Fire Maidens: Paris
Page 1
Fire Maidens: Paris
Billionaires & Bodyguards
by
Anna Lowe
Book 1
Fire Maidens: Paris
Copyright © 2019 by Anna Lowe
author@annalowebooks.com
Editing by Lisa A. Hollett
Proofreading by Donna Hokanson
Cover art by Kim Killion
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.
Sincere thanks to my team of star beta readers who take time from their busy lives, careers, and families to make a good story great. Colleen, Jen, Linda, Cindy, Renee, and Beth — thank you all so much!
Other books in this series
Fire Maidens - Billionaires & Bodyguards
Fire Maidens: Paris (Book 1)
Fire Maidens: London (Book 2)
Fire Maidens: Rome (Book 3)
Fire Maidens: Portugal (Book 4)
Fire Maidens: Ireland (Book 5)
visit www.annalowebooks.com
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Desert Wolf: Friend or Foe (Book 1.1 in the Twin Moon Ranch series)
Off the Charts (the prequel to the Serendipity Adventure series)
Perfection (the prequel to the Blue Moon Saloon series)
Contents
Other books in this series
Fire Maidens: Paris
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Sneak Peek — Fire Maidens: London
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Fire Maidens: Paris
Paris! City of dreams — or shifter nightmares?
Natalie Brewer has come to Paris to live out a dream, not a nightmare. Then a vampire attack exposes her to a whole new side to the City of Lights — and to her own heritage. Before she knows it, she’s swept into a world she never imagined, with gargoyles, werewolves, and dragons who claim she’s descended from a legendary shifter queen. Now her life is in danger, and it’s impossible to know who to trust, other than the mysterious stranger who risks his life for her again and again.
After a decade in the Foreign Legion, all dragon shifter Tristan Chevalier wants is to settle into a civilian life and a new job. His mission: to prove himself to the Guardians of Paris and to protect the city. But all that is threatened when an innocent woman stumbles into his life — and into his heart. Being appointed her bodyguard is a blessing and a curse, because Natalie is absolutely, positively off-limits despite the smoldering desire they both feel. Worse, every shifter in Paris has set their sights on her, from bloodthirsty vampires to power-hungry dragons and jealous rivals. For Tristan, it’s the test of a lifetime, and the outcome will affect the fortunes of an entire city.
Book 1 in Anna Lowe’s FIRE MAIDENS: Billionaires & Bodyguards series
Danger lurks over Europe, where a ruthless dragon clan plots to seize power in the grandest, most glamorous cities. The guardians of old have summoned a new generation of shifter heroes to protect the castles, cathedrals, and cobblestoned streets of their ancestral homes — and to seek out the last of the Fire Maidens, women coveted by the dark lords for their royal blood. Those women are absolutely off-limits to the young warriors tasked with protecting them. But destiny, of course, has other ideas…
Chapter One
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There’s no such thing as vampires. No such thing as vampires…
It didn’t matter how often Natalie whispered those words to herself. One look at the man at the table by the window made her blood run cold. His teeth were perfectly normal, and yet she kept imagining them extending into fangs. But that was crazy, right?
“Are you going to check on him, or am I?” the woman behind the serving counter asked.
Natalie steeled her nerves, pasted on a stiff smile, and walked over to the new “guest,” as the homeless people at the soup kitchen were called. Usually, she loved interacting with guests. Each had his or her own story, their own unique character. Plus, they were patient with her imperfect French, and she’d gained incredible insights into life in Paris from volunteering there. In some ways, it was a lot like the soup kitchen she’d volunteered at back home in Philadelphia.
But vampires? No thanks.
She glanced at the man by the window. Wasn’t it time to get over her overactive imagination and help the poor man?
The thing was, he didn’t seem the least bit poor. Not with that tailored suit, sophisticated cologne, and manicured nails. But there was no telling who was down on his luck in Paris these days, and this section of the Latin Quarter was a real mix.
She walked over, trying to quell her nerves. Then she pasted on a smile and welcomed him in French. “Good evening. How are you?”
Usually, it was easy to offer the warm smile and few minutes of chitchat that many of the guests craved. But with this man…
He took her in with cold, appraising eyes that seemed intent on sucking the heat right out of her body…or her blood.
Cut that out, she ordered herself.
Often, the biggest trick at Solidarité du Coeur was guessing whether a guest was struggling to get by, truly homeless, or a freeloader, like the occasional backpacker who came through. But with this man, Natalie’s mind kept sliding over to a different question: human or vampire?
Not that she had any real evidence to go on — just the nightmares that had been plaguing her lately. The kind that ripped her out of bed in a cold sweat and left her jumping at shadows afterward. That, and the sensation of being followed she’d experienced all day, as if she were a moving target, slipping in and out of an assassin’s sights.
“I’d love a warm drink,” the man said.
His lips barely moved, but his eyes strayed to her wrists where the veins showed.
“Sure.” Natalie rushed back to the bar, wishing she’d worn something more conservative than a tight-fitting black top. Say, a turtleneck or an oversized sweater.
The crowd at one side of the soup kitchen exploded into cheers and jeers at a soccer game on TV. Most looked jubilant, and a few waved red-and-white scarves, while others hissed.
“Arsenal one, PSG zero,” the announcer crowed as Natalie squeezed past.
It had taken her weeks to figure out that those letters denoted the city’s premier soccer squad, and another week to grasp how important the Champions League was. Then again, everything had been new to her when she’d first come to Paris.
She detoured to several more tables, collecting empty bread baskets and taking drink orders. But all the while, she felt hot, piercing eyes on her back. When she glanced over, the creepy guest didn’t so much as look away. He watched her with unblinking eyes. Each table seated ten, but no one sat anywhere near him.
Finally, she worked up the nerve to carry over a pot of tea, hoping he’d drink quickly and move on.
“Merci, ma belle,” the creep said, locking his long, slender fingers around the mug before she set it down.
The crystal she wore around her neck — a pretty trinket she’d found in a flea market along the Seine — swung away from her chest as she moved, and the man’s eyes moved with it. Or was he staring at her chest?
When she jerked away, one of his nails nicked her palm, and he murmured, “Excusez-moi.”
“No problem,” Natalie said, hurrying away.
But he’d drawn blood, dammit. Just a bead, but still. Did the guy file his nails into points or something?
She glanced back and nearly froze. The creep was licking the blood off his finger. Or, wait. Was he innocently licking a drop of spilled cream?
Innocent, my ass, her inner radar said.
“Olivier.” One of the other volunteers shot the man a dark look. “I swear he has no business here. But you never know. Sometimes the best dressed are the ones who’ve lost everything.”
Natalie wasn’t so sure, but she wasn’t about to bring up vampires, no matter how foreboding her dreams had become. Some in a good way, like the dreams that had made her move to Paris in the first place. Those dreams had been sunny and warm, with long walks along riverbanks and cobblestoned streets. Dreams so detailed and lifelike, they felt like scenes she’d already lived.
Other dreams were weirdly empowering, like dreams of flying — and not just flying around the rooms of her childhood home as she had imagined as a kid. These strange new dreams had her swooping over a lavender-lined landscape by night with the wind whistling in her ears. In them, the world was hushed, and the moon shone orange and extra large, making her feel as if she could glide for hours.
Lately, though, her dreams had grown darker and more chilling. Shadows followed her down dim alleys, and when she tried to run — or fly — she felt stuck in place. Sinister men stepped out of nowhere, flashing fangs. Their fingers closed over her throat, and she felt powerless to move. Then they would lean in with their jaws opened wide…
She shivered. Most of the time, moving to Paris seemed like the best decision of her life. She felt freer, happier, and more independent than she’d ever been. But occasionally, a creep like Olivier would come along and make her wonder about the difference between premonitions and harmless dreams.
“Merde,” a guest blurted, riveted to the TV screen.
Yeah, shit was the word, and not just for a missed free kick. Natalie straightened her shoulders, reminding herself she could manage everything on her own. That was part of her coming to Paris, too. A new life. A new start. A new everything.
“Any chance for a refill?” another guest asked, holding up his bowl.
As she stepped over, the front door opened, letting in a gust of fresh night air. Curtains stirred, and the guests all glanced up at the sound of huge boots clomping confidently down the stairs from street level.
Natalie looked too, and for a moment, time stood still. Her breath caught, and her pulse skipped as the security man backed away, revealing the newcomer’s face.
It’s him! It’s him! part of her cheered.
It was ridiculous, reacting to a near-stranger that way. But, hell. In three years of dating a guy named Dean in Philly, she’d never gotten as excited as she got around Mr. Tall, Dark, and distinctly Parisian. Not even when Dean would come over — late, usually, because she had never been as important to him as his job — and not on weekends, no matter how much time she put into planning a nice time. Not even in bed, if she had to admit as much.
But one look — one breath — in the presence of this stranger had a way of making her feel reborn.
Hi, she wanted to murmur, although he was a good thirty feet away.
His scowl broke long enough for him to smile at her. A brief but bright smile, as if he’d located the sun in a world of constant storms. His eyes sparkled, and though his lips didn’t move, she imagined a low Hi rumble through her mind.
The wind had whisked a few leaves in after him, and they swirled around his ankles, as happy and free as Natalie felt. Boy, was he handsome — handsome enough to pull off that musketeer beard and mustache, like a man intent on swashbuckling his way into her heart. But then one of the volunteers pranced over, calling, “Tristan!”
His face went dull, and when he turned to the woman, the upward curl of his lips was forced.
“Marie,” he murmured, kissing her on each cheek.
Natalie turned away. Was that special smile just wistful thinking on her part? She barely knew the man, and they’d never exchanged more than a few words. Yet every time Tristan entered, it felt as though he was only there for her. Every time he left, part of her mourned. And as for the dreams he inspired…
Natalie puffed a breath upward, cooling herself off.
“Mademoiselle, du sucre, s’il vous plaît?” Some sugar, please? a guest called, pulling her back to work.
Still, her mind stayed with Tristan. Rumors abounded about him. Some said he was an undercover gendarme, keeping an eye out for trouble. Others said he was a bounty hunter searching for deadbeats who owed money to criminals in Paris’s shady underworld. Some insisted he was an agent with the DGSI — the French equivalent of the FBI. Marie insisted he was an ultra-rich benefactor checking up on one of his pet projects. And in a way, all those theories fit. The man exuded authority, power, and a mysterious je ne sais quoi that put him a class above everyone else.
Natalie glanced back, and miracle of miracles, Tristan’s eyes met hers. Like she was the real beauty there and not curvy Marie, who tossed back her sleek hair and giggled in one smooth, practiced move.
Every head in the soup kitchen turned to admire Marie’s figure, but Tristan’s eyes didn’t stray from Natalie’s.
Hi, she breathed all over again.
His gaze was soft and concerned, and his chest — a broad expanse that stretched the fabric of the black shirt under his jacket — rose and fell in a deep breath. But the next time he inhaled—
His nostrils flared, and his head whipped around. He scanned the area, then pinned his gaze squarely on Olivier, the creep by the window.
You, Tristan’s accusing gaze declared.
You, Oliver might as well have replied. His brow furrowed, and his nails scratched at the wooden tabletop. The air grew charged as the men stared each other down.
“Miss? Some sugar? Please?”
Natalie blinked at the guest before her. “Oh, sorry. I’ll be right back.”
As she hurried to the kitchen, Tristan and Olivier sized each other up like a couple of gorillas about to thump their chests. Tristan was a good six feet tall, but he seemed to grow even taller as he stared the other man down. Olivier, though slighter in build, was taller. He had a sinister aura, and his pale skin appeared to give off an effervescent glow.
Natalie glanced around. Did no one else pick up on the testosterone-laced vibes filling the room?
But even Madame Monet — the stout matron with a knack for squelching petty disagreements before they exploded into all-out fights — didn’t so much as give the two men a second glance.
“Goooooal!” the television announcer hollered, and everyone leaped to their feet. Everyone but Tristan and Olivier, who continued to stare each other down.
In the jubilation that followed the goal, Natalie lost sight of the two men. She shook herself back into action. It didn’t matter what the score was or who had walked in. Her job was to work the soup kitchen floor, and she’d been neglecting her guests. For the next few minutes, she bustled back and forth, clearing dishes and serving tea with biscuits. But when sh
e turned away from wiping down one table—
Oof! She bumped into a brick wall. Or rather, into someone built as solidly as a brick wall.
“Excusez-moi,” she murmured, looking up — way up — into eyes the color of a stormy sky. Tristan?
It was a whole new angle on him. Usually, he stood in a corner, quietly refusing food or drink while he surveyed the area. Now, she spotted all the details she’d never noticed from afar. The tiny scar on one cheek where no stubble grew. The length of his eyelashes. The curls of brown hair that reached to just beneath his ears. The depths of his pure eyes, as blue as the sea…
For a moment, she lost track of time, and Tristan seemed equally mesmerized. Then he frowned, grabbed her elbow, and spoke in French.
“You have to leave. Now.”
His voice was deep. Growly. So full of authority, Natalie nearly nodded.
Then she caught herself. “Wait. What?”
In one deft movement, he turned her toward the kitchen, using just enough force to make his urgency clear.
“Leave. Now. Trust me,” he said, making the strands of her hair move. “You have to go.”
“But…”
She’d spent many a lonely night entertaining fantasies about the mysterious cop/millionaire/secret agent, but none of them had gone anything like this. Still, when she turned to face him, she saw what had entranced her from the very start: those deep, sincere eyes. Eyes that promised, You can trust me.
“You have to go,” he insisted, switching to English.
His accent was almost North American, but every once in a while, a vowel would slip, and a French accent came through. Who was he, exactly? Where was he from? And why did he want her to run out on the job now?
She motioned toward tables that needed clearing, about to protest. Then she spotted Olivier jumping to his feet, staring at her with an expression that said, Don’t you dare move.