Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “That line I gave you about your looks?”

  My face swings back in his direction.

  “Well, there are a lot of clients where you're not within the standards of attraction.”

  I deflate, air sliding out of my tight chest.

  “Then there are a few where you fall in like a round peg in a perfect circular hole.”

  I open my mouth then close it.

  Gia steps forward. “So there are a few possible matches for Greta?”

  Zaire grins. “I think we can give it the old college try.”

  He sees us to the door. Having been weighed, cataloged, and measured, I feel as though Zaire knows me better than he should. Once he reads through the questionnaire, he'll know me better than anyone alive.

  Zaire opens the door. He touches my shoulder as I pass, and I flinch.

  His eyes tighten imperceptibly at my reaction. “One question?”

  “Okay.”

  “You're not racist are ya, darlinʼ?”

  I laugh. Hell no. “No.”

  “Good.”

  His eyes meet Gia behind my shoulder. “Three days.”

  “My accountant will square up with you, Zaire.”

  “Always a pleasure, Ms. Township,” he says. His gaze moves to me.

  “So long, Ms. Dahlem.”

  He says my name perfectly as he takes my hand. Instead of shaking it, he squeezes my hand softly and lets it drop.

  I turn away and don't look back.

  Three more days of my old life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Paco

  My hands are loose as I face Tallinn. He feints and I follow his movement like water through a cleft in a rock. Still, he moves to where my elbows don't guard closely enough.

  Jab.

  His knuckles sink deep, stealing my breath.

  I slap him; his face rocks back from the speed and force.

  He spits blood out. “Paco,” Tallinn reprimands, “what is this hitting like a girl bullshit? I try to teach you boxing, and you slap me?”

  I punch him in the gut.

  Tallinn doubles over.

  With a roar, he moves to my torso with his head, picking me up like a bull with horns.

  I wrap my legs around his midsection, and he slams me onto the dojo mat.

  “No karate!” he bellows, and I give a low curse.

  With my level of proficiency, I often dream in karate. I counter smoothly anyway, heaving him off. I leap deftly to the balls of my feet, bouncing. I’m ready for whatever he'll bring.

  “You are such a prick, Paco.”

  “Yes,” I say without a hint of disagreement.

  We sway slightly as we circle each other.

  “You sure this will be part of the fantasy—boxing?” Tallinn's voice is strong with his disbelief.

  I throw a strike, hard and fast, to his jaw, but he blocks it. I'm very good with my left hand, though it's not dominant, and I follow the blow closely with a jab meant to disable him.

  It glances off his forearm.

  “Fuck! You're strong, you Latin dick!”

  I smile.

  Tallinn flings insults at me. However, I am not diminished, but edified by strife.

  He rolls his brown eyes in a face that is just as dark. Muscles roil beneath finely honed arms and legs. Tallinn is here for his athletic grace, prowess, and his ability to guard—and because he is my friend, though not so much when sparring.

  “Technically, I am Hispanic in origin, my friend.”

  He wallops me in a fine move in what Tallinn terms the breadbasket. My insides spasm. Instinctively, I move into his body, leaving my awesome reach behind, and scissors kick his legs apart.

  “No—oh!” He drops like a ton of bricks.

  Tallinn blinks up at me. “No karate.” The words come out of a tight throat.

  I shake my head. “That is more the flavor of jujitsu.”

  Our stares collide, and I throw out a palm.

  “Douche,” Tallinn says, slapping his hand into mine.

  I grin.

  “Yeah”—he nods, jerking a towel off the wood tree full of pegs to hold such things—“keep smiling.” He peeks at me from behind the bright-white terry cloth. “Not bad today, by the way.”

  I incline my head.

  “Were you ‘bringing it’?”

  Tallinn looks up into my face and begins to chuckle, then it morphs into a guffaw that sounds like a tortured donkey’s braying.

  I frown.

  “Man, just don't try, will ya? Leave the slang for the naturals, such as my wise ass.”

  I nod. “Yes, wonderful.” I stalk off, and he follows.

  “Hey, don't get your silk boxers in a twist, Romeo. You'll do fine.”

  I whirl, and he stops—ready for my attack. I smile despite my annoyance. “I love that about you, Tallinn.”

  His eyebrows hike. “You do?” He folds his arms, and his face portrays pure skepticism. “What do you love?”

  “You are ready to fight at any moment.”

  “Pfft.” He scrubs the skull cap of his dark-brown curly hair. “Well, yeah, man. Anytime.”

  I point my finger at him. “That is what I wish for.”

  He pulls a face, his jaw jerking back. “Stop wishing and start being, Paco. If this fantasy thing”—he palms his chin—“is some kind of slice of random all the time, that is your best defense—a good offense.”

  He looks over my lean frame. “And I recommend bulking up, pal.”

  I glance down. My body fat hangs at six percent.

  “You got the nice Benedict Cumberbatch cheekbones. The green peepers the ladies dig, but you want to beef yourself up with some muscle mass, look menacing.”

  “Do I not look as though I could be threatening?”

  Tallinn throws his arms apart, and the muscular planes of his chest strain against the taut material of his shirt. “I know you are, Paco, but with your fancy clothes and refined vibe, it's not expected.”

  “I do not wish it to be.”

  Tallinn rolls his eyes. “Okay—whatever. All I'm saying is give the dudes the feeling that you got potential.”

  “Potential?” My lips quirk.

  “Don't give me your vaguely amused look.”

  I try not to look amused and it makes my mouth ache instead.

  “Okay, now you look constipated.”

  I burst out laughing, and so does he. Tallinn claps me on the back.

  “What I'm saying is: if you look the part, they might not mess with you.”

  “I believe the sort that Club Alpha employs will be very interested in messing with me.”

  We stare at each other.

  “What about the girl?”

  I look at Tallinn then away. “There is no girl.”

  An image of the blond angel from the bar over two years ago floats to the surface of my mind—it never leaves the tombs of my mind.

  “Not yet.”

  My eyes slide back to his as the memory dissipates like vapor. “I have never been the protective type. If that's what you're inferring.”

  Tallinn snorts. “There's an inner Alpha in you, begging to be free, man. And I'm here to tell you, if the right chick comes along, you'll die to protect her.”

  I sigh. What have I gotten myself into?

  We begin to walk out of the dojo. My dojo. The metal door slams behind us, echoing loudly. We walk down the long hallway, seeking the indoor pool that will serve as my cardio friend for the next half hour.

  “Isn't this the point of the entire fantasy? You're rich, really rich.”

  I narrow my eyes at him for restating the obvious.

  He ignores my look and moves forward. “Every bitch from here to Timbuktu would love a piece of the pie that is Paco. And you're not interested. You want a bushel of bambinos but on your terms. Thinkinʼ you can avoid that prenup and have real L.O.V.E.”

  “Fantastic synopsis, Tallinn.”

  “Why didn't you just try eHarmony or some shit?”


  That would have been the path of least resistance. “Zaire guarantees a set of circumstances tailor-made to flush out the merit of the women.”

  “Women?”

  I nod. “Apparently, there might be more than one perfect match. And she is wealthy in her own right, so my money should not be a factor.”

  Tallinn whistles quietly. “What about your merit?”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “What of it?”

  “Well, if she has to jump through hoops to… what? Prove her worth? What's to say the same isn't happening with you?”

  I answer with silence.

  “Ha! Knew it. We've got some rich babes signed up for the fantasy freight train, and you don't know who the passengers are or how you'll hold up under their inspection.” Tallinn nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, that's dee-lish. I want to watch.”

  “You're a pest,” I say, smiling.

  “Yeah, I am. Anyway, you're not allowed to blab about what paces Sebastian puts you through?”

  I shake my head, stripping my sweats off to my swim trunks below. I push through the glass door and breathe deeply of the mildly chlorinated air. I jerk my sweat-soaked shirt over my head and toss it into a pile by the edge of the pool.

  Tallinn follows, of course, walking in a loose perimeter around me. “Damn, man! Are you Adonis or what?”

  “Not that I'm aware of.”

  I dive in, slicing the water smoothly. I twirl underneath then come up for breath. I break the surface, and Tallinn is there, seated on his haunches.

  “So when does it all begin?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Tallinn leaps up. “Damn, better get you in the boxing groove.”

  I turn away to begin laps.

  Tallinn races along the pool's edge. “Cut this cardio shit short, Paco—it's keeping you too lean. Come to your million-dollar weight room instead. I'll beef ya up. Hell—you have the size. Am I not your personal trainer or what?”

  I push off from the pool's end, turning to backstroke. I count the strokes as I move to the other side of the pool.

  “What do you say?” he bellows from the other end of the pool.

  I heave an internal sigh. “Yes,” I reply.

  The door flaps shut, and I try to concentrate on fluidity, but my mind is on other things.

  Danger.

  The unknown her.

  *

  I do the sequence of yoga exercises on the floor of my office, as I have for six years.

  My body screams with the soreness caused the day before. Tallinn put me through a weight-lifting regime he promises will have me bulked up quickly.

  I arch, my palms and feet a bridge above the floor, with my chest facing the ceiling.

  The shrill beep of the intercom buzzes and my form wavers.

  “Yes?” I say, and the voice recognition kicks on, turning it to speaker and relaying my response.

  “Mr. Castillo, Mr. Estrada is on line one for you.”

  “Thank you, Esmerelda.”

  I slowly break form, caving and shifting to my knees. I stand, hold my position for a full second, then stride to the phone.

  I hit the button, trying to stifle irritation.

  “Bueno?” I bark into the phone.

  “Paco, how are you?” my cousin asks in Spanish.

  “I am well, and you?” I lean back on the desk, crossing my legs at the ankle, wondering if Club Alpha employs relatives for their scheme.

  Perhaps.

  My suspicion knows no limits. My heart rate ticks faster, sending a pleasant flutter of anticipation coursing through me. It is the first day of the three months.

  I expect everything—and nothing.

  We chat about our mothers and the weather. Finally, Ramiro comes to the crux of it.

  “We are having some trouble with the narco, Paco.”

  My stomach tightens. My upbringing is remarkable, in that, I spent only a few years in Mazatlán, Mexico. I’ve been frequently in the states ever since, and I am American educated. Though my accent is flawless, the cadence of my speech sometimes gives me away as foreign born.

  And apparently, so does my less-than-stellar grasp of American idioms and vernaculars; so says Tallinn.

  I spin my pen between the webbing of my fingers absently, contemplating how I can break from work to travel south and smooth the feathers of the local drug cartel so they will not infringe on my family who remains there.

  Dealing with the narcos is a necessary evil.

  I have become distracted while Ramiro speaks.

  “…fly into Rafeal Buelna.”

  I straighten. “Let me address my schedule and plan accordingly, Ramiro.”

  “Nothing is more important than family, Paco.”

  My hand tightens on the receiver. “No one understands that better than I, Ramiro.”

  Silence swells between us.

  “Adios.”

  I don't wait for his response. My visit to the plant in Costa Rica will have to wait. I pick up the phone to let my manager know that trip will be delayed.

  A small rough-woven bag, hand-stitched at its top, sits at the corner of my desk. I pluck the strings that keep it tied. They unravel, and I sink my hand into the coffee beans, rolling them through my fingers. They are not unlike a talisman. I have always felt an affinity for the things we put in our bodies. And the coffee I produce is no exception.

  Everything we consume should be of value.

  Even love.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Greta

  October 2

  I don't know what I thought would happen.

  Maybe a bomb would go off?

  However, my first day of the Club Alpha run starts out with a whisper. My alarm goes off, Mr. Right doesn't make an appearance, and I'm left with the usual: work.

  I fly through my condo, straightening the pillows on my perfectly made bed and putting my paltry amount of dishes into a dishwasher, which I run twice a week.

  I scan the toiletries one more time as I roll my travel clothing into a tight bundles, which I set inside my suitcase like sardines.

  White makes me look like a ghost. So I wear a red blouse that is such a deep scarlet, the fabric looks made of blood. The navy cloth pants never show a wrinkle, and the inseam skates the exact middle of the instep of my matching platform pumps. Today, I'm six feet, two with heels.

  A cropped blazer skims the soft waistband of the matching pants. The single thin chain of white gold with a floating heart nestled at the hollow of my throat is my only jewelry.

  I’m meeting Mr. Aros after an international flight that will leave me tired and drawn-looking.

  I have the fix—the makeup I've paid hundreds for. It conspires to make me look like I'm not wearing any, though I slather it on.

  Perfect.

  I pack it away so I'll look good for the flight and in case I meet anyone important.

  I pick up my smartphone and scroll through useless updates I keep in my head anyway.

  No social life—Gia's words hunt me down inside my skull. If I had a social life, I would need all the reminders for work stuff, because I'd be too busy living to remember them.

  I curse under my breath, stuffing my cell into my handbag. My eyes flick toward the window for one last look before I take off. Between high-rises, I catch a peek-a-boo of Puget Sound. It's only a corridor view, but it'd sold me on the condo.

  Someday I'll live where the water is all I see.

  The statement feels like a promise.

  *

  “More wine, miss?”

  I startle awake, my hand swinging out to catch the glass before it tumbles underneath the airplane seat.

  I rein in the scowl, coming back to myself in errant chunks of disorientation. I didn’t have wine. “No, thank you. But I'd love some water.”

  The flight attendant nods politely and retreats into the dim corner where they acrobatically prepare alcohol and bland airplane food.

  I shouldn't bitch. Roffe will be pi
cking up the tab. How many cold-weather countries do we have where I can hop on a flight, talk up the newest outerwear to discriminating buyers, and hope they sign for a Roffe clothing line? It's more than a salary to me; it's a commission, as well. The money makes me feel secure. I have six years before true financial security. My trust fund garnered my acceptance into Club Alpha, but Gia's sponsorship allowed it now.

  My head lulls back against the headrest, and my gaze moves to the magnified portal windows as clouds float by like escaped cotton balls.

  A lowball in faceted pressed glass is set in front of me. The deep impressions of the glass fractures the light from the window into diamonds on the tray table. I raise it to my lips. Ice clinks faintly as I sip. I fight back the time zone change, dehydration, and everything else.

  Even with the quickest flight and an overnight stay in Amsterdam, it is still almost thirteen hours of seat time. And my rear is going numb.

  And why do they ply me with booze? God.

  I'm so grumpy. I should be excited to arrive in Oslo. I'll practice my native language and haunt sites I haven't seen since before college.

  Maybe I'll get a deal for Roffe, I muse, holding the chilled glass against my hot cheek.

  I kick off my heels and curl my toes, spinning the half empty glass on the smooth surface of my pop-out tray. My mind wanders to some of the things Zaire told me.

  Anytime, anywhere… the fantasy will play out. The fantasy is treacherous ground, he said.

  The fantasy will integrate so naturally into my life.

  I shut my eyes, thinking of Gia and all she's done for me—and been for me.

  Gia is wealthy and highly educated. She is the youngest woman in the state of Washington to receive her PhD in psychology. When she volunteered to mentor patients who were “unrecoverable,” Gia Township didn't know what she would begin when she was assigned my case.

  My thumb restlessly strokes the fine scar at my wrist. Both wrists hold the proof of my past.

  I can't stroke my brain. There is no balm for that scar.

  Yet, Gia has brought me through the water's depths that were my mind. I was drowning, and she rescued me. She insists I rescued myself.