She’d declared her independence years before with no intention of going back. Not even for a man who touched her on every level, especially the emotional and physical. Of course, if they’d had a meeting of minds—if he saw into hers, which, praise be, was impossible—she’d have to abandon ship, take Zachary, and run. Again.
“Humble?” he questioned, mocking her?
She’d lowered her standards for him, but no smile marred his square cut features, not even at her admitted conceit. Actually, only the icy purple scar across his cheek and the curved scars, like humongous claw marks, that ran up his neck from beneath his cape marred the perfection of his features.
Perhaps he would fight to the death. Perhaps he had already done so. Physical trust she could manage, but never emotional, which is why she’d give him a job, nothing more.
Curiosity rode her. Where did his scars begin and how did he receive them? Did others mark his robust physique?
Sudden prickles of fear rushed her. Could Darkwyn Dragonelli be one of Sanguedolce’s henchmen? Had she and Zachary been found, despite all their best efforts?
She hadn’t thought it through, given her near drowning, but Ogden could have severed the rope, if Darkwyn’s appearance, as a fellow mobster, had been a signal to proceed. This was crazy. She’d never doubted Ogden until this moment. Who to trust? She never knew.
Hot buttered blood, she was getting paranoid these days, suspecting everyone. She supposed that meant it was time for her to act.
Vivica had done an extensive background check on Ogden Canby, Bronte reminded herself, before she hired him. He didn’t have a blemish to his name. She knew because Vivica’s queries ran FBI/CIA deep. On the other hand, Bronte didn’t think the Canadian mob or the RCMP, The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, leaked much to the U.S. feds.
Bronte clasped her hands behind her, so no one could see them tremble.
Life for her and Zachary, since their narrow escape from Montreal, had been a lot like tumbling into the bowels of a mine shaft and rolling aimlessly downhill in a rickety railcar on incomplete tracks. Yes, Journey to the Center of the Earth gave her the familiar creeps. Oh, there was a bit of light now and then—from live wires that arced when least expected, electric current that could fry them to cinders at a wrong move.
Sure, she had street smarts, and she’d used them, bending the letter of the law, if not breaking it outright. Anything to keep Zachary safe, until they got to Salem. Here they’d found old Zachary Tucker’s building, as young Zachary Tucker said they would, and set up housekeeping, more or less. Sure, they lived vampire-style, hiding in plain sight, daring to advertise while living in fear, a suitcase always packed, but living, however they could, beat the alternative.
Her suspicions ran rampant; trust being a luxury she couldn’t afford. Even the two kittens connected to this odd, bare-footed mangod made her wonder.
As the child of a psychic and empathetic father, who died young of cancer, she had little control over the nebulous and erratic psychic gifts she’d inherited from him, and she did not do risk well.
Frankly, if she were any kind of empath, why would she not sense the danger in him? Why sense a kindred spirit, a possible error of huge proportions.
Idiot her, running from the mob, yet jolted out of composure by a weird, huge, drop-dead gorgeous intruder from whom she pulled her gaze only because his kittens circled her.
Was theirs a dance to determine the alpha between them? Or a challenge, kitten to kitten, to turn one of them into a prime bit of mouse pudding? Silly thoughts to ease the soul. These were kittens of the cuddliest kind, no more.
Bronte shook off her unease. “Do you know that your cats are purebreds?” she asked to turn her thoughts. “They’re show cats, Mr. Dragonelli.”
“You mean they perform, like in an amphitheater?”
An image of them dancing with top hats and canes brought a rusty giggle to her throat. The shock in Zachary’s eyes made Bronte compose herself. “Your white with lilac points and pink paw pads here is a Birman, and the scorched-looking ruddy with black paw pads and almond-shaped eyes is Abyssinian. Though both kittens’ eyes are the same intense blue.”
The kittens appeared to subtly stare each other down, some cat ceremony taking place behind their kitty masks, an encounter that looked rather out of this world.
“They’re not mine,” Darkwyn said. “I don’t know where they came from.”
Bronte turned to Vivica. “Did they come with the cloak?”
“No. They’re strays, doomed to begging food on the streets.”
“No,” Bronte said. “We can’t leave them to the elements. They’re not outdoor cats, which you know, Vivica dearest, my supposed friend, playing on my sympathy.”
The red/black charred kitten with black paw pads leapt into Darkwyn’s arms. Stating her preference, Bronte wondered.
Darkwyn set the kitten on the ground, stating his.
Ms. Almond Eyes climbed Darkwyn’s cloak and perched on his shoulder.
He removed the persistent cat, claw by claw, and handed the stubborn thing to her.
“Thank you, I think,” she said, stupidly proud that he trusted her to care for them.
“Congratulations,” Vivica said. “You’ve just replaced Hoover.”
She shouldn’t do it. Pets helped root you to mother earth. The need for a hasty departure would be delayed in finding them homes, and yet . . . Bronte sighed. “The lilac point, I’ll call Lila, and the charred, almond-eyed beauty is Scorch.”
Lila celebrated her adoption by springing for Puck the parrot, minding its own business on Darkwyn’s arm, the cat becoming something of the bird’s hunchback, Puck being thrice her size.
“Cat,” Puck said, flying to the ground. “A soft indestructible automaton provided by nature to be kicked when things go wrong.” Puck kicked the air, and turned, kicked, and turned, until he made a full and worthless circle, but he couldn’t shake the cat.
“Oh, no you don’t. You won’t be kicking my cats,” Bronte said, removing Lila, at which point the bird flew up to the safety of Darkwyn’s head.
“Darkwyn,” Bronte said, fluffing her drying hair and dress. “You have a bird on your head.”
Puck squawked and Darkwyn bowed solemnly. “Ouch. Yes. Thank you.”
Vivica gasped. “Darkwyn, your cloak fastening looks as if someone’s holding a magnifying glass over it. It’s . . . smoking.”
The owner of Works Like Magick barely finished her warning, Bronte noted, when hunk man’s cloak quitted his shoulders, revealing a brawny, “take me baby” physique, a fine waist, and washboard abs that made her itch to explore them. Which she might do, if it were not for the phoenix tattoo on his chest that wholly unnerved her. The symbol of her rise from danger on his chest. The bird’s favorite quote leapt to mind: What the Puck?
The universe, Bronte feared, had been playing tricks on her since she set eyes on this gorgeous man. Deceptively gorgeous.
And yet, what a shame, she thought, that the cloak stopped falling at the place she most wanted to see.
“Uh,” she said. “I think your cloak is caught on something.”
“My interest, dear Bronte. My cloak is caught on my firm interest.”
SIX
When she understood how Darkwyn’s interest kept his cloak from falling to his feet, a wash of warmth rose up Bronte’s breasts to her face, while a smile, however foreign, hovered below the surface. Unwilling to embarrass either of them further, she firmed her lips, gratified and a little frightened to discover a case of mutual interest between them.
Providentially, one of the two men on the Winter Island Road Bridge, separating Cat Cove from Juniper Cove, at the corner of her property, whistled.
His companion chuckled. “Nice ass,” he shouted, viewing Darkwyn from behind and making Bronte wish she dared circle him.
“My brothers,” Darkwyn said, “are, I believe, approaching from behind me.”
“Literally.” Vivica bit her lip.
“Brothers?” Bronte looked from him to them. “You look nothing alike.”
“Except for our eyes,” Darkwyn said. “Dragonelli eyes are violet, like yours, minus the clarity of a diamond.”
A compliment. She had no idea what to do with that. So Bronte fluffed her hair and smoothed her skirt, both dryer than her corset and squishy boots.
“Let me guess,” Darkwyn said. “Jaydun whistled, and Bastian complimented my backside, right, Vivica?”
“Correct you are.” Vivica removed her black on white, polka-dot lady cloak to place on the shoulders of “Mr. Do Me and Do Me Again.” He doesn’t look ridiculous enough in cloak and bird, Bronte thought. Now he stands in drag and bird, his damp man cloak finally landing on his big bare feet.
Darkwyn Dragonelli; a great sport. Magnificent and manly despite all, alpha to the core, he gave the impression of having a hard candy shell and a chocolate truffle center. You didn’t grow up in the mob without calling that a rare combo in a man. Rarer still, retaining your dignity, while making a fool of yourself . . . without a gun in your hand.
He could likely stand up to a demanding vampire, both the Aristos with pinstriped suits, regular manicures, and high expectations and the Gothics in black rags, heavy metal, and pallors to mimic death.
Sure Darkwyn had a tree trunk for a body—a redwood—but in much better shape, which is exactly what you needed in a “vampire/bouncer/maître d’.” He’d make her a great bodyguard, too, if Vivica’s background check came out clean. She’d give him the front-facing apartment across from hers, if he earned her trust beyond the moment.
His full, sculpted lips would be cool against hers, then warm, then hungry, hot, and . . . No!
Thank the Goddess he couldn’t read her. And though she might be somewhat empathetic, she couldn’t read him, either. That rankled.
He fanned himself, the hot sun as much a dryer as a steam bath today, thanked Vivica for the cloak as he adjusted it, no more or less serious than since she met him.
Okay, she was mesmerized by the man, and more shaken, in a womanly way—one who hadn’t been touched in forever—than she had a safe, sane right to be, but she’d cope. “Mr. Dragonelli, are you, by any chance, seeking employment?” Talk about insanity . . . She’d just taken one big damned step beyond “Do you faint at the sight of blood?” and almost wished she could take it back. After all, she said she’d give him a job. She wanted to give him one. And her insecurities and fear were annoying her.
At the question, Vivica turned from waving his waiting brothers over while Darkwyn sent his doubtful gaze her way. Bronte felt the heat of it melting her clothes and tantalizing the skin beneath.
Vivica shook her head. “Darkwyn needs to take a few courses before he’s ready to enter the workforce. When he’s passed them, if you’re still hiring, and you still want him, I’d be glad to send him. But don’t make any rash decisions, Bronte.”
Appreciating Vivica’s good sense, Bronte, nevertheless, locked gazes with Darkwyn, him oddly pleased, like she’d tossed him the sun and he kept it despite the burn, because it came from her. “Let me know when he’s ready,” Bronte said. “And I’ll consider him.” She wished secretly that he’d hurry. She’d almost be willing to wait for him, perish the hasty, dangerous, insane thought.
Darkwyn gave her a half nod, as if he read her mind. Heat raced up her cleavage, which he noticed, which made her hotter and more interested. As firmly interested as he once again seemed, judging by the shape of the smaller cloak, but that could be a play of sunlight.
Vivica took his arm. “Bronte, I’ll find you a Master Vamp, whatever happens.”
Darkwyn pierced her with a look. “I will hurry.”
Shivers clawed at Bronte. Drat her scrabbled psychic gifts; she should be able to read him, not the other way’round. In light of his response, her possible exposure—hers and Zachary’s—bore a deeper, more frightening weight.
Vivica looked from him to her and back.
Darkwyn bowed. “I will come next week, so you can show me around.”
“Abrupt!” Puck snapped from Darkwyn’s head, ruffling his wings for attention. “Sudden, without ceremony, like the arrival of a cannon shot . . .”
“Yes,” Bronte said, agreeing to Darkwyn’s offer and the bird’s definition, not quite in her right mind, or soul, or emotions, and jolted by the fact.
A subtle change took place around Darkwyn’s eyes, an inner smile, perhaps. Hope? Desire? A vague sentiment aimed her way.
“Please,” Bronte whispered, though she dare not count the reasons and ways she meant it. Forget it, don’t listen. Don’t come. Hurry!
SEVEN
Darkwyn saw Bronte do a trick with her eye before she turned and headed for the crowd in front of her building’s porch steps, near a giant wheeled thing in the road, a red and blue bubble spinning on top.
He touched Vivica’s arm as they turned to greet his brothers. “What does it mean?” he asked, “when a woman closes one eye?”
“She winked? It means she’s attracted to you. Are you attracted to her?”
“Does her name not sound like a song?”
Bastian belly laughed, and Scorch leapt into Darkwyn’s arms.
“Kill the cat,” Puck snapped. “Kill the cat.”
“Shut up, chucklebird,” Vivica snapped before she took the kittens to Bronte. “According to the paramedics,” she said, returning, “no injuries, but the police are taking names, in case of whiplash, that kind of thing.”
“Is Bronte keeping the kittens?” Darkwyn asked.
Vivica scratched Isis behind her ear. “She was glad to have them back.”
He and his brothers embraced while their guardian dragons reunited. Jock the blue, Koko the tan, and Jagidy the sea green, dragon elders all—now small as the palm of a human hand—puffed red celebratory smoke in an air dance that would draw a crowd were they visible.
Darkwyn walked with Vivica and his brothers along a street with crisp red, yellow, and orange leaves beneath their feet. “My heart mate likes animals,” he said, still thinking of Bronte and the kittens. “That is good, yes?”
“Yes,” Bastian and Jaydun said, elbowing each other.
“Do not mock,” Darkwyn said. “I am younger and stronger than both of you.”
Vivica raised a staying hand. “Darkwyn, don’t you think it’s a little too soon to tell that Bronte is your heart mate?”
“I tell only you and my brothers, and I wish to go back soon. Now would be good.”
“You need Works Like Magick. It’s more than an employment agency, it’s where I acclimate the chameleons of the universe.”
“Chameleons sound like they should have fifty legs and bite. Do they itch?”
“We are not a disease.” Bastian shoved his shoulder. “Do you itch? You are a chameleon. We all are.”
Darkwyn stopped. “We sound like a scourge.”
“I know a journalist who would say you are.” Vivica shoved his arm. “Chameleons acclimate to their surroundings. They fit in wherever they must. They change. Adapt. Sometimes they’re called shape-shifters. You all shift shape, from men to dragons and back. In my business, chameleons are universal travelers who move between the planes and slip through the veil into our world.”
“I see,” Darkwyn said.
“They—you—don’t know how to live on earth, or speak our language at first. You must learn those things so you can earn a living—at the Phoenix, if it’s meant to be. But you will need to be more like one of us, which should take at least a week’s worth of concentrated lessons, usually two weeks, while I make you legal.”
“Will it hurt?”
“A casket just broke over your head,” Vivica said. “I’m thinking you have a high pain threshold.”
Darkwyn raised his throbbing middle finger knowing Bronte’s must be killing her. “This hurts.”
Bastian and Jaydun barked unfamiliar laughter.
Vivica curled that finger down again. “You�
��re not even injured.”
Bastian cleared his throat. “Bronte hurt the corresponding finger,” his brother said. “So Darkwyn hurts there, too, proof that she is his heart mate. It’s classic for the Dragonelli Brothers. I still hurt when and where my McKenna does, so I really hate that time of the month.”
“What time?” Darkwyn asked.
“Women are not kidding when they say that PMS is brutal.”
“We are so not the weaker sex,” Vivica agreed. “Darkwyn, you will learn everything in the unfolding of time.”
Jaydun knuckled Vivica’s cheek. “Acclimator, be warned. Darkwyn’s never been good with lessons or rule following.”
Vivica gave him a hard look. “Darkwyn, you have to learn our ways if you want to be legal. Bastian and Jaydun are so legal that Bastian is married.”
“I am,” Bastian said. “The first of our legion on earth and the first to marry. You will visit our bed-and-breakfast, the Dragon’s Lair, Darkwyn, to meet my wife and my son, Seb. Glad to have you here, by the way.” Bastian gave his arm a fist shove. “Why do you wear Vivica’s cloak?”
“To hell with that,” Jaydun said. “Why was he still naked?”
“My wet cloak fell off,” Darkwyn said. “Bronte and I went for a dip in Cat Cove. A little matter of life and death, but I saved her.”
“That’s bad,” Bastian said. “Anyone in water with you absorbs some of your magick, and can see things, like your fire and whatever you brought through the veil. For me it was the faery Dewcup and Jock, here.”
“I brought in Puck the bird and two winged kittens that glow. I feared one of them, or Bronte herself, might have cut the casket rope with a light beam and burned the clasp on my cloak. I feared Killian might have taken over Bronte’s body, but since she didn’t retaliate when I tossed her into the Cove, I know better. Besides, Killian doesn’t want Bronte, she wants me. Bronte is safe.”
“For my money,” Vivica said, “Bronte is too strong to have let Killian in, but then her background is a mystery, and she likes it that way.”
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