The Crystal Warriors Series Bundle

by Maree Anderson

  “Forgotten what?”

  “It’s Friday.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, now you’re here in person, Happy Birthday, hon. Muwah!” Chalcey blew her a kiss. “See? I didn’t forget.”

  Sam waved a dismissive hand. “We’re going clubbing. Tonight. To celebrate.”

  “Clubbing? No dice, girlfriend. Got too much to do.” She crawled over to plug one of the holes Sam’s heels had made with a smear of wood-filler, smoothing it carefully with the pallet knife before moving on to the next one. Thank goodness she’d only taken a few steps before losing the shoes. Chalcey had nearly finished filling all the holes, and she ached in places she didn’t know could ache. The thought of going back over what she’d already done was just about more than she could bear.

  “God, Chalce, you’re freaking hopeless. You promised.”

  Chalcey sat back on her heels and worried her lower lip with her teeth. “When?”

  “A couple of weeks back. DVD night?”

  “Ah. Right.” Damn. It was all coming back to her now. And in her defense, after downing a couple of Sam’s designer cocktails, a girl would promise the soul of her firstborn. “I’m really sorry, hon, but I don’t feel up to partying tonight. I’ve, uh, had some bad news.” She ducked her head, concentrating on the floor in the hopes Sam wouldn’t notice how close she was to bawling. A scoop of filler, a swipe of her knife over the gouge in the old, battered wood, press firmly, and smooth before scraping off the excess. Automaton-like, she shuffled from hole to hole, performing the mundane task with single-minded concentration. Which was way the hell better than dwelling on that horrible phone call from Mr. Chapel.

  Silence. Then the swish of Sam’s skirt as she crouched. Her hideously expensive floral scent tickled Chalcey’s nose.

  “You got turned down for the loan, huh?”

  Chalcey peered at her friend through bird’s-nest hair. “You psychic or something?”

  Sam squeezed her shoulder. “Hell. That really sucks. Anything I can do?”

  She hadn’t offered Chalcey the money she needed, thank God. Sam didn’t make the same mistake twice. She knew Chalcey needed to do this all herself, without anyone’s help. Prove to her mother and her mother’s bloody know-it-all husband once and for all that she could turn this “silly dream” into a viable business.

  She blotted her brimming eyes with the back of a dusty hand. “I’ll get through this,” she said, more for her own benefit than Sam’s. Maybe if she said it often enough, it’d be true. “It’s no biggie—I’ll still make the first lease payment. It just means I’ll have to forget about finding an apartment any time soon. And if I pull some additional advertising I’d planned, and don’t take Paulo and Leah on board until next year—” Her shoulders sagged at the thought of breaking the news to the enthusiastic couple. They were superb dancers, and had the potential to be excellent teachers.

  “They’ll be gutted but they’ll understand. Means I’ll have to work heaps longer hours than I expected but— Yeah. Anyway, I’ll manage. Though I’m kinda wishing I hadn’t spent up large on those fancy shower units.”

  Sam snorted. “If I was all hot and sweaty after a dance class, I’d sure as heck want to shower and change before I headed out for the night. You’ve got a fitness club kind of setup, now. It’s classy—a huge draw-card for students. Which is why you did it. And please don’t tell me you’re cancelling the opening night party on Monday. You have to go ahead with that. It’s too good an opportunity to sign up people for classes.”

  Chalcey summoned a weary smile. “You’re right.”

  “Good.” Having straightened Chalcey out to her satisfaction, Sam bounced to her feet and smoothed her skirt down her thighs. “Hurry up and get ready. You need to get plastered. Have a good time and forget all about this for just one night. Besides, I’m pretty sure I mentioned that you promised.”

  A moan escaped Chalcey’s lips. “Do I have to?”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “You know I don’t do clubbing.”

  “You think you got problems? I’m a whole year older. Hell, I think I found a grey hair this morning. You’re my best friend and I’m relying on you to help me commiserate. C’mon. It’ll be fun. A heap more fun than the fancy birthday dinner my mother has planned for me Wednesday week at Adagio.”

  Adagio was the hottest new restaurant in town. Chalcey would never in a million years be able to afford to eat there. “But your birthday’s today.”

  “She couldn’t get in any earlier—and that didn’t go down well at all, I’m telling you. Would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.” Sam snickered. “I’m told it’s my birthday gift, and it’s gonna be just me and Mommy Dearest. Won’t that be fun. Not.”

  She appreciated Sam’s attempts to cheer her up—really she did. But as of right now she was time-poor and cash-poor. “Since we’re being painfully honest, bottom line? I can’t afford to go out on the town.”

  “My treat.”

  She tried another tack. “I’ve got people coming in to wax the floor tomorrow lunchtime. And I had to pay extra for them to work Saturday. The filler from there, back—” she waved a hand to indicate half the studio “—has hardened enough for me to sand, and if I get it done tonight, it’ll leave me less to do in the morning.”

  “I’ll help you with the sanding tomorrow morning.”

  “You? Up before noon on a Saturday?” Chalcey’s gaze lingered on Sam’s purple-lacquered nails. “And sanding floors with those talons? Riiight.”

  “I will, I promise.” Sam clutched both hands before her chest, prayer-like. “Pleeease!”

  “All right, all right.” Chalcey threw up her hands. “I give in. But only because I’ve finished plugging holes, and only because you’re a pain in the ass when you don’t get your way. And you have to promise to get me home by one at the latest. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Give me a half-hour to shower and change, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Sam treated her to a Samantha Greenwood once over, and wrinkled her nose. “Take as long as you need, okay?”

  Apparently her dust-smudged clothes and filthy hands were not particularly reassuring. “Thirty minutes is all I need,” Chalcey said. “It’s your birthday. Doesn’t matter what I look like.”

  Sam waggled her perfectly plucked eyebrows and made a show of leering at Chalcey’s chest. “With that rack, you’d show me up even if you wore a sack and— Hmmm.” A pregnant pause if ever Chalcey had heard one. “I’ve just thought of the perfect present you can give me.”

  Chalcey climbed to her feet, and stood massaging the small of her back. “Free Salsa lessons?”

  Sam cocked her head to one side, pursing her lips and considering the offer. “If you can promise me a hot dance-partner—one who looks as hot as Jai, but isn’t gay—then I might just consider signing on. But I insist on paying.” She waggled her finger like a teacher lecturing a student. “If you keep offering your friends free classes you’ll never get this place in the black. No, I was thinking.”

  Uh oh. Wait for it—

  “Why don’t you let me choose your outfit for tonight?”

  Chalcey closed her eyes and prayed for salvation, all too aware that her dreams of wearing something comfortable were about to go up in smoke. “What’s wrong with what I usually wear?”

  “Skanky old denims and a t-shirt?”

  Ouch. Just as well they were best friends. She’d hate to think what Sam might have said otherwise. She opened her eyes and speared Sam with a you-have-no-freaking-idea look. “I have to dress up and look the part for every single frickin’ class I teach. Is it any wonder I can’t be bothered tarting myself up in my downtime?”

  “How ’bout a dress to show off your killer legs?” Sam wheedled. “Guys’ll take one look and be all over us.”

  “They’ll be all over you more like.”

  She pouted. “For me? Pretty please?”

  Sam was a five-foot-two pac
kage of man-eating gorgeousness. Tonight she’d paired the hooker-worthy heels with a deep purple dress that had a tight bodice and sinfully short flirty skirt. She looked spectacular. She always looked spectacular—it was coded in her DNA.

  Of course Chalcey caved under the relentless pressure of that cutesy damned but-it’s-my-birthday pout. She jerked her chin toward the pokey storerooms she’d converted to a barely adequate bedroom, only slightly more adequate office-cum-lounge, and a pocket-handkerchief-sized kitchenette. “Fine. Whatever. Have at it. At least I won’t have to listen to you harping on about my dress sense all evening. But the rack with my dancewear is off-limits, okay?”

  Sam’s green eyes glinted. “Deal.”

  Should have known Sam would win this one, Chalcey thought ruefully as she slid into a booth at the Cabana Club. She’d been conned into wearing a costume. Specifically, a costume intended for a dance competition. Sam—damn her beady little eyes!—had found the thing stuffed away in the bottom of a drawer, all but forgotten.

  Almost worse than the bloody dress, was the lack of what Chalcey considered appropriate, non-breezy underwear. And that was a whole ‘nother sad story featuring laddered hose, and starring her not having done her laundry in far too long.

  She glanced down at her sparkly self and grimaced. Again. Her ex dance partner had bought the costume for her a few years ago. Talk about scandalous masquerading as a dress. What had he been thinking?

  Okay. She had half a brain so she knew exactly what he’d been thinking. But like she’d have lowered her standards and worn this piece of trashy flash for a competition. Or slept with him just because he’d bought her a hideously expensive dress—and made sure she’d known exactly how much it’d cost by leaving price tag attached. Way to be classy. He’d been a total jerk-wad about her not putting out, too. Boy, had she ever misjudged him. Dumping his ass only a month before a competition had been a singular delight.

  She focused her glare on her perilously-close-to-being-ex best friend. Sam gyrated with uninhibited abandon to the horrendous booming that passed for music in this club. She didn’t need Chalcey to lure men to her, they took one look and came running. Panting with tongues lolling, even. As she pranced off the dance floor with her two latest victims in tow, she caught Chalcey’s gaze. And smiled. With “look what I’ve found for us!” delight shining in her eyes.

  Chalcey scooted across the leather booth-style seating, intent on making a dash for the Ladies, and knocked her battered old handbag—the only handbag she owned—to the floor.

  Aw, heck! She dove under the table, scrabbling for the contents that had spilled all over the place.

  “Nice ass,” a male voice said.

  The owner of the voice was a good-looking blond sporting a not-so-good-looking leer. Great. Just freaking great. Seemed today was her day for making excellent first impressions.

  She scooped her wallet, the crystal, and a tube of lip-gloss into her bag, and crawled out from under the table. She didn’t need to glimpse herself in a mirrored wall panel to know that her face was fire-engine red as she tugged the short skirt down over her butt, and resumed her seat with as much dignity as she could muster. Which wasn’t much.

  Sam’s eyes sparkled with mirth as she squeezed in next to Chalcey and grabbed her cocktail. “Ducking for cover, huh?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Mmmm.” By the time Sam had gone down on the cherry decorating her cocktail and finally popped it into her mouth, the blond was slack-jawed and practically salivating.

  “Chalcey’s a really great dancer, Ray,” Sam told him. “She owns her own dance studio. Isn’t that, like, so cool? Hey,” she prompted with such transparent obviousness that Chalcey cringed. “Why don’t you ask her to dance so she can show you some of her moves?”

  To Chalcey’s surprise, the blond—Ray—didn’t appear too disappointed to be fobbed off with the booby prize. “Let’s go show ‘em how it’s done, eh, babe?”

  Chalcey glared at Sam, shooting imaginary daggers out of her eyes, but her attempt at malevolence was blitzed by Sam’s pleading puppy-dog gaze. Sam wanted alone time with the other guy she’d hooked. And Sam was the birthday-girl, after all.

  She blew out a defeated sigh. “Okay.”

  Ray dragged her toward the dance floor. “Babe!” he said, as he copped the full effect of Chalcey’s dress and all its low-cut glitzy glory. “Some outfit.”

  “Gee. Thanks.” She favored him with a saccharine smile and fought the impulse to turn tail and flee for home. Boy-next-door good looks aside, the heavy-lidded way he kept looking her over made her skin crawl. Pity Sam hadn’t pushed the dark-haired, brooding type with the Van Dyke beard her way instead. He gave the impression he was capable of holding a real conversation. Maybe it was a sign Sam’s taste in men was improving. One could always hope.

  She began to shuffle from foot to foot in time to the music. “I’m Chalcedony, by the way.” She had to lean in to him to be heard over the noise.

  “Huh?” He was so busy ogling her barely covered cleavage that he didn’t hear her.

  Gee. A breast man. Lucky her. “Just call me Chalcey,” she yelled, thankful at least he wasn’t the touchy feely— “Eep!”

  Ray cupped her butt in his hands and ground his groin against her. Probably imagined that he was doing the Lambada. God save her from amateurs.

  When he wasn’t grinding, he squeezed her butt in perfect time to the beat of the music. Gosh, was that supposed to win him points? Enough already. She wasn’t big on scenes, but nor was she going to put up with some guy she’d just met pawing her. She ground the lethally pointed heel of her sandal into his instep and pushed him away, making it quite clear her actions had been deliberate.

  He staggered, glaring at her through watering eyes. “Bitch! What’s your fucking problem, Chel-sea? Thought you were gagging for it.”

  Wonder where he’d gotten that idea? Bloody dress. She silently cursed her ex-dance partner for his slutty taste in costumes. And herself, too, because if she hadn’t been feeling so tired and depressed about the loan being declined, she would have put up more of a fight.

  The pair of dancers closest to Chalcey took one look at her expression and gave her some space. She sucked in what was supposed to be a deep, calming breath. And got even more riled when Ray couldn’t tear his gaze from her chest. “Even if I was gagging for it, I don’t appreciate being treated like a piece of meat.”

  Just because she hadn’t seen any action in a couple of years, didn’t mean she would jump any half-decent-looking guy who showed an interest. A girl had to have standards and Chalcey’s were pretty high. She was hanging out for the perfect man… if such an animal truly existed. And Ray wasn’t anywhere near a close contender. He was shaping up to be an ass-hat of monumental proportions.

  He sneered, his upper lip doing an impressive curl. “Cock-teasers like you really piss me off.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whaddya expect? Don’t put it out there if you’re not offering. Yanno what I’m saying?”

  “Gee, you sure know how to compliment a girl.” Chalcey bared her teeth in what was probably a truly hideous parody of a smile. Unfortunately, Ray didn’t take the hint and run screaming into the night.

  To hell with him. She turned her back on him and marched straight back to her seat. It was so time to make tracks.

  “You two seem to be getting on all right.” Sam dragged her attention from Ray’s hopefully less sleazy friend to wink at Chalcey. “Ray’s a babe, right, Chalce?”

  Chalcey gave Ray-the-babe another once-over as he slunk back to his seat. Around six-foot. Hair a shade of blond most women would open a vein to possess. Blue eyes. Great physique. Shame about the toxic personality. “I don’t think we’re exactly compatible. Listen, I’m gonna head home. Got an early start tomorrow, remember?”

  “But it’s just gone eleven-thirty,” Sam said. “Another hour?”

  Chalcey shook her head. Sam wasn’t going to railroad her a
second time. “It’s been a rough day.”

  Sam held her gaze and gracefully conceded. She knew Chalcey well enough to know when she was fighting a losing battle. “See you tomorrow, then, huh? Bright and early? And promise me you’ll take a taxi home.” She flicked open her evening bag.

  Chalcey flushed. She didn’t do well with charity. “Thanks, Mom, but I don’t need cab money. I’m a big girl and I—”

  “You sure are.” Ray sniggered and nudged the other man. “Tits on a stick, eh, Marcus?”

  “I can take care of myself.” God. Sam could sure pick ‘em.

  “Quit being an asshole,” Marcus said to Ray, winning some major kudos for coming to Chalcey’s defense. He seemed like a pretty decent guy. If Sam went home with anyone tonight, Chalcey sure hoped it would be him.

  Ray made some smart comeback and Chalcey made her getaway, leaving Sam to soothe both men’s egos with her usual flair. They wouldn’t realize what had hit them.

  She ignored speculative glances from a group of guys hanging ’round out front of the club. Bloody dress had a lot to answer for. Mind you, given her chest measurement, so did her gene-pool. She rummaged through her bag, half-hoping for a miracle in the form of a previously unnoticed wad of cash. No such luck. The inner depths revealed one worse than useless hunk of crystal, the usual assorted junk, and the wallet containing a pathetically small amount of cash plus her emergency credit card.

  She could strangle her stupid pride, head back inside and accept the cab fare from Sam— Nah. Damned if she’d put up with a certain foul-mouthed sleazoid again. An emergency this definitely wasn’t, so a brisk stroll home it would have to be.

  Once she’d left the main street behind, Chalcey regretted her decision. Big-time. The shadows thrown by the empty warehouses, so innocuous during daylight hours, morphed into spooky watchers eyeing her as prey. She quickened her pace.

  Those aren’t footsteps behind you, okay? Don’t look back. Don’t look back—

  She dared a quick glance over her shoulder. Shit. There was someone behind her. A man. So shrouded by shadows she could barely make him out. Wait. He was turning down an alley, headed toward a group of warehouses. Just some guy going about his business—like she was. He wasn’t following her. He had no reason to be interested in someone like her.