Dark Deception: A Vampire Romance (Vampire Royals of New York Book 1)

by Sarah Piper

  “I appreciate your concern,” Dorian said evenly. “But we’re not seeking an alliance at this time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I—”

  “But I thought… Well, this is awkward. Malcolm assured me you’d be on board. Did he not speak with you?” He furrowed his brow in confusion, but the smug satisfaction dripping from his tone said it all.

  He knew damn well Malcolm hadn’t discussed this with Dorian. Knew damn well the revelation would drive another nail into the coffin of the brothers’ already fraught relationship.

  Next time aim for the heart, Mac. You’ll kill me faster that way.

  Dorian gripped his drink so tightly, his fingertips turned white. No wonder Malcolm was so keen on pushing an alliance earlier; from the sound of it, he’d all but signed on the dotted line.

  “Malcolm has neither the experience nor the authority to make deals for House Redthorne,” Dorian said, fighting to keep the bitterness from his tone. Then, with a smile that belied his anger, “But I’ll bring your proposition to my family for proper consideration.”

  And prompt dismissal, you arrogant dick.

  Before another calculated response could slip from Duchanes’ greasy lips, Dorian set his glass on the bar, turned his back on the bloodsucker, and stalked off in search of the only thing that could salvage an otherwise dreadful night.

  Chapter Six

  Safely out of view, Charley leaned against the door inside the study, blinking back tears of relief. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her limbs trembling and hot.

  Holy. Shit.

  She couldn’t believe she’d taken it so far.

  A million five? What was she thinking? Christ, Rudy would’ve had her executed if she called for a wire transfer like that. Her bids were primarily for show—all part of blending in, except on the rare occasion when Rudy wanted a piece for his personal collection. Sure, she would’ve loved to nab the Egyptian piece for Sasha—her sister was as obsessed with ancient art as she was with vampires—but even that was a fantasy. A million dollars, fifty-five thousand… For Charley, it was all the same.

  Completely unreachable.

  But something had overtaken her tonight, breaking through all the rules and boundaries that were supposed to keep her safe and on point.

  It was that damned man. She couldn’t keep her head straight around him. Each time she told herself to walk away, something about him lured her right back in again—a dark magnetism she couldn’t escape.

  From that first sighting in the lobby, he’d ignited something dangerous inside her.

  Something that made her want to play with fire.

  Fitting, since Rudy would burn me at the stake if he found out about this.

  Thankfully, the stranger was a fighter. Charley had to admire his grit. She’d only intended to tease him, to up the stakes in a game he obviously enjoyed—okay, and maybe screw with that Duchanes asshole in the process—but her competitive streak took over, driving her to keep pushing, pushing, pushing.

  In the end, the man was on the hook for three million for a piece that was probably worth a third of that on the private market, tonight’s auction notwithstanding. He must’ve really wanted it.

  Or maybe he just enjoyed sparring with me…

  Charley closed her eyes as a shiver gripped her spine, imagining for the hundredth time what that man could do to her with a few hours and a pair of handcuffs…

  God, this job was killing her sex life. D-O-motherfucking-A.

  The sound of the security guard’s clunky footsteps in the hallway yanked her thoughts out of the sex morgue and back to the task at hand. Instinctively she dropped to the floor, scooting beneath a massive oak desk just before the door swung open.

  From her vantage point, she could only see the man’s scuffed black shoes. He stepped into the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Charley held her breath, hoping like hell he couldn’t smell her perfume or hear the tell-tale thump of her heart.

  In the auction room, another round of applause erupted, and the guard finally retreated, closing the door behind him.

  Charley released her breath, the tension and leftover adrenaline making her stiff and achy.

  Still under the desk, she pulled on her gloves, then felt along the underside for the mechanism that would unlatch the drawers. After a quick bit of maneuvering, she popped it, releasing the flimsy locks.

  Every drawer held more of the same—old receipts, computer manuals, junk mail, random family photos, recipe cards, office supplies. Totally worthless.

  Fuck.

  It’d been months since her intel had netted anything worthwhile, and after ignoring Rudy’s texts all night, she was already setting herself up for a fight. She needed a win, and she needed it now.

  Safe. There had to be a safe. Something with documents or bills of sale or keys to offsite storage rooms where the rest of the artwork might be stashed.

  She got to her feet and paced the perimeter, scanning the straight-out-of-a-bourbon-commercial decor and peacock-green walls for anything that might be hiding a safe. Bookcases full of dusty but worthless tomes, a couple of plain oak lamp stands, a small walk-in closet stuffed with winter coats and boots…

  Pointless.

  Frustration set her blood to simmer. She was about to head back to the bar and drown her sorrows with another Sapphire and tonic before bailing on the whole thing when she caught sight of something that made her heart skip.

  There, in the far corner of the room, a piece of art hung over a small fireplace—a painting she knew well.

  Adrift by Heinrich von Hausen, a ship tossed about on a black and stormy sea, destined to smash against the rocks, a hopeless and heartbreaking scene but for one ray of sunshine beaming down on the deck.

  The last time she’d seen it, it was hanging in the Smithsonian in Washington.

  The last time she’d seen it, she was eight years old.

  Again, Charley thought of her father. How could she not? Despite his mistakes, despite all the rotten parts of his legacy, his true passion for fine art was like the sunshine in the painting, the one sliver of goodness Charley had always held close. On that trip to D.C., he’d taken her to a dozen museums, teaching her all about the vanitas works of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—paintings that reflected the transient nature of life, the futility of earthly pleasures. Adrift was a treasure, a stunning example that had hung in the museum for decades.

  And now it was here, nailed to the wall in some soon-to-be-foreclosed-upon Upper West Side penthouse. Unobserved, unappreciated, utterly forgotten.

  Charley swallowed the knot in her throat. People like this—like this family, like the others here tonight, like all the wealthy clients her father had fenced for—thought nothing of exchanging their millions for the pleasure of possessing something beautiful, something they could hang over the mantel to impress their guests.

  But unlike the bidders out there, Charley couldn’t feign ignorance about where the art had come from. There was a reason these auctions were held at private penthouses and VIP clubs rather than at Christy’s or Sotheby’s. A reason why the artifacts—no matter how precious—weren’t in a museum, even if they’d started out there. Charley wondered if her mystery man had any idea that his precious Whitfield was pilfered from a Polish museum during the Second World War—first by the Nazis, second by American soldiers.

  And after that, by people like Charley’s father. People like her.

  She thought back to the night of her first score—the night of her nineteenth birthday.

  You’re a phantom, Charley, her father had said. They didn’t even know you were there.

  It was only a few grand in jewelry from a political fundraiser in Sleepy Hollow, nothing like the multi-million-dollar art scenes she worked today. But it meant something back then; after years of being treated like the cute team mascot by her father’s crew, she’d finally impressed them.

  At nineteen, it’d made her feel like a superhero, like she’d grow u
p to be this unstoppable badass in black leather and red lipstick—a woman who could crack a safe, defuse an alarm, and seduce a man into revealing his deepest secrets, all without breaking a sweat.

  Now, her father dead five years and counting, it made her feel empty.

  Glancing back at the ship in the painting, Charley shook her head. Guilt gnawed her insides. It was a familiar on-the-job companion, but now it was edged with anger, a red-hot blaze seething beneath her skin. The anger swelled, and for a second she considered moving her someday to right now—taking Sasha and hitting the road, finding a real job, turning her back on Rudy and her past for good.

  No trace.

  But as she studied the painting, the near-ruined ship, the jagged rocks, the sunshine, Charley knew she wasn’t allowed to live by other people’s rules. Society’s rules. Legal rules. She’d been raised for this, apprenticed by a master thief and his best men. Aside from the mother who’d left when Charley was a kid, she’d grown up wanting for nothing, doted on and groomed by a loving, larger-than-life father who’d promised her the world and tried his best to deliver, right up until the day he died.

  By the time Charley was old enough to realize she didn’t want her father’s world, it was too late. She’d seen too much, gotten her hands too dirty. And now, with the last of her legal inheritance dwindling and Rudy in charge of the crew she’d once thought of as family, she was trapped.

  Fuck you, Uncle Rudy.

  Turning away from the painting, Charley shoved the guilt and anger back inside, locking them in a box where they belonged.

  She took a deep breath, trying to think through her next move. The study was her last shot; the Salvatore penthouse was a total bust.

  Which meant she was heading home empty-handed. Again.

  One thing was certain. Her next assignment—assuming Rudy didn’t relegate her to cleaning his toilets—was going to suck.

  With a sigh, she pulled out her phone, tugged off one of her gloves, and sent the dreaded text.

  Nada.

  It was the only word needed.

  The three dots came quickly, and she waited for the undoubtedly furious reply, her stomach in knots, heart slamming against her ribs. But then the dots vanished, and her phone lit up with a call instead, his image filling the screen.

  “Are you going to answer that, love?”

  “Shit!” Charley dropped her phone and whipped around, trembling at the sight of her mystery man. He stood right in front of her, eyes glittering, mouth stretched into a deadly grin.

  She felt like a mouse standing in the shadow of a wolf.

  She hadn’t heard his footsteps in the hall. Hadn’t heard the door. Hadn’t heard so much as a single breath.

  Yet there he was, right in her fucking space. Lurking. Looming. Intimidating.

  Tempting.

  “My, my,” he said, his voice as smooth as the expensive scotch he drank. “Someone’s been a bad kitty.”

  You have no fucking idea…

  On the floor, the phone blinked up at her, but Charley ignored it, reaching into her purse instead.

  “Don’t come any closer.” She pointed Beyoncé at his chest. “Or I’ll fry your ass with—”

  “Fifty thousand volts. I’m aware.” Ignoring the threat, he bent down and grabbed her phone from the floor, glancing at the screen. “Shall I tell this… Rudy… you’re otherwise occupied trying to fry the ass of an innocent man?”

  “I wouldn’t. Not unless you want a side order of Jimmy Choo to the nuts.” Charley lifted her foot to show him the spiked heel, then held out her free hand, gesturing for the phone.

  The man obliged, but that damn smirk wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Twice in one night I find you sneaking around where you shouldn’t be. What are the chances?” His gaze trailed down her body, then back up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her still-gloved hand. “And what in the devil’s name are you doing?”

  Panic rose in her chest, but she quickly tamped it down. Her little rebellion had made her careless tonight—drinking, flirting, not covering her tracks. She’d gotten herself noticed—more than noticed.

  But that didn’t mean she was exposed. Not yet.

  “Not that it’s any of your business…” Lowering the taser, she peeled the satin glove from her hand and stuffed it into her purse. “I needed some privacy. For the phone call.”

  “The one you still haven’t answered.”

  “I was going to, but then you interrupted.”

  “By all means.” He nodded toward the phone, still blinking in her hand like a bomb about to go off.

  Right. Because getting reamed out in front of the hot stranger who’d busted her sneaking into the study at a fancy-ass auction sounded like the perfect way to wrap up her Friday night.

  She sent the call to voicemail and shoved the phone and Beyoncé back into her purse.

  “Does this mean my ass is safe?” he asked.

  “For now.”

  “Perfect.” His grin fell, his gaze turning cold and calculating. “Now tell me what you’re really doing in here.”

  “I… I needed…” Charley shook her head, thoughts and words crashing together in her brain, her heart hammering.

  “No alibi, love?” He took a step closer, his crisp, delicious scent invading her senses. “You’d better think of something. Security is right down the hall.” He cocked his head as he pretended to listen for the guard’s footsteps. “Getting close, I’ll bet. Maybe I should let him know we’re—”

  “Wait! I can explain.”

  The man took another step closer. Lowering his voice to a raspy whisper, he said, “I’m on pins and needles.”

  Charley forced herself to stand strong, but inside, she was quaking like a prom-night virgin. Hundreds of jobs, hundreds of scenes, and she’d never been so damn reckless, never come so close to blowing her cover. Yet something about his intensity, his persistence, his very existence made her want to push past every boundary, to unlatch every safety mechanism, to risk it all.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  “I don’t like to be kept waiting,” the man said.

  Charley wondered how much longer he’d play along—how much longer she could string him along until he finally turned her over to the security guard.

  Or worse—the police.

  God, she hated herself in this moment, but if she didn’t make a move—the only move she had left—this could become a bona fide, five-alarm emergency worse than any punishment Rudy could ever dish out.

  She cringed to think what Sasha’s feminist theory textbooks would say about this scenario—about her whole life, really—but fuck it, survival instinct was a hell of a drug. And right now, Charley was hooked.

  Use what you’ve got, girl.

  Hoping she’d read his earlier signals right, Charley placed her hand against his broad, firm chest, letting her fingertips brush the exposed skin beneath his collarbone, grateful he’d left the top button undone.

  His breath hitched, pupils dilating a fraction.

  They were tiny tells, almost imperceptible behind the facade of his teasing, but all the confirmation she needed.

  This man was totally turned on.

  A seductive smile slid across her face, and she stretched up on her toes, bringing her lips close to his ear. “Can you keep another secret?”

  Chapter Seven

  “I’ll keep all your secrets, love.” Dorian covered the woman’s delicate fingers, holding her hand firmly against his chest. “Though I strongly caution you against deceiving me.”

  She gazed up at him through dark, feathery lashes and bit her lower lip, likely buying more time to invent her excuse. The woman was no louse in the fine art of seduction, and she was clearly up to no good. But what kind of no good, Dorian could only speculate. Robbery was top of mind, but if that were the case, she had very few options for hiding her treasure; that hot little dress was definitely not made for smuggling.

  “I have reason to believe
the family is on the verge of bankruptcy,” she finally said. “I heard they might consider offers for pieces not officially on the block.”

  Dorian laughed. “Considering what I paid for that painting, it’s likely they’re back in the black.”

  “Three million dollars? Doubtful. That’s a drop in the bucket for these people.”

  “These people?” He raised an eyebrow, gaze sweeping up from her designer shoes to the tasteful but nevertheless authentic diamonds studding her earlobes. The woman even smelled rich—a combination of scents so firmly embedded in his mind it would follow him through eternity.

  Who did she think she was fooling?

  “I just meant…” She closed her mouth and pulled away from his grasp, doing her best to mask her irritation. When she spoke again, her voice had softened considerably. “It’s a terrible situation. They have a lot of debt. The penthouse is in foreclosure. They’re actually moving overseas.”

  Trading gossip about other people’s misfortunes was beneath him, but he suspected her theory was true. He’d been gouged on the painting, but they would’ve settled for a lot less if she and Duchanes hadn’t run up the bidding.

  “I fail to see what their financial situation has to do with your sneaking around.”

  “It has everything to do with it,” she snapped, her cheeks blushing with frustration and more than a little arousal. “But nothing to do with you. So if you don’t mind, please show yourself out.”

  “You expect me to turn my back on a potential crime in progress?”

  “I expect you to… Look, I totally appreciate the earlier save. Who knows what that creep would’ve done if you hadn’t ridden in on your white horse? And thanks for the drinks, and the fun conversation, and…” She closed her eyes and blew out a breath, shaking her head as if she were having an argument with her own mind.

  Dorian wasn’t sure who won, but when she looked at him again, her eyes blazed with fresh anger.

  “But seriously,” she said. “It doesn’t concern you.”

  “I see.” Dorian offered a wry smile. Trouble or not, her feistiness turned him on beyond reason. The attitude, the taser, the spark of disobedience in her eyes…