopped running while I was driving it."

  I want to laugh. Despite his cool demeanor, his faces scrunches up and releases, and his speech is stilted.

  "Did any lights flash or go off before it died?" I ask.

  "I didn't notice." His voice is flat, but the thick vein in his neck is pulsing.

  "Make a noise or lurch suddenly?"

  Mr. Rich Pants squints at me as I move toward his car.

  "Not that I noticed." He lets out a small sigh.

  "Are you typically this unobservant when you drive?" I suppress a smile. It's time to have some fun with Mr. Rich Pants and his haughty, dismissive attitude.

  I'm used to men assuming that, because I'm a woman, I have no clue about cars and how they run. In fact, the opposite is true. Growing up poor, I was forced to make an old clunker run on wire hangers and duct tape, and I learned a lot about the internal workings of vehicles. I was also fascinated with the cars I hoped to drive someday—like Mr. Rich Pants's Maserati.

  "Have you noticed a significant reduction in engine power while driving it?"

  "No."

  I squint my eyes. "Are you sure you didn't just run out of gas?"

  "Yes, actually, I am," he says, his voice terse. "If that were the problem, I'd still get lights on the dashboard. As it stands, nothing happens when I attempt to start it."

  I rub my hands together and smile. "Now, we're getting somewhere. Pop the hood, and let me take a look."

  Mr. Rich Pants stands his ground, and I lift my head to see if he didn't hear me or has suddenly lost his grasp of the English language. Nope, he's pissed. Damn, he's sexy when he's mad, though.

  I sweetly smile at him, enjoying this almost too much. "Pop the hood...please?"

  Mr. Rich Pants grudgingly gets behind the wheel and releases the hood. I glide my hand under it until I feel the latch and lift. The engine is fairly clean, and there are no apparent leaks or loose hoses. That's a good sign.

  An impatient appeal comes from the driver's side. "Really, I can just call a tow truck."

  "Oh, don't get your knickers in a knot," I mutter, checking the battery cables. "Do you have any juice at all?"

  "Juice?"

  I chuckle and walk around to the driver's side. "If you try to start it, do any of the dashboard lights come on?"

  He pushes the start button while I lean in to verify if anything lights up. I inhale his scent--spicy and earthy—and sparks a flame in me. I'm suddenly aware that I've already run about three miles, so I'm not exactly smelling like roses.

  The dashboard stays dark.

  I stand and lean against the car. "I suspect you have an issue with the knock sensor. Maseratis have been known to have start failures due to issues with moisture getting into the sensor." I turn to him, my gaze meeting his. "But I'm sure you know that already?"

  And there it is. He gapes. His eyes are wide, and he stares at me. I continue to lean lazily against the car, but
inside, I'm high-fiving myself and squealing like a madwoman.

  Mr. Rich Pants sits there, in his light-gray suit pants, starched white dress shirt, and blue tie. He probably has no idea where to put gas in this exquisite piece of machinery.

  * * *

  Breathing deeply, I try to pull my eyes away from him. "Would you like to call for a tow truck, or shall I call my guy for you?"

  Mr. Rich Pants hands my phone over. "By all means, call your guy."

  A bemused smile slides across his face, wags his head from side-to-side, and I'm not sure whether I want to slap him or kiss that beautiful mouth. I quickly find the number of my trusted mechanic in my contacts list and place the call.

  Mr. Rich Pants stands in front of me. His thumb rubs along his bottom lip. I’m drawn to the slow movement, and a sudden smolder warms me in long-forgotten places. I swallow hard and pass my cell phone back to him.

  "That's your phone," he says with a sly smile.

  "Just thought you might like to call someone to pick you up—unless you plan on walking to town?"

  Mr. Rich Pants accepts my phone, and quirks up the corner of his mouth. After a brief discussion with whomever he calls, he turns his attention back to me, and his gaze holds mine once more.

  "Let me guess," he says, a renewed smugness in his voice. "You learned everything you know about cars while growing up in your father's garage?"

  I cross my arms over my chest, shake my head, and clench my jaw. "No. Self-taught. My father didn't know anything about cars, so I learned." I look down the road. Relief flows through me when I see Ray's tow truck approaching.

  "Really?" Mr. Rich Pants says. "That's impressive."

  I glance sideways at him, more than a bit miffed at his condescension. Mr. Rich Pants is rubbing his thumb across his lower lip again. It's distracting.

  While Ray and Mr. Rich Pants talk, a black Mercedes SUV with darkened windows pulls up behind us and idles. No doubt another in the rich bastard's luxury vehicle fleet.

  Mr. Rich Pants comes up beside me as the tow truck pulls away, the sports coupe sitting on the flatbed.

  "Thank you." He reaches out to shake my hand, which is covered in dirt and grime from working under the hood. Retracting, he slides his hand into his pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, and offers it to me.

  The block letter monogram in navy thread reads AS. I smirk and wipe my hands.

  "Something funny?" he asks.

  I look back at the monogram before meeting his eyes and handing the handkerchief back to him. "No middle initial. Just wondering if that's because it also starts with an 'S'?"

  A low laugh escapes his lips, and his eyebrows rise. "Keep it. I have a drawer full of them at home."

  We stand there for another minute, and I'm unable to look away.

  He takes a deep breath and looks down the street. "Can I give you a ride?"

  "No, I think I'll finish my run. Thanks. Besides, you haven't had much luck with vehicles. You might not actually make it into town with this one either."

  A lusty laugh breaks free from his chest, and he shakes his head. "Precisely. I may need your exceptional powers of observation again."

  I bite my bottom lip, unwittingly drawn to him. He erases some of the distance between us, and I breathe in his intoxicating scent once more. It's seriously making me light-headed. His eyes darken and he stares at my bottom lip. He licks his lips, sending fingers of intense heat throughout my body. Finally, he looks away and steps back.

  He retrieves a wad of cash from his pocket and offers me a hundred dollar bill. "Here. For your trouble."

  In an instant, my good mood is replaced with disappointment. "No pockets," I say, my voice flat. "Keep it. This is my pay-it-forward moment. Now it's your turn."

  Mr. Rich Pants thrusts the bills back into his pocket and pulls the sunglasses perched on his head down over his eyes. "Can I do anything for you?"

  "Yeah. Can I have my phone back?"

  He drops it into my outstretched hand, and I return it to the armband. Ensuring the earbuds are snug, I turn and take off running again, leaving Mr. Rich Pants on the side of the road.

  Damn, I'm going to be late for court.

  Chapter Two

  I step off the elevator at the Law Offices of Daniels & Roberts, LLC on the seventh floor affectionately known as the penthouse. The partners and exceptional attorneys reside here, and the support staff is all female and all very young. Most could adorn the centerfold pages of men's magazines. The penthouse is proof that misogyny is alive and well.

  "Hey, Kylie. How did Mr. Turner's hearing go?" Sarah, the receptionist, asks.

  "Deferred sentence." I hand her my files.

  The past two days have been filled with running from one courtroom to another, attempting to clear up issues on smaller cases before my first-degree murder trial begins. Soon, my life will revolve exclusively around that case.

  I lean on the white marble receptionist desk that welcomes clients into the stark, sterile, contemporary penthouse.

  "Awesome," she mutters, her hand nearly missing the files.

  Blonde, skinny, and bubbly, twenty-one-year-old Sarah is everything the middle-aged male associates, partners, and clients in the penthouse want greeting them three to four times a day. Despite her persona, I like her. She's just the right amount of enthusiastic without going overboard, and she knows how to rein in her flighty, flirtatious facade when addressing the other females in the office. She's also excellent at her job, which was a happy surprise when I transitioned upstairs from the fourth floor. I'd pretty much tagged her as inept and what my father would've termed "a dingbat."

  "Alex Stone," she whispers, leaning over the desk toward me. "He's here, meeting with Jack." With each revelation, the elevation of pitch in her voice is slight but discernible.

  I give her credit. She's not squealing and jumping up and down with glee.

  "This is the first time I've ever seen him here. He never comes into our office. He always insists on meetings at his headquarters." Sarah darts her gaze around. "I'm not sure what they're meeting about, but it must be really important for Mr. Stone to leave his ivory tower and mingle with us mere mortals."

  Alex Stone is a forty-five-year-old multi-billionaire businessman extraordinaire, and the most eligible bachelor worldwide. The local boy who made it big employs many people in the area and is responsible for much of the economic prosperity in town. He's purportedly very good at what he does, if his outrageous wealth is any indication. However, he's extremely ruthless and unfeeling in his business dealings.

  He also has a reputation as a playboy and dates only excessively beautiful young women. Not many of the penthouse attorneys like him, claiming he's an arrogant, severe asshole. He refuses to allow them to negotiate on his behalf and insists they merely draft contracts to his specifications, relegating them to secretarial status. I can't help but wonder if they're just bitter because he doesn't cater to their own enormous egos. Whatever the case, his large retainer and the immensely high hourly fee the firm charges has provided more than a few of those attorneys with the ability to purchase vacation homes in the Caribbean.

  Sarah checks her makeup and hair in the small compact she discreetly pulled from her desk drawer. Stone will be passing by her as he heads to the elevator to leave, and Sarah will have a small window of opportunity to capture his attention, his heart, and his pocketbook.

  I sigh, turn on my heel, and head to my office. I have too much to do to waste time on a guy who probably wouldn't look at me, let alone speak. Not that I care. Alex Stone is exactly the type of man I don't need complicating my life.

  Three months ago, I moved from my small office on the fourth floor with a not-so-great view of the alley and dumpsters to my radically larger office, which provides a spectacular view of the downtown area with a decent glimpse of the bay. The male associates in the penthouse—who mounted a protest when it was announced that a female attorney would be moving into a suite—apparently nearly revolted when
I snagged a corner office. Every time I enter it, I feel like I'm giving them the proverbial finger while my subconscious screams at them to fuck off.

  A knock on my door drags my attention from the response brief I'm working on. I glance up as my boss makes his way into my office.

  Jack Daniels—no shit, his actual name—crosses to one of the two chairs opposite my desk. He's in his early seventies, and as I understand it, has no inclination to retire. He's still handsome—salt-and-pepper hair and kind blue eyes—until he’s pissed off.

  He's been my biggest supporter at the firm and lobbied for me to move up to the penthouse when others sought to keep a males-only attorney pool.

  "Kylie, I'd like you to meet our client, Alex Stone."

  I hadn't noticed him until he strolled to the vacant chair next to Jack, and I nearly choke on my recognition. Alex Stone is the arrogant, smarmy Mr. Rich Pants from my morning run two days earlier.

  "Alex has been a client of this firm for—what?—fifteen or sixteen years now? He utilizes many different areaswithin the firm for his various business ventures." Jack takes a seat.

  I stand, offer my hand to Stone, and kick myself for not recognizing him on the side of the road. His face is blank, and I’m sure he doesn't recognize me. I remember him—and those gorgeous eyes. It's as if the gods pulled water from the Aegean Sea, with all its beauty and sparkle, and poured it straight into Alex Stone's irises.

  Stone releases my hand, and I'm vaguely aware of Jack singing my praises.

  My brain finally engages with my mouth, and I manage to get out, "Very nice to meet you, Mr. Stone," as I sit back in my chair.

  "Likewise, Miss..." His words are as smooth as silk.

  "Tate. Kylie Tate." My heart pounds in my chest and echoes in my ears.

  He nods and sits in the chair next to Jack, and I decide he hasn't made the connection between the sweaty car expert from the other morning and the woman in the business suit in front of him.

  "Kylie, Alex informed me of a sensitive issue he needs to discuss with you. It involves his nephew, and the family would like to keep it out of the press at this time."