by Sarah Piper
The cries of that animal still haunted her nightmares, nearly a decade later.
Other than an occasional shove or a too-firm grip around the arm, Rudy had never been overly physical with Charley. But lately she sensed his patience thinning. And while these days Rudy preferred to manage rather than muscle, Charley knew his old tendencies weren’t gone. They were just dormant, waiting for the right opportunity to unleash hell—an opportunity Charley didn’t want to give him by blowing this assignment.
With her body cooling off from Dorian’s touch, Charley’s survival instinct was finally kicking in. Her emotions, her libido, even her guilt had to take a backseat to the more pressing matter of personal safety—hers and Sasha’s.
That old “someday” vision flickered through her mind, but right now, she needed to do her job. That meant getting the intel for Rudy, and getting the lowdown on the LaPorte painting.
Figuring out how to sabotage the robbery? That would have to come later—if it could come at all.
Charley shut the window, turning to face herself again in the mirror. She needed a solid plan.
Travis wouldn’t be picking her up for at least two more hours, giving her plenty of time. The first floor would be easy. She’d blend in with the crowd, work her way through each room, and catalogue everything important: artwork, entrances, doors and windows, locks, alarm systems. As long as Dorian was distracted by his obligations as host, Charley could then move on to the second floor, picking up where she left off.
With any luck, she’d be out of there and on her way back to the city before Dorian suspected a thing.
Feeling slightly more sure of herself, Charley applied a final coat of lipstick, then dropped the makeup into her purse, ready to execute her plan. Despite the turn of events, she had no reason to believe it wouldn’t work.
She was Charlotte D'Amico, after all. Trained by the best in the business.
All she had to do was set aside her personal feelings, her severely malfunctioning moral compass, and—oh, right—her last shred of human decency.
No problem! I’m sure my father is already saving me a seat in hell…
A soft knock interrupted her morbid thoughts.
“Charlotte,” Dorian said, “are you dressed? I’m afraid duty calls.”
“Just a minute.” Charley closed her eyes, committing to memory the sound of her name on Dorian’s lips. It might be the last time she heard it.
Steeling herself, she grabbed her purse and opened the door, arranging her features into a mask of polish and poise.
Dorian stood before her, his bowtie back in place, eyes sparkling as he held out an arm to escort her back into the home her associates would soon liquidate. “Shall we face the music?”
With a casual familiarity she didn’t quite feel, Charley looped her arm through his and smiled. “Lead the way, hot stuff.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A firing squad had assembled outside the guest house, each man more handsome and intimidating than the last.
All four of them stared openly at Charley—some curious, others hostile, all of them devastating.
“I see my brothers are here to roll out the red carpet.” Dorian sighed, then gestured at the men before them. “Malcolm, Colin, Gabriel, and Aiden. Meet my companion, Charlotte…”
There was an awkward pause as Dorian undoubtedly tried to recall her last name.
“D’Amico,” she blurted out, too quickly to think through the consequences. She’d never intended to share it, but considering she’d already shared her phone number and a good deal of her body with Dorian, one more detail hardly mattered.
Besides, she was a phantom, right? Nothing would be traced back to her.
“You must be a VIP, Ms. D’Amico,” the one called Gabriel said. “Our brother never allows guests in the guest house.” He forced a laugh, but his eyes held nothing but venom.
Charley fought off a shudder. She knew a mask when she saw one, and Gabriel—despite the good looks and finery—was six-and-a-half feet of pure, icy darkness.
“These overbearing savages are my brothers,” Dorian said. “Though you’d be hard-pressed to see the resemblance—clearly, I got the looks of the family.”
“If only your maker had been more generous when handing out brains,” the dimpled one—Colin—said. Unlike Gabriel, he seemed kind. Warmth radiated from his smile.
“Five Redthornes? Brothers?” Charley looked them over, doing her best to smile through the heat gathering in her cheeks. “Wow. That’s… wow.”
“Four, technically,” Aiden said. “I’m not a Redthorne, though I am Dorian’s favorite. Best mate and business partner too.”
“Oh? What sort of business?” She tried to remember what her uncle had said about Dorian’s company on their drive home from the auction. Fierce… something?
“Dorian and I run a company called FierceConnect,” he said. “We’re essentially a social network and platform for online gamers.” He shared a bit more about the business, his twinkling eyes putting her at ease.
But despite his friendly demeanor, she sensed a discomfort in him—in all of them.
After Aiden’s brief overview, it was a long beat before anyone spoke again, the brothers still staring at her, undoubtedly piecing together what she and Dorian had been up to before the interruption.
“Well,” she said, “this is even more awkward than the time I lost my virginity to Stanley Kopoweicz in the back of his parents’ camper while his mother was mowing the lawn, so…”
Dorian stiffened beside her, but Aiden cracked up.
Charley pressed a palm to her forehead and blew out a breath. “I did not say that out loud.”
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Aiden said somberly. “But for the oddest reason, I’m suddenly in the mood for a campout.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Even Dorian cracked a smile.
“What brings you to Ravenswood, Ms. D’Amico?” The last one—Malcolm—asked. His tone was casual, but the question was anything but, and behind those eyes Charley spied a deep wariness.
“I’m an art consultant,” she replied. “My company supports the museum’s charitable endeavors.”
“Really? Which firm do you represent? Our father just passed—I’m sure Dorian told you—and we may need someone to valuate the—”
“Thank you, Malcolm,” Dorian said, “for putting your usual damper on the moment. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to escort my guest back to the manor.”
Their arms were still linked, and Charley looked up at him, momentarily dumbfounded.
His father just passed?
“I… I’m so sorry for your loss,” she stammered. “I didn’t know.”
“Wonder what else he’s left out of the family history,” Gabriel grumbled.
“We weren’t close,” Dorian said sharply, more to Gabriel than to her. Then, turning back to Charley with a smile clearly meant to appease her, “And no, we don’t need a consultant. We need drinks. Shall we?”
He tried to steer her away from his brothers, but Gabriel stepped in front of them.
“Don’t forget your obligations, brother. The guests of honor are asking for you. Unless you’d rather I tell them you’re…” His gaze roved over Charley, lip curling. “…entertaining.”
Dorian’s muscles tensed beneath Charley’s grip, a low rumble vibrating in his chest.
Jesus, she did not need to cause a fight between the Redthorne brothers, no matter how badly Gabriel needed a beat-down.
“It’s fine,” Charley said, unlinking herself from Dorian’s arm. “Go find your guests. There are a few people I should say hello to, anyway.”
Dorian glared at his brother another beat, then finally sighed and turned back to Charley, his eyes sparkling once again. “If you’ll excuse me, Ms. D’Amico. I’m afraid we’ll have to continue our conversation later.”
“Count on it, Mr. Redthorne. Oh, and for the record?” She flashed a devilish grin, stretching up to bring her
mouth to his ear. “You’re definitely the hottest brother.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Ravenswood was built in 1815,” Dorian said, “modeled after our family home in England, which was built in the late sixteenth century by my great, great… well, someone a great deal older than me.”
Isabelle and her father laughed as Dorian led them through the tour, pointing out the architectural marvels and artwork that gave his home its unique character. In the shadow of all the terrible things his father had done, Ravenswood was a shining achievement—one Dorian would always cherish. He loved the rich oak wainscoting, the molded plaster ceilings, the Renaissance paintings adorning the long gallery on the second floor. The deep crimson of the interior walls reminded him not of blood, but of passion—a fire that still smoldered inside him.
“It’s gorgeous, Mr. Redthorne,” Isabelle said, running her hand along the intricate strapwork of the mantle in the first-floor hall. “If this were my home, I’m not sure I’d ever leave.”
Perhaps it will be, Dorian thought.
At thirty-nine, Isabelle was older than most witches who entered into a bonded partnership, but her experience, discretion, and professionalism were legendary. Dorian often wondered why she’d never been placed before, but according to Lucien, Isabelle was extremely discerning and hadn’t found a vampire house that suited her.
Tonight, she seemed relaxed and happy—almost at home. Dorian hoped that was a good sign.
That hope was enough to temper his irritation at losing precious time with Charlotte, and it carried him through the rest of the tour, culminating at his study, where he’d planned to offer Isabelle and Lucien a drink from his prized collection of rare scotch before slipping away to find his woman.
“The study is one of my favorite rooms in the manor.” Dorian opened the heavy oak door and stepped over the threshold, but what he found on the other side turned his hopeful mood to dust.
The twin, unmistakable scents of blood and sex assaulted him, followed immediately by the sound of a soft, sloppy moan.
Across the room, Gabriel sat in a chair before a roaring fire, hands buried in the hair of a woman kneeling before him, cock buried in her mouth.
He glanced up and caught Dorian’s gaze, his irises as red as the blood slicking his mouth, both evidence of a fresh feed. In the raging firelight, he glowed like the devil himself.
The scent of her warm blood brought Dorian’s hunger into sharp relief, his own fangs slicing through his gums, the ache inside him sending a tremor through his very bones.
He gripped the edge of the door to steady himself and held his breath, willing the craving—along with his murderous fury—to pass.
Gabriel knew damn well what the scent and sight of fresh human blood would do to his brother, but he offered neither an apology nor an attempt to hide his actions. Instead, he flashed a cocky smirk and a show of fang, then closed his eyes and tipped his head back, losing himself in the pleasure of his plaything.
Duchanes’ plaything, Dorian realized, noticing the woman’s red hair and sparkly dress.
So many indiscretions, so many blatant risks, Dorian didn’t know where to begin. Rage tore through his chest, and he took a step toward his brother, wondering if he had the strength to kill him.
But he wouldn’t get the chance to find out. Not tonight, anyway. Isabelle’s firm, no-nonsense touch on his arm drew him back.
“I’d love to see the kitchen, Mr. Redthorne. My father tells me the marble flooring was imported from Italy?”
She held Dorian’s gaze, her eyes urgent and imploring despite the lightness in her tone.
Dorian sighed. Isabelle was an empathic witch; clearly, she’d sensed his barbaric intentions.
Doing his best to calm himself, he put on a smile and pulled the door shut, cutting off the sights and smells of his reckless brother, swallowing the bitter realization that Gabriel—no matter how many decades passed, no matter how desperately Dorian had tried to make amends—would never forgive him.
“My apologies. It seems my study is… otherwise occupied.” Spotting Aiden at the end of the hall, he gestured for him to join them. “Isabelle, allow me to introduce my friend and business partner, Aiden Donovan.”
Aiden brought her outstretched hand to his lips in greeting, peppering her with the usual pleasantries.
“Aiden,” Dorian said with another forced smile, “Isabelle and Lucien would like to see the marblework in the kitchen. Perhaps you could show them?”
“I would be delighted.” He held out his arm for Isabelle’s hand, and without another word, led her and Lucien away, giving Dorian some much-needed space.
It wasn’t enough, though. Not with the tang of blood so heavy on the air.
Dorian gripped the handle on the study door, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to storm back inside, rip out his brother’s bloody fucking heart, and toss it into the fire. It was only Isabelle that kept his violence at bay; the memory of her imploring gaze reminded him just how much was at stake.
Tearing out still-beating hearts? That was the old Dorian Redthorne. The monster he was supposed to convince Armitage he’d left in the past.
Old ghosts nipped at his heels.
Dorian needed to get as far away from Gabriel as he could.
Grabbing a drink from a passing butler, he retreated to the basement. From there, he made his way to the elevator at the back, punched in the security code, pressed his thumb to the blood scanner, and slipped inside, descending into the one place he knew no guest, no matter how curious, could follow.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Three brothers? A best friend? A dead father?
The situation at Ravenswood just got a lot more complicated. Rudy was not going to be happy.
Still, Charley had work to do.
Starting in the sitting room, she glided through the crowd, drifting from one conversation to the next, laughing at the right jokes, asking unmemorable questions, never saying anything suspicious or extraordinary, all the while taking copious notes with her eyes.
In less than an hour, she’d canvassed the first floor, discovering a small gallery’s worth of beautiful artwork, resplendent but never ostentatious.
Her dad would’ve appreciated it. He would’ve stolen it, but he would’ve appreciated it first.
Maybe it shouldn’t have mattered, but in Charley’s eyes, it made her father human. Faulty and corrupt, like his daughter—but human. And that humanity? It was the thing that separated the father she loved from the uncle who all but owned her.
Charley thought of them both as she disappeared down a set of stairs into an exquisitely furnished basement. She wondered what her dad would think of her now—taking orders from Rudy, barely dodging Travis’ threats, desperate to find a way out of the game.
He’d be horribly disappointed. And I wouldn’t blame him.
With practiced but weary eyes, Charley cased the basement, identifying the artwork she knew Rudy would want. There was also a high-end media room, complete with the most sophisticated video and sound system Charley had ever seen, but they’d probably leave that alone. Luxury electronics were valuable, but they weren’t unique. Rudy’s clientele preferred the exclusives: one-of-a-kind art, rare artifacts, things they couldn’t order online with a flash of their Amex Black cards.
At the back of the basement, Charley spotted two sleek black doors. The first was just a utility room, but the other looked promising.
A safe room?
No, not a room. An elevator.
She drew a quick mental map, orienting herself with the level above. She hadn’t seen any elevator doors up there. Maybe this one only went down.
A sub-basement?
Charley looked for the button to call it up, but found only a keypad and some kind of fancy fingerprint scanner with a digital screen below it, blinking back at her now.
alarmed… alarmed… alarmed…
Excitement flooded her chest, the rush so familiar it was hard not to bask in t
he momentary high. Whatever the Redthornes had stashed down below, it had to be more valuable than the millions of dollars in artwork displayed upstairs under significantly less security.
More valuable—or more secret.
Charley’s skin tingled. She knelt down on the floor and peered underneath the gap, confirming her suspicions; in addition to the keypad and scanner, the elevator was alarmed with a laser security system.
There was no way she could crack it—not without more time.
For now, the chamber below would remain a secret.
Unless I can convince him to give me a tour…
No. It was bad enough she was facilitating the robbery of Dorian’s art estate. Whatever lay hidden below could stay hidden. She’d just have to tell Rudy the basement was a bust. Hopefully, he’d buy it; time was of the essence during a heist, and they’d have their hands full on the main floors, especially if Travis wanted the cars…
Charley’s insides burned.
It’s not going to happen. I’ll figure something out before it gets that far. I won’t let Dorian suffer.
Rising from the floor, she smoothed out her dress and took a deep breath, eager to move on. But when she returned to the staircase that led out of the basement, her eyes landed on a narrow library table with a protective glass top. The table itself was unimpressive, but the marble statue under the glass was anything but.
Charley gasped.
It can’t be…
But it most definitely was. The missing dick was a dead giveaway.
Heart in her throat, Charley approached the table for a closer look at the sculpture—a first-century Roman statue of Hermes, carved in marble after a style favored in Greece hundreds of years prior.
The dick was filed away in antiquity, a mystery the art world had never solved. The statue was absolutely authentic—the mismatched wings on the sandals, the ornately carved hair and musculature, the missing member. It was exactly as Charley remembered from her art books.