by Alyssa Day
“What good does that do me? The value of the sword will drop considerably without it. I’ve got several new . . . ah, new dresses to buy,” she finished lamely; suddenly unwilling to admit the truth and have him think she was playing the philanthropy card.
“New dresses. Right. I wasn’t born yesterday, Princess,” he said, stalking across the room toward her until he had her backed into the wall. “I know all about your Robin Hood tendencies. Which charities were supposed to benefit from this heist?”
“Ironically enough, we are saving the whales, though that’s with my own money,” she whispered, her heart pounding from his nearness. His masculine scent teased her senses, and she suddenly wanted to lean in and press her lips to his neck.
A black-sleeved arm inserted itself between them, rather ungently pushing Christophe away from her. “AIDS, children with autism, shelters for battered women, the homeless, a literacy group, and single mothers are on the list this time, to be precise,” Hopkins said. “In point of fact, you have a charity engagement tonight. For the whales, I believe.”
“Maybe Christophe should go. Some of his relatives might be there,” Declan said, his voice strangled to hold in the laughter.
Christophe took a step back, the heat in his eyes and his sexy smile reminding her of all the things he’d done to her the night before. Definitely not thoughts she wanted to have right then.
“Try to remember I can kill you with both hands tied behind my back, kid,” he told Declan. “If your sister is going, I’m definitely going. And I didn’t say I was taking the Siren out from under you, Princess. I’ll buy it from you.”
“Oh, no,” she protested. “You cannot attend this function with me, not after this afternoon. I’ll never hear the end of this. Also, buy it with what? Have a spare few million euros lying around?”
“I’m going,” he said, implacable.
“Did you happen to bring your tuxedo with you from Atlantis? That’s the only way you’ll get into that ball. Very snooty,” Declan said.
Christophe’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open in an expression of sheer horror. “A tuxedo? That might be a deal breaker.”
She put the image of how fabulous he’d look in a tuxedo firmly out of her mind and shrugged. “Guess you’re not going, then.”
“A tuxedo it is,” he said, lips curling away from his teeth. “I have things to do now, which apparently include finding a tuxedo. When should I be back?”
Hopkins checked his watch. “Ten past never?”
“Keep it up, funny man.”
Fiona sighed. She really, desperately needed that headache medicine now. “Half past seven should do it,” she said.
“Fine. Leave the tuxedo to me,” Hopkins said. “If you’re really going to allow this outlaw to accompany you, I’ll be sure he looks at least somewhat presentable.”
Christophe just laughed. “Three hours? That’s enough.” He nodded and turned to leave but stopped at the door, whirled around, and strode back across the floor to where she still stood near the wall. He put his hands on her shoulders and stared intently down at her, his eyes glowing again.
“Don’t worry, Princess. We’ll figure this out.” Before she could respond, or stop him, he bent and pressed a brief, hard kiss against her mouth and left the room. He was gone before she could form a coherent response.
Hopkins cleared his throat. Loudly. “Shall we plan on an Atlantean wedding, then?”
Chapter 16
Three hours later, Christophe stared in disbelief at himself in the mirror of a lavish guest room decorated in dark greens and golds and paintings of fox hunts. Very traditional, proper British. He felt like a warrior trapped in a teapot.
“I look like a buffoon.”
Hopkins sighed. “You look impeccable. You are a buffoon. There’s a difference.” He held out a scrap of black cloth. “I presume you don’t know how to tie this, either?”
Christophe glared at him. “Been a little busy. Slaying vampires. Fighting rogue shifters. Saving your puny asses over and over again.”
“Please refrain from commenting on the state of my buttocks,” Hopkins said, making short work of the tie. “Also, you have never once saved me or mine from anything.”
“Not yours, specifically. Human asses, generally.” Christophe checked out his reflection again. He looked worse.
“I think this tie might be choking me,” he said, tugging at it with a finger.
“Yes, I’m sure Lady Fiona will enjoy listening to you complain all evening. Do let me know how that goes.” Hopkins left the room, closing the door with a polite but firm click.
“May as well get this over with,” Christophe told his reflection. “Nice monkey suit.”
He left the room and headed down the hall and then down the winding staircase to the front foyer, figuring Fiona wouldn’t go straight to the garage. He spent a few minutes on the way down checking out the paintings of people who were probably Fiona’s ancestors and wondered if the blank, empty space on the wall had been for the dastardly grandfather she kept talking about.
A ping at the edge of his consciousness signaled Denal trying to contact him. He reluctantly opened the mental doorway.
I haven’t found out much. Humans don’t know anything, and the shifters aren’t talking. Alaric specifically forbade me to go to any vampire hangouts without you, something about safety in numbers, and they’re not up for the day anyway. Spring sunshine. Where do you want me to meet you?
Christophe laughed out loud at the “safety in numbers” comment. Alaric, like most of the rest of them, still treated Denal like a youngling, and undoubtedly didn’t want him anywhere near any vampires. It wasn’t fair—the warrior was sworn to Poseidon like the rest of them and had slain more than his share of vampires.
Not his worry.
Change of plans. I want you here at Fiona’s house. Hells, more like a mansion, really. Anyway, I want you to come keep her little brother company while we go out to some charity event.
Denal’s amusement came through loud and clear.
Charity event? Really? Did you have to dress up?
Just get here, already. Christophe projected his location on the connection and then leaned against a wall, arms folded, waiting. Women were never on time, anyway; he probably had time to take a nap if he could find a comfortable sofa nearby.
The faint sound of an indrawn breath interrupted his mental musings, and he looked up to see Fiona posed on the landing of the staircase, looking like the princess he’d named her. Or a goddess.
Aphrodite had nothing on her.
The bodice of the shimmering green gown hugged her curves like a lover, and the bottom floated around her legs like the whisper of a dream. A single, square-cut emerald hung suspended on a silver chain between her perfect breasts, and smaller gems hung from her delicate ears. Her silken hair was pulled up and back into a style that had been popular in Atlantis thousands of years ago according to the mosaics in the palace garden pools. Popular with goddesses, too, if one believed the paintings and sculptures that graced the palace.
That made sense. The goddess thing. There was no way he was good enough for this woman. The thought stabbed him in the belly like a dagger, and he realized he was standing there staring.
“Princess.” He swept his best court bow. “You are beautiful beyond any graceless words my poor warrior brain might conjure.”
She lifted her chin. “You don’t need to mock me.”
“Trust me, Fiona. I am not mocking you.” He put every bit of the heat he felt into his admiring gaze, and was rewarded when she gasped again.
“You—you don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, holding her skirt and descending the stairs.
He had no idea how she could walk in those high-heeled shoes and almost hoped she might stumble so he’d have the opportunity to catch her. Hold her in his arms. Strip that dress from her lovely body. They’d never make it to the charity event.
Another plus.
H
e met her at the bottom step, blocking her way. “A kiss for good luck, Princess?”
“You don’t need luck,” she whispered. “You seem to make your own.”
“Only since I met you.”
He wondered what would happen if he fell into the bottomless blue of her eyes and never, ever climbed out. He wondered if, finally, he might want to achieve the soul-meld when he’d dreaded it for so long. He wondered if he were going insane.
He kissed her. He could no more help it than he could silence his own heartbeat. He bent forward, barely touching her arms with his hands, and pressed his lips to hers. Just a feather-light touch at first, but then her breath warmed him and he caught her tiny sigh in his mouth. Desire turned molten, passion slowed the passage of time, and he was caught up in a tempest of emotion.
Surely no kiss had ever been so powerful. He wanted to protect her; possess her; consume her. He wanted all. He wanted everything she could offer and everything she was. Her scent tantalized him, something feminine and light and unmistakably her, and the silken softness of her skin was a marvel to his touch.
He lifted her off the ground, into his arms, and deepened the kiss, forgetting his vow to never get attached, forgetting his callous and careless image, forgetting his name.
She was everything, and he needed her more than he needed breath or life or hope.
Fiona’s hands tightened on Christophe’s shoulders as he lifted her, but she was helpless to draw away. His kiss was devouring her, consuming her, lighting her up with flames that she willingly embraced. The memory of their passion from the night before was there, but this was more, too. This was a new beginning; an innocence. This was discovery and exploration; it was comfort in a time of heartache. Somehow, he was almost part of her, and she had never wanted anything so fiercely as she wanted him to keep kissing her.
The sound of bells brought her dazedly back to her senses. She pushed against Christophe’s shoulders and pulled away from his kiss. “That’s the clock. It’s eight o’clock. You have to put me down before someone walks in.”
Christophe, breathing hard, rested his forehead on hers for a moment and then lowered her back to her feet. “I won’t apologize for kissing you,” he said, his voice rough. “I plan to kiss you again, as soon as I get you alone, so let me know now if you don’t want me to do so.”
Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. Damn the man for making her blush so often. “I—I’ll take that under advisement,” she said, stepping back and casting a quick glance down at her gown to make sure nothing was out of order as she heard Declan and Hopkins in the hallway.
He grinned. “You look beautiful, Princess. Nothing out of place.”
He, on the other hand, had a bit of a problem. She glanced down again. Make that a big problem. He caught her looking and laughed out loud, which didn’t help the blushing at all. Still with his back to the hallway entrance, he whipped his tuxedo jacket off and held it in front of the large erection currently tenting the front of his pants. However, that left exposed the sheaths for the multiple daggers that crossed his chest front and center.
“Nice accessories,” she said.
“Never leave home without them.”
Declan burst into the foyer, holding something tiny and metallic in front of him. “Right, sis, I’ve got you covered. I’m going to wire you so we’ll be able to hear everything you hear. We can record, too, so you and Christophe can go over the conversations later and catch anything you might have missed.”
“Bad idea,” Christophe said. “First, what do you expect to hear at the charity deal? Criminal pomposity? Second, electricity and Atlantean magic don’t like each other. I was counting on it to short out the security system in the Jewel House, as a matter of fact.”
Fiona looked at him in disbelief. “That was your plan? Stand around and hope for electrical failure?”
He tugged at his tie and looked anywhere but at her. “There was a little more to it than that.”
“Like what?”
He grinned, and for just an instant, she could see the boy he must have been. “I hadn’t actually gotten that far yet. You see, I ran into this gorgeous ninja—”
“I think we can all figure out the rest,” Hopkins said dryly. “Will your electrical malfunction issue interfere with Fiona’s microphone, as well? If we were to give you the equipment for her to wear later in the evening?”
Christophe shrugged. “I don’t know. If I stay away from her, which I won’t; if I refrain from using magic all night, which I won’t; if all the fates are in our favor, which they never are—”
Declan groaned. “What happens? Will it short out and electrocute her? This is such a tiny mike, you’d more than likely only be shocked, Fee, not actually electrocuted.”
“That’s reassuring,” she said, glad she’d taken the extra-strength headache powder. “Just give it to me. If it shorts out and somebody notices me jump, I’ll claim I’ve been goosed.”
Christophe gave her the oddest look. “Goosed?”
“Pinched.”
He shook his head. “Just when I think I’ve gotten a handle on current colloquialisms. Also, if anyone gooses you, I’ll cut his arm off for him, since Hopkins was kind enough to find me a tuxedo with room for my daggers.”
Declan made quick work of showing Fiona how to attach the tiny mike so she could do it later. “Do you want the receiver, too, so you can hear us?”
Christophe answered for her. “No, she does not. We’ll be able to handle it without instructions from here, but thanks.”
She started to reply, but he held up a hand and then pointed at the door. “We’ve got company.”
The door chimes rang, and all three of them stared at the door and then back at Christophe.
He shrugged. “It’s a friend. He’s going to hang out with Declan tonight and keep an eye out for any trouble that might have followed us home.”
Hopkins opened the door and Denal, standing just outside, bowed deeply. “Denal of Atlantis at your service, sir.”
“Brilliant. Another one,” Hopkins said, standing aside and gesturing him in. “Is there any reason we should trust this young man with Declan?”
Denal’s eyes widened. “I would give my own life to protect this human, my lord.”
“I’m no lord, I’m the butler,” Hopkins retorted, but Fiona could see him sizing up this new person in their lives.
For some reason, Denal reminded her of Declan—all fresh-faced youth with a bit of eager puppy in him. Their names even sounded similar. Except, this one was different. Older than he looked. There was a weariness in his eyes that matched the way Christophe’s eyes looked when he didn’t realize anyone was watching him.
She stepped forward. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’m Fiona. Welcome to my home. This is Hopkins and my brother Declan. Thank you for your company, but I do hope that it won’t come to giving anyone’s life.”
He bowed again, but as he straightened, his dark blue eyes widened until they seemed to take up half his face. “You’re the princess? You’re beautiful,” he blurted out.
Yes. Just like Declan. She managed not to smile. “No, I’m not a princess. Christophe likes to tease me, that’s all. Thank you for the lovely compliment, though.”
She turned to Christophe, who was scowling at Denal. “We should be going.”
“Ready when you are.”
“Sean is pulling the car around to the front so you don’t have to go through the garage in your gown,” Hopkins said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll have her home early,” Christophe told Hopkins.
“No. You won’t,” she said.
“Discuss it in the car, Lady Fiona,” Hopkins said, herding them toward the door. “Fashionably late is one thing with these charity functions, horrifically late is another.”
“Christophe is nothing if not fashionable,” Denal called, stifling laughter.
Declan grinned and punched Denal in the shoulder. “So, do you like p
izza?”
“I have a feeling those two are going to get along famously,” Fiona murmured to Christophe.
“Yep. You’d never know from the look of him that Denal has hundreds of vamp kills to his name, would you?”
Her smile faltered, and she swung around. “Hopkins, you’re in charge.”
Hopkins nodded. “Of course. I’ll just clean the shotguns, shall I?”
Message received, in other words. There was trust, and then there was “trust with her baby brother.” Two very different things, especially from men who could so easily talk about killing vampires. The knot in her chest loosened and she put her hand on Christophe’s arm. “Let’s do this, then. Try not to offend anyone, that’s all I ask. I have to associate with these people.”
Christophe grinned down at her. “When have I ever been offensive? Oh, by the way, this is for you.” He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out an object the size of a golf ball, which he tossed her way.
She caught it and then opened her hand and stared at a large rock. “Lovely. I’ve always wanted a—oh, for the love of Saint George, that’s an uncut diamond.”
Her knees wobbled and she had to lean against him for support. “That—that—it must be—”
“One hundred carats, give or take,” Christophe said. “It should be ample to pay for your share of the Siren, don’t you think?”
Hopkins crossed the room in three paces and lifted the stone from her hand. “That’s ridiculous. It must be a fake.” He examined it, holding it up to the light, turning it this way and that. “But it doesn’t look—This can’t be.”
Fiona nodded, still staring at Christophe and then back at the jewel. “Trust me. I know jewels. Examine it, but I’m fairly certain that’s an actual diamond.”
“Should be excellent quality, too, but feel free to check it out for yourself,” Christophe said. “Should we go?”
Fiona slowly turned to look at Denal. “Does he always do this? Give away fantastically valuable gems?”
Denal was watching Christophe, too. He slowly shook his head. “Never, as far as I know. Never took anybody to a ball, either, though, so what do I know? Next thing I know, we’ll all wake up down Alice’s rabbit hole.”