by Jami Gold
Elaina restacked her clothes in front of the cabinet, obscuring her hoard, and jiggled out the dress purchased for Phase Two of tonight’s party. Red, sleeveless, and way too expensive. Strappy heels joined the gown in an insulated bag marked Stefano’s Fine Catering—Chicago, IL.
She mentally reviewed her checklist. The kitchen assistant’s uniform she’d swiped from work last week? She tugged the cuffs of the almost-too-small jacket. Check. Mandatory white gloves? Check. But she wouldn’t put on the miserable things until the last possible minute. Hair pulled back in a health-code-friendly bun? Check. Hair color that matched her fake ID? Uh...
The cracked mirror over the sink revealed multicolored shades of blonde, auburn, and warm browns swirling through her hair. At the sight, a surge of cold invaded her limbs. Slip-ups like that would bring about her death, regardless of the strength of her heart.
She concentrated for a second, and the natural colors of her bun magically darkened under a solid wave of rich black. The worried expression spreading lines over her forehead was another matter. In her imagination, the furrows spelled out “I’m a reckless idiot.”
As if this risky venture were her first choice. Or her twentieth.
After triple-checking her disguise, she left her apartment, descended the building’s unlit stairwell, and walked the two blocks to the side street where her beater car was slightly less likely to be stolen. Creaks from its door hinges annoyed a dog behind a nearby gate. She ignored the deep barks and started her car. Or rather, tried to start her car.
“Oh no, you don’t.” She cranked the key again.
Nothing.
She slapped her palm against the dashboard, broadcasting her threat into the underlying mechanics. “If you don’t start in the next thirty seconds, I swear I’m going to make an appointment for you at the junkyard.”
Regardless of whether the rusted-out heap believed her, the engine sputtered to life, and she made it from inner Chicago to Stefano’s headquarters on the outskirts without a single stall. She parked in a back corner of the lot, away from the lights and security cameras.
She relaxed, her spine sagging into the seat. Step one of Phase One complete.
Then she straightened and groaned. Arriving meant she’d have to cover her skin with the gloves Stefano required all his employees to wear. Her plan could have been so much simpler—not even requiring a Phase Two—without those fabric obstacles between her and survival. Stupid rules.
But she didn’t have a choice. Stefano catered all the ritziest parties in the metro area because of his reputation for rule-following perfection.
Tonight was no exception. Right on schedule, the employees finished loading the carts, ovens, and trays into the delivery vehicles by the building. Time to go.
One last check in the rearview mirror verified her disguise, but that damned worried expression was still there too. She poked at her forehead. Yeah, as if stretching the skin flat would erase her concerns.
“I can do this. I was born to do this.”
Technically, she was born to kill to get what she needed. At the thought, a memory flashed—her mother’s lifeless face sparkling with blood—and she shoved it away. No, she’d die a cold death in the form of an extinguished heart before becoming like her father.
No one deserved to be murdered. Not even humans.
Despite the warm evening, a shiver skittered down her limbs, and her blood’s temperature dropped another degree. Not much longer now.
Her mouth went dry, and she rubbed her arms, even though a summertime Death Valley heat wave wouldn’t be enough to fix her low body temperature. Would it hurt to die? Would her heart stop beating before she froze to death? Or would her muscles freeze in place first, leaving her trapped in eternal hibernation?
She hissed at herself and threw open her car door. Neither of those was going to happen. She wouldn’t let the situation come to that. Her plan would work.
With a tight grip on the insulated bag containing her gown, she crossed the parking lot and joined the workers climbing into the vans. No one gave her a second glance or questioned why the woman they knew as Linda, a front-office employee, was dressed for kitchen prep work tonight. Bravado was an art form—one she’d mastered. She squished into a seat and set the insulated container beside her.
Another employee eyed the bag. “Does that need to go in back with the rest?”
“No, this is extra serving ware, just in case. You know how Stefano is.” She pasted an innocent smile on her face until the man shrugged and turned away.
Horns from the crushing weekend traffic accompanied them all the way to their North Shore destination. Through the van’s windshield, the Wyatt estate finally came into view.
The building’s grandeur had been impressive enough in daylight when she’d gone there to take notes for Stefano during his meeting with Mr. Wyatt’s assistant. Now, landscape lights accented the dramatic columns and arched windows against the evening’s twilight. The place did a fair impression of the impregnable fortresses in the stories of old she’d heard years ago from Nastav, her tutor.
As they neared, tingles spread over her skin, and her muscles tightened, even though she was in no shape for fight or flight. Last week’s prep meeting at the mansion hadn’t prompted that reaction from her senses. Something must have changed. Or had she run out of time already?
She pressed her fists into the bench seat and rolled her shoulders back. No, her heart was still beating. She’d make it.
Opportunities for a big score were the whole reason she’d applied for this job with Stefano. No more hoping for lost trinkets. No more freezing. No more starving.
And no killing required.
Maybe that weird feeling was anxiety. Given the stakes, she forgave herself. Especially as the mansion was an intimidating spectacle.
Next to her, a server around her age leaned forward and whistled. “I’d sure like to be the one to take Alexander Wyatt off the list of Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelors.”
The driver snapped around. “That’s Mr. Wyatt to you. Stefano will have our heads if anyone is less than professional.”
Masked by the darkness, the woman gave him the finger. Elaina stifled a snicker.
The van rolled up to the back entrance, joining Stefano’s trucks already there for the afternoon’s prep work. The vehicle’s headlights spotlighted security guards at the door. Elaina clutched her bag and joined a group bustling into the mansion. Overhead cameras monitored everything in sight, and she kept her face down.
A guard shined his flashlight on her nametag. “Linda Jones.”
Elaina suppressed the impulse to fidget with her jacket sleeves again. She’d sent the list of approved employees to Mr. Wyatt’s staff, so she should be safe—unless Stefano had updated the file for some reason.
The guard checked off the name on the list and waved. “Go ahead.”
She’d breached the castle’s defenses. The thought tugged her lips into a curve. Maybe she shouldn’t have been restraining her risk-taking instinct after all. The rush of danger lured her forward.
The elegant kitchen wasn’t yet buzzing with activity, and she stashed her bag in one of the oversized ovens. Stefano used a portable kitchen for dishes that couldn’t be prepared ahead of time—he’d never risk dirtying clients’ appliances—so no one would look in the house ovens.
Her flagging energy weighed down her limbs, but the rest of the team would notice if a “kitchen assistant” didn’t help with dinner preparations. The proper timing for the next phase couldn’t come fast enough.
Faking patience and dealing with human food. Neither were her strong suits.
Hours passed with steady chores, and as she worked, she went over her mental dossier of the guest list. Although the riches around the Wyatt mansion would keep her heart beating for months, the building’s security created an intangible barrier. She wasn’t strong enough to force a bond with any of his possessions, so she couldn’t remove them from his territory. B
ut his guests...
Yes, the annual fundraising dinner put on by the famed Alexander Wyatt of Dakon Enterprises attracted everyone of importance in Illinois. And away from their homes—their territory—the adornments they wore should be vulnerable to her.
Servers hustled into the kitchen with dirty dessert plates. Finally, her cue for Phase Two.
She grabbed her bag and slipped into a storage room off an empty hallway. Those skin-covering, thwarters-of-easy-jewelry-acquisition gloves came off first, followed quickly by the rest of the uniform. Within a minute, she’d stepped into her candy-red dress and heels. A second after that, her hair tumbled down her back, released from its bun. By the time she exited the room, she’d changed her hair’s waves to blonde.
Laughter around a corner drew her to a cluster of women with freshly touched-up lipstick migrating to the ballroom. Prickles once again crept over her skin.
Okay, got it. Imminent death or something. She was working on that problem.
Time for her dinner. And if she was lucky, maybe she could nab some dessert too.
The bimbo brigade around Alexander Wyatt pouted at his attempt to retreat. Tonight was too important to risk upsetting any donors, even these women willing to throw themselves at him for the temptation of money. So much for their self-respect. He forced a smile to soften their disappointment, but his expression was as superficial as their charms.
“I’m very sorry, ladies, but my assistant needs me to assess the fundraising efforts.” He disentangled himself from the group and strode toward George at the temporary stage.
Damned gold-diggers. Years of experience had taught him what that type was really like. His entire life, every woman on his arm had been lured to his father’s side after the man flaunted his bigger wallet. He blamed his father for the betrayal more than the women he’d had the bad luck of choosing.
Women of that type were simply locusts, greedy parasites marking their territory. As if he was a prize to be won.
Some prize.
They’d probably never realize the truth though. His charitable efforts could never make up for his failings. No one had ever recognized his dearly departed father as a fraud either, no matter how much Alex had wished for that exposé. Of all the skills to inherit from the old man.
As he neared the dais, a flash of red drew his eye to a woman entering the ballroom. Adrenaline surged through his body, throwing him off balance. Every nerve ending sprang to attention, focusing on her, and he stumbled into the side of the platform.
What the—? He caught himself on the edge of the raised floor and outright stared.
Sure, her red dress hugged every enticing curve, but he’d never reacted like this to any woman, much less recently. The longer he gawked at her, the more she struck him as unlike any woman he’d ever seen.
Her hair color defied description, shining pure blonde one minute and displaying streaks of reds and browns the next. Instead of jewelry for decoration, her skin shimmered with subtle rainbow colors, as though she’d bathed in body glitter that had sunk into her flesh. On anyone else, the effect would have looked ridiculous. On her, it was radiant.
Even the way she walked kick-started long-dormant lustful desires. She glided across the floor, each step a sinuous movement. An image of her body slinking across his burned itself onto the top of his all-time fantasy list.
His control washed away, his immunity to beauty lost in her wake. A need consumed him. A need to hunt her. Dominate her. Conquer her.
Echoes of his father brought him up for a second, and he tugged at his collar. What the hell was he thinking? He’d spent years proving he wasn’t like that bastard, and he wasn’t about to let that change.
She scoped out the ballroom, but her arrival went unnoticed by the crowd, failing to trigger leers or jealous glances. They must have all been blind. Completely blind.
Her gaze skimmed over the other guests and then met his. They both froze. Her bright blue eyes glowed like the center of a flame. Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and then her attention veered elsewhere.
He shook himself, banishing a numb shock from his body. No one could look like her. She was an impossibility. But here she was, and—God help him—he needed to confront her no matter how much his reaction set off alarms in his mind.
Beside him, George finished prepping the ballroom security team, and Alex leaned toward his assistant. “Who’s the woman in the red dress? I don’t remember meeting her before dinner.”
George set his to-do list on the platform, a peculiar quirk of needing empty hands to concentrate. He arched a brow at the hundreds of formally dressed guests. “Which woman in a red dress? There must be over thirty of them in here.”
Alex tilted his head toward the cause of his fascination.
“The blonde?” George shrugged, dismissing the unique shades of her hair as easily as her beauty. “Doesn’t look familiar. Probably someone’s guest.”
Alex paused, weighing George’s theory. Maybe she was rendezvousing with a husband or boyfriend. But she didn’t meet anyone else’s gaze, and she didn’t smile at anyone in recognition. Instead, she appeared serious, as though analyzing the crowd.
The compulsion firing his blood made the decision for him. For the first time in years, Alex would approach a woman for something other than business.
He couldn’t decide if that was good, bad, or an impulsive risk he’d later regret.
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About the Author
After stealing a gryphon’s treasure, Jami Gold moved to Arizona and decided to become a writer, where she could put her talent for making up stuff to good use. Fortunately, her muse, an arrogant male who delights in causing her to sound as insane as possible, rewards her with unique and rich story ideas.
Fueled by chocolate, she writes paranormal romance and urban fantasy tales that range from dark to humorous, but one thing remains the same: Normal need not apply. Just ask her family—and zombie cat.
Sign up for news on upcoming releases, find preview excerpts, and connect with Jami on social media by visiting jamigold.com.
Acknowledgements
I always knew this short story would be a freebie for my readers, but I was determined for it to be as professional as any other story out there—even if it meant spending money to publish this freebie. You all are worth my respect to get this right. *smile*
Luckily, I have a fantastic team who helps me reach that goal and a family who encourages me every step of the way. Even when it does mean spending money. *grin*
I send hugs and thanks to my beta readers: Angela, Buffy, Jay, and Lisa. You all helped make this story better. *listens to mental whispers* And Griff and Kala thank you too.
This book wouldn’t be nearly as good without my army of editors behind me: Marcy, Erynn, and Misti. You all pushed me to the professional level, and I can’t thank you enough for wanting me to succeed.
The Mythos Legacy series is unusual for the genre because of the alternating focus on paranormal heroes and heroines, so finding a cover design that would work across the series was its own nightmare. I was blessed to find a patient and willing cover designer in Laird who helped me work through the many, many rejected ideas and come up with a design that would work for future releases in the series.
Thanks also to the amazing writing community, those who gave me the confidence to pursue publication, as well as the many readers of my blog. Thanks to my Twitter and Facebook friends who support my social media addiction and to those who help spread the word. You all make my corner of the world a little brighter and happier.
And most of all, to my readers, the joy of writing wouldn’t be the same without you!
Contents
Title Page
Book Description
Join Jami's Mailing List
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Thank You Note
Treasured Claim Excerpt
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by Jami Gold
Cover Design by Laird Sapir of Memphis McKay
Content Editing by Marcy Kennedy
Line Editing by Erynn Newman of A Little Red
Copy Editing by Misti Wolanski
Formatting by Angela Quarles, Geek Girl Formatting
All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. For permission or rights information, please contact the Publisher:
Blue Phoenix Press
18337 E San Tan Boulevard, #9435
Queen Creek, Arizona 85142
Visit our website at bluephoenixpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products or copyright material mentioned throughout this work of fiction, including the following: The Twilight Zone and Lucky Charms. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Digital Edition 1.0.107
ISBN: 1-942928-00-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-942928-00-3