by AJ Nuest
Before he could quell the thought, he grew greedy to lick and nip the tender skin of her neck. She would taste sweet. A cool drink to quench his thirst after a much-needed rain.
“That’s pretty good, considering how much Ollie loves to refer to himself as a god. But I’d rather leave the particulars up to him, if you don’t mind. Ask nicely, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to give you an example 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 must 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 that rose far above his station.
“You are mistaken, Sorceress. My name is Prince Caedmon Eastaughffe Austiere, royal emissary and third in line to his majesty’s throne.” Lowering his sword, he snapped his heels together and swept the point across the floor in a formal bow. “Please accept my apology. Your luminescence leaves a man grasping at his wits.”
Air blurted from her lips as if she were loath to believe him. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a regular glow-in-the-dark Barbie over here. Pleasure meeting you, Prince Caedmon, but really, I think it’s time we both hit the hay. I’ll be sure to give Ollie my compliments in the morning.”
He was being dismissed, and to anger her could incite the very destruction of his realm. He had one final ploy up his sleeve. “And in preparation for your return? Is there any message you wish relayed to the Rescinder?”
“The who?” A frown marred the flawless span of her brow. Her lashes slipped closed a moment before she presented her palm toward the glass. “Never mind.” Crossing her arms, she blinked and gave a subtle shake of her head. “If I just heard you right, you’re planning 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. “Only if my attendance pleases you, shall I return.”
Yet he would not risk coming alone. His father, Wizard Fandorn and Braedric must each be warned. She controlled the veil and, for now, held the fate of his world in her hands.
To hesitate in the slightest would be a blunder beyond the pale.
“Yeah, I gotta a message for the Rescinder.” One of her brows rose, and she reached to the side. A shadow crept across the veil, and she issued a threat which turned his blood to ice. “Remind him I can be a real bitch if I don’t get my six hours.”
* * * * *
“For the last time, it wasn’t me.”
Rowena stopped outside the front door of Knick-Knack Paddywhacks, her frappe-mocha-latte cappuccino belching a curl of steam into the crisp midmorning air. “This denial of yours lost any attempt at humor about twenty minutes ago.”
Oliver smacked his palm to his chest, fingers splayed across his silver tie and the lapels of his tailored Versace suit. “I swear on my doting stepfather’s grave, I had nothing to do with your midnight rendezvous.”
His stepfather? She snorted. “Oh, yeah? Which one?”
Waving off her comment, he worked one shoulder in a non-committal shrug. “Whichever one you like, doll.”
Uh-huh. As of six months ago, Oliver’s socialite mother had escorted four of Fortune 500’s top business moguls to the grave, the one carat diamond on his pinkie no doubt some sort of weird consolation prize.
A hint of his designer cologne caught the breeze as he propped his elbow on the back of his hand. Lips pursed, he tapped the angular line of his clean-shaven cheek. “What about this morning? Was your prince waiting on bended knee, glass slipper in hand?”
Sputtering mid-sip, she squinted at his hilarious sarcasm. “I couldn’t get the door open. And trust me, it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
“Hmmm…luminescence, you say?”
She slumped and took a half-hearted swipe at the coffee droplets she’d left on her coat. 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?”
“Yep, and a puffy shirt.”
“Pity he’s not one of mine.” He fluttered his lashes. “He sounds completely fabulous, if you ask me.”
Rolling her eyes, she reached around him for the handle and jerked the door open. The bell tinkled, and Violet glanced up from her latest issue of Inked magazine.
“Morning, boss.” Flipping the pages closed, she tossed her reading material aside. The edge of her black-lace camisole rose above the silver ring in her belly button, arms stretched over her head as she let loose an expansive yawn.
Instantly annoyed, Rowena lifted a brow and camped her weight on one hip. “Come on, Violet. Could you at least try to act busy when I get here?”
She dropped her arms and her multi-colored bangles jingled back to her wrist. “Sor-ry. Geez.”
Striding for the counter, Rowena slapped the brass key on top of the glass case. “Here.” The girl was lucky she was the sharpest fact tracker in the greater metropolitan area. Between Violet’s nose for sniffing out data and Ollie pitching most of his paychecks in trash, those two had job security wrapped up in spades. “Find out as much as you can about this piece.”
“Sure, no problem.”
A spin on her heel, and Rowena stormed toward her studio, tossing her hand in the air. “And then dust something.”
She shoved the velvet curtain out of the way and jerked it closed, but the flimsy partition didn’t stop Violet’s next words from drifting along the shop’s hardwood floor.
“Good Lord, what’s eating her?”
“Nothing.” Ollie sighed. “That’s exactly the problem.”
They shared a chuckle before the showroom went silent.
Tossing her coat and purse onto the worn leather couch, Rowena unhooked her canvas smock from the tall wooden coat rack near the back door. The neck strap seemed to weigh her down more than the overall funk she’d been in ever since she’d found the armoire locked up tighter than a drum first thing this morning.
But there was no denying Oliver was right. The whole Brad fiasco had her living the life of a nun.
Dragging a stool in front of her easel, she nudged it to the right before unrolling the leather pouch holding her restoration tools. His sneaking around had twisted her into such knots, she’d sworn off all men for good.
And yet, as lonely as that had made her, Rowena knew taking her frustrations out on Violet wasn’t fair. For crying out loud, if it hadn’t been for Violet and Ollie’s support the second—and final—time she’d busted Brad with his pants down, there was every chance her pity party would’ve gone on for months.
She would’ve wasted way more tears on the asshole than he deserved. Wasted more time and energy listening to him beg for her to take him back only so he could make her look like an idiot yet again.
No. She’d been right to listen to her friends’ advice. Kicking Brad to the curb had made her stronger. Develop a previously missing margin of self-respect.
And in the end, Ollie and Violet had become more than just friends to her—they’d become family. The only one Rowena truly had left.
A flick of the halogen floor lamp, and she donned a set of dual-lighted magnification glasses, leaning forward to painstakingly fleck away an oily layer of grime from a Renoir commissioned by the Chicago History Museum.
In the five years since, she couldn’t think of a single time Oliver had lied to her. Even at the risk of hurting her feelings, he’d always gone the distance to give her the cold hard truth.
He treated her like a kid sister. Without fail, he always had her back. To not believe him now sorta flirted with the line of what it meant to go beyond the normal kinda stupid.
She sighed. But if Oliver wasn’t the instigator behind her late-night visit, then she didn’t have the first clue who else could be responsible.
Whoever they were, knew she was into antiques. That she was single and lived alone. But, again, those det
ails were no big mystery. She was an average twenty-six-year-old woman. No claim to fame except the boring routine of her yawn-inducing life.
Of her clientele, the majority were wealthy women. Pampered wives who were generally preoccupied with agendas of their own. None of them would be interested enough in the little shop owner to research her family history, and then find the exact piece that had once belonged to her great-great-great—however-many-greats—grandmother.
Sweeping the curtain aside, Ollie boosted his chin and struck an haute couture pose. “I just sold all six pieces from the Braxton estate.”
“Good.”
A leisurely stroll to the couch and he collapsed along the cushions, long legs sprawled as if it were time to call it a day. “My God, those glasses are an abomination. Mr. Magoo meets fashion road kill in the worst possible way.”
She chuckled. “They get the job done. That’s all I care about.”
“And yet, another reason to thank your lucky stars you have me.”
Uh oh. That didn’t sound promising. Pushing the glasses to her forehead, Rowena sat up to ease the tension in her back and clean her scalpel with the corner of a damp cloth. “Meaning?”
Violet entered the studio, the cash register drawer balanced on top of a black three-ring binder. Approaching the safe, she set the drawer on her hip and dialed in the combination.
“For your date, darling. Please don’t tell me you plan to meet your handsome prince dressed like a lumberjack from Little House on the Prairie.”
Violet froze. A slow pivot on her chunky black heels, and she darted a glance between them. “The boss has a date?”
Yeah, yeah, everyone start planning for the apocalypse before it’s too late.
“It’s not a date.” Please. As if Rowena would ever consider hooking up with some guy who wasn’t even interested in giving her his real name.
“She has a video date.” Flicking his hand in the air, Ollie inspected the buffed-to-a-shine manicure.
“And there were no lumberjacks on Little House on the Prairie.” Rowena dusted a few brown flakes off the knees of her one-size-fits-all bib overalls. “The show took place on a prairie. That was the whole point.”
“I had a video date. Once. Ten minutes in, this really fat dude did a burlesque striptease.” Violet stared at the floor a moment before a shudder wracked her thin shoulders. “Thank God I met Todd.” She closed the safe and the tumblers whirred as she gave a twist of the lock. “I’m taking off, if that’s okay.”
If Rowena’s desk clock was right, it was only little after three. Then again, Violet had opened the shop, and was probably anxious to get home and spend some one-on-one time with her newlywed husband.
“Sure.” Lowering the glasses back to her nose, Rowena resumed her meticulous work on the painting. “Did you find out anything about the key?”
“Not yet.” Violet scrubbed her hand through her hair, rearranging her wild hodgepodge of fuchsia spikes. “I put out the regular feelers, but no one’s called back.” Holding her fist in the air, she spread her fingers. The chain snaked down and the key spun wildly back and forth. “What I can tell you is both the chain and key are twenty-four carat gold. Most likely Byzantine, based on the stamped lettering. And total carat weight is seven point two three grams.”
“Gold?” Unease skipped down Rowena’s spine as she peered at Violet over the top of her glasses. Damn, had she known, she would’ve been a lot more careful wearing that thing. “What’s your best guess on value?”
“Authenticity would have to be established first, and rarity plays a factor, but I’d estimate this piece somewhere in the two-hundred-thousand-dollar range.”
A long, low whistle warbled from Oliver’s pursed lips.
Starting for the curtain, Violet dropped the key into Rowena’s outstretched palm. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let that key out of my sight.”
Chapter Three
The sinking in her stomach was completely ridiculous…and all Oliver’s fault. Rowena fisted the blankets under her chin and glanced at the armoire for what had to be the millionth time.
After locking up the shop, she’d bribed Ollie with his favorite sushi takeout in exchange for his help with the armoire. Though, in reality, his version of “help” leaned more toward making a big dent in the wine supply she kept hidden inside her roll-away bar.
Three hours she’d worked, trying to pry open the doors without damaging the structure’s integrity. All while he’d ransacked her closet, sneering in revulsion and tossing things aside until a huge pile of clothes capsized off the side of her bed.
It wasn’t until he unhooked the Goth purple bridesmaid’s dress from Violet’s wedding, he’d finally paused. One glance at the silence over her shoulder, and Rowena had flat outright told him it was time to take off. “I’d rather have a root canal then wear that thing.”
“It is a sad little frock, isn’t it?” He fingered the opening near the cleavage, toying with the black silk ties that laced up the bodice. “Still, a little nip here, a small tuck there.” Dropping his arm, he faced her. “Do you own a needle and thread?”
Hesitating had been her first mistake. Give Oliver an inch and he always demanded a mile. What started as a few minor wardrobe adjustments had quickly turned into her trudging off for a shower and shave, followed by an hour of hair and make-up.
By the time he was done, the image in her bathroom mirror resembled a watered-down version of Elvira.
After he’d left—a thick cloud of hair spray trailing him through the door—she’d flicked off the light and begun the tedious chore of returning her clothes to her closet.
The moments had ticked by as she’d paced the length of her condo, trying to stay busy as she repeated a mantra that the impending…whatever this was…it was not a date. Soon, the seconds dragged into hours. The hour eventually grew late, and a sad note of disappointment had settled in her heart.
Once the moon had finally reached its zenith in the inky October sky and the armoire still showed no signs of opening, she’d washed her face and crawled into bed fully clothed.
Why she’d ever thought some a hot, buffed-out actor would be interested in seeing her again was beyond stupid. Rolling to her other side, she stared at the digital clock on her nightstand.
Great. Nearly two in the morning, and she was wide awake for the second night in a row. Closing her eyes, she tried counting sheep. Once again, she’d traded in valuable sleep only so someone could laugh their ass off at her expense.
A soft creak echoed above the steady thump of her pulse against the pillow. Springing off the mattress, she spun toward the armoire.
Aw, hell no.
The door hung ajar. A sliver of light pierced the darkness of her bedroom.
Anger sputtered and flared in her chest.
Exactly who did these people think they were?
Whipping the covers off her legs, she stormed to the armoire and wrenched the door open. The frame swung loose, and she slammed it against the door with her hand.
A dozen or so men milled around inside the room. Each of their costumes a different color. One after the other, more flouncy and embroidered than the next.
They lifted their eyes and a whoosh from their billowing capes flooded the non-existent speakers. In unison, they dropped to one knee with bowed heads.
Five…ten… Thirteen men? Good grief, how big was the budget on this production, anyway?
“We humbly welcome you, Sorceress, and beseech your favor. Grace us with undeserved clemency. We were remiss in your arrival this past eve.” Based on the pointy, gold crown on his head, the guy who’d just spoke was playing the part of King Austiere.
Stepping back from the door, Rowena crossed her arms. And how diplomatic to start them out by offering her such a flowery apology. “Fine, but can we please move this along? In case you forgot, you’re not the only ones trying to make a living here.”
She waited, but no one moved.
O-o-okay, evidently, th
ey expected her to continue. Too bad, she didn’t have any idea what she was supposed to say.
Oh, wait…maybe, “Rise?”
The men stood and, on a quick scan of their faces, Prince Caedmon had apparently over-booked his schedule.
Nice. Not only had he completely ignored her request they not do this in the wee hours of the morning. He’d stood her up, and then sent these men along to get a peek at what she might be wearing.
Big, dumb jerk.
The gray robes and long, wiry beard spirit-gummed to the man on King Austiere’s left suggested he’d landed the role of “the wizard.” The young man on the king’s right bore a striking resemblance to Caedmon, though his self-satisfied smirk was so off-putting, her first impulse was to knee him in the balls.
If she had to guess, the guy thought he was all that and a bag of chips just like Brad.
The rest of the cast contained men of varying ages, all of them outfitted in ballooning pants and feathered, wide-brimmed hats. Nothing but brocade and ruffles galore.
She huffed. Maybe that could account for the pinched dread on their faces. Had she not known any better, she would’ve guessed they’d all recently left a group proctology exam.
“We may commence.” The wizard opened his palm and tipped a polite nod toward the king.
The one who resembled Caedmon puffed out his chest and strode forward.
Approaching the monitor, he centered his palm on the glass. Everyone else in the room leaned in.
Yeah, and?
She moved her gaze from face to face before realization finally clicked in.
Wonderful. This was one of those weird interactive theater deals where they wanted her to adlib her way through the scene. But so help her God, the first sign they were about to break out in an off-key rendition of Rocky Horror’s Time Warp, and she was done.
Smacking her hand to the screen, she lined up her fingers so they matched the dude who couldn’t bring himself to stop staring at her cleavage. A tense moment stretched, and she stifled a yawn.