The Perfect Ten Boxed Set

by Dianna Love

  “What you’re really saying is we’re all as crazy as fruitcakes and rubbing off on each other.” Collette grinned. While changing, or with the models, the woman’s Liverpool accent came through loud and strong. Amongst the guests, the model spoke what sounded like charm-school French in a demure whisper.

  I eyed the woman’s half-empty water bottle; glass, not plastic. Two down, a good ten or more to go.

  “So how many have been here since the show started?” I asked, winding a coil of Jade’s hair around my index finger. Chop-Chop might not get bangs, but he’d get his volume.

  Collette glanced around. “I’ve been here since the start. Actually worked with Bran when he was still at Brighton, doing his one-a-days.”

  “One-a-days?”

  “Yeah. You rent a hall. Gather a core group of models. Promote like hell and hope a couple of nabobs will hear about it and take a risk.”

  “Sounds iffy.” I curled another ringlet, securing it above the last one, not wanting to think of Bran scraping and struggling, daring all on a near-impossible dream. Not that the average warlock ever struggled, not in their genetic make-up. So why did he not use the dark powers most warlocks had access to in the blink of an eye? Was there more to him than I’d first noticed?

  It was safer to think of him as in control of his world, on top and assured. Not that I wanted to think of him at all. He was a mission. That was all.

  “Those early years were iffy.” Collette shimmied into a dark red silk sheath that made my mouth water. “Man’s a bloody genius, though, and a frigging hard worker. Would have been easy to bitch and moan about the way his family treated him, but he never did. Not even when they tried to stab him in the back.”

  “In what way?”

  Intel, not interest.

  In a pig’s ear.

  “Early days he could have used a bit of endorsement, if you know what I mean. But that harpy of a mother of his did just the opposite. Poison, sheer poison, her spreading lies and rumors. His old man simply turned his back. Bloody pikers the two of ‘em.”

  “Didn’t seem to hurt him much,” I said. “I mean, look where he’s at now.”

  “All by his own blood and sweat it is.” Collette looked around the crowded room, her voice low against the chatter of the other models. “And he never forgets who helped him either. Man’s a bloody saint if you ask me.”

  Warlock turned saint? Not likely. And definitely not the man who told me to take a hike yesterday. I’d avoided him since then so he hadn’t had a second chance to tell me to leave. Could he have cast a blood spell for success? Very powerful stuff, but I’d believe that sooner than I’d believe he didn’t call on any of his magic to get where he was today.

  I casually asked, “What do you mean he’s a saint?”

  “Two years ago, Suzette’s mother died sudden like. Man had her flown back home in the middle of a show, by private jet, and all the funeral arrangements taken care of. He that don’t have a lot of family, he knows they matter.”

  I glanced toward the assistant Suzette, who nodded her bobbed head, eyes all but invisible beneath her bangs. A different image of Bran was appearing; one warring with my instincts to label him as strictly bad news.

  Collette continued, “Then when Pamela had that boyfriend who was no good. Kept slapping her around. Well one night Bran went and paid the wanker a visit. No problems after that.”

  I wondered what spell Bran had used? A disappearing one? Or a mind-wipe one. They were harder, requiring much more magic, and very tricky. Not that I’d ever done one. They were black magic and I didn’t touch the stuff. But I bet Bran did. Still?

  “The man went in person?” This didn’t sound like the aloof, hands-off guy I’d butted heads with yesterday.

  “Sure did. Never said a word, but Pamela saw Bran, didn’t you, Pammy?”

  A willowy blond who looked as ethereal as air popped her head out of the neck of an organza blue cloud of a dress. “Sure enough. That man’s all right in my book.”

  “Interesting.” I nodded for Jade to move away. The woman glanced at herself in the standing mirror.

  “Oh, I like this. A bit of all right. You go, hairdresser.”

  Take that Chop-Chop.

  As if summoned, the slight man bounced into the room, his face wreathed in smiles, his hair poker-straight. “Ladies, attention, ladies.” He clapped his hands as if we were scattered over a football field instead of in a ten-by-ten foot room. “I have an announcement to make.”

  I wanted him to get on with it, but the man had his own sense of timing. He waited until all voices subsided before waving in a woman standing directly behind him. “Girls, pay attention.”

  Jade’s bubble gum popped.

  “This is Sasha. Our new model.” Franco beamed, though the smile held a hint of tightness. “Sasha, this is Team Bran. Girls, be nice to her.”

  No one said a word. I glanced around. Tension bloomed, but I couldn’t pinpoint the why or where it came from. Of course “Team Bran” would ruffle any sane person.

  I cast a look at the new woman. Striking enough in an angular way. Long-legged, dark-skinned, gaunt look around the eyes. Was it professional jealously from the regulars? Or Franco treating them like half-brain peons? Or something else?

  The woman looked as uncomfortable as a jackass introduced into a herd of thoroughbreds. But her look dared anyone to say a word.

  My ring started to heat and I looked closer, but couldn’t see a lot. Fae, maybe? There were as many different kinds of fae as there were shifters and warlocks, but one thing they all had in common was the ability to hold glamour well. Which could explain her looks and her stillness.

  “Now, girls,” Franco barged ahead, either not sensing the unease or aware, but blatantly ignoring it. My money was on the latter. The guy could give lessons to a steamroller. “Sasha has done mostly runway work. I expect you all to help her transition into the way we do business here. Now chop, chop. We have a show to put on.”

  The man hopped away, but not before I caught a very un-Franco like glance at Sasha—one filled with wariness. But it happened so fast, I couldn’t be sure if I saw or imagined it.

  Suzette stepped up to direct the woman to a corner of the already cramped room and conversations started buzzing around us once again.

  I sidled over to where Collette stood, her eyes sharp on the new model.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, keeping my voice low and pushing the acquaintance a little too fast, but then time was something I didn’t have to waste.

  Collette cast me a speculative look before shrugging, her voice a husky murmur when she spoke, “If that woman’s a model, then I’m a hairdresser.”I glanced back at Sasha: long legs, nice enough figure, stunningly angular face. What was Collette seeing that I missed?

  “I don’t get it,” I admitted. “Why do you think she’s not a pro?”

  “The way she walks. The way she holds her head. No calluses on her feet in those sandals. There’s a hundred small signs.”

  Go figure.

  “From what I heard, Franco needs a model,” I pushed, hoping the half-guess was mostly true. “You think he’s desperate enough that he’s willing to go with someone without much experience?”

  “Doesn’t make sense.” Collette shook her head. “He could have a dozen girls here by the end of the day by using Bran’s name. Women want to work for him as he treats them like people not cattle.”

  I didn’t mention that benevolence didn’t extend to hairdressers, but asked instead, “Maybe Franco’s doing a favor for a friend?”

  “And risking his own job? The minute Dragon Lady finds out Frankie-O hired a dud, the man’s toast.”

  I didn’t have to work hard to figure out who Dragon Lady was. Dominique St. Clair. Interesting. Bran was a saint, but his cousin, far from it.

  “Oh, well, luv, not my problem,” Collette sighed. “I’ll give the bugger a chance and wish her luck.”

  I nodded before coming to a decis
ion and crossing to greet the new model, my hand extended. “Hi, I’m Alex, the hairdresser. Well, one of the hairdressers.”

  The woman glanced at my outstretched hand as if it contained typhoid germs. She said nothing.

  I let my hand drop. I’d have to track down Vaughn and ask her if they greeted each other differently in the hoity-toity world, as my track record was now zero for zero with the handshaking approach.

  Lord, I hoped that didn’t mean I’d have to start hugging people. Or air-kissing? Yuck! Just my luck.

  “I wanted to say welcome.” I cleared my throat, noting the other woman’s look was very direct and very guarded. “I’m new here, too, so I don’t know much, but thought you’d like to know you’re not alone.”

  “Thanks.” The word was said in an insipid whisper.

  So much for winning friends and influencing people.

  “Fine.” I wiped my hand across my smock, aware nerves had dampened my palms. “I’ll see you around.”

  As if sharing small prep spaces, eating meals together in the employee-designated zone, and sleeping like college kids dorm-like in two small bedrooms gave us any other option.

  The better for my task. I snatched a discarded ceramic mug Suzette had used earlier. Three sets of fingerprints down. At this rate I might get most of the crew by the end of the day.

  Things were looking up.

  CHAPTER 15

  Things were going to hell in a hand-basket.

  “Report.” The message scrolled across the laptop window.

  The agent typed carefully. At any time someone could enter the library, though it was the least visited of the rooms in the chateau.

  “Insertion completed successfully.”

  “Any suspicions?”

  A few shrewd glances. A smirk. The new girl watching very carefully. “No.”

  “Any new data?”

  “New body on site. Staff.”

  “Details.”

  “Alex Noziak. American. Native-American ancestry. Hairdresser.”

  “Who brought her in?”

  Hadn’t determined that. “Best guess—Bran.”

  “Doesn’t St. Clair handle new employees?”

  “Usually, yes.”

  “Get a set of her prints.”

  “Will do.”

  “Anything else?”

  How could one describe the intangible? The increasing tension. Wariness where weeks ago there was little. The sharper tone uttered more often. Nothing concrete, everything nebulous. Stress probably, but it could be something else entirely.

  “Nothing else to report.”

  “Next check in?”

  “Moving tonight. Monte Carlo. Hotel de Paris. Next day, the Annaliesse. Yacht. Owner—Andrea Liveras. “

  “The tycoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s he involved?”

  “Not sure yet. Will report from there if possible.”

  “Get data on the new American.”

  “Will do.”

  The communication was complete.

  CHAPTER 16

  I stepped out on the rooftop terrace, the evening stars beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky. It’d been another long day, filled with people. Eight prints down though, so it’d been good.

  I still hadn’t heard from the agency. Was I really so completely expendable? No orders to pull out and no news on any backup. Cut the agency’s losses and find a new witch to train? It’s what I’d do and Ling Mai and I were very much alike in that way, bottom line kind of people. But as long as I was out of prison, I was here and I could push to learn what was going on. That and find a connection to Van.

  On my own or not I still needed to find out what, Bran and his cousin knew about Van. That would determine my next moves.

  All in all it’d been a good day. Except for the tension. Something had happened when the Sasha woman appeared. Less unrestrained talk. More wariness. Less give and take amongst the behind- the-scenes people. A shift in perception that I couldn’t put my finger on.

  But then it was hard to analyze and think with people always swarming around. It was everything I could do to keep from rubbing up and bumping into everyone all day and no way was there time or space to practice magic.

  “You are undisciplined only because you choose to be.”

  Ling Mai’s words echoed inside me. Damn, I hated how she made me doubt myself even more. Or maybe she just picked at an open wound. What did she know about using magic? About the backlash. I’d been very lucky I hadn’t killed my brother when I’d killed the rogue Were trying to take him out. And the backlash? I’d say prison counted. Both prison and being a disposable IR agent.

  I shook my head to clear it from negative thoughts. This end of the chateau was relatively quiet now, most of the guests and models mingled around the pool area, lit up by a hundred intimate candles. Wine flowed freely as did appetizers prepared by the chateau’s gourmet chef. I had to give the man credit, he made one mean sauce over duck. Even the peons got to taste some in the back kitchen. No doubt Dominique would be appalled.

  With a sigh I moved across the flat roof, square and bordered by a stone railing, soaking in the blessed near-silence. Too late I noted I wasn’t alone.

  Bran.

  Double damn. I recognized his silhouette even in the deepening gloam and before my ring warmed my skin like a faint tingle. Could it protect me against his dark magic? Or against him? It’d have to be one doozy of a protection emblem to do either.

  He’d been facing away, his gaze over the Bordeaux landscape, but the minute I appeared he pivoted as if he sensed my presence, though I wore soft-soled shoes. He looked very much alone. A warlock with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I had a few issues to discuss with him, but now didn’t seem the time. The night closed us off. It created a false intimacy. A dangerous awareness.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” I said, planning on turning and leaving. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Stay.” His one word stopped me. Or maybe it was the tone. A dark, compelling sound laced with a French accent. It was as intoxicating as the lavender-laden scents brushing the air. A scent that also smelled ocean fresh.

  Think with your head, not your hormones. This isn’t a tryst. It’s business. And he isn’t a lover.

  Yet.

  Damn, I so did not think that.

  So why did my hands get clammy? My pulse kick up? I could barely see the man in the deepening twilight and I was acting like the first time I’d sneaked out to meet Billy Wilder. And look where that’d gotten me. Grounded for a week, never ending jibes from all four of my brothers to this day. And one hell of a first kiss.

  Okay, nix the last thought.

  Business. Focus on the business.

  “You want to talk?” I said, glad my voice sounded level. Calm.

  Okay, I could do this.

  “As I said before, you must leave.”

  Been there, said that, still wasn’t going to make me leave. Not with Van’s life on the line.

  “Not your call.” I was pleased my tone was even.

  “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  “Then tell me.” I stepped forward. A dare, but dangerous as it put me that much closer to him. Besides why the hell did he care?

  Back to task.

  “Little witches who play out of their league can be badly burned,” he said, his voice deeper, lower, a cross between threat and caress, the tone at odds with the words. “Little witches who leave listening devices where they don’t belong are especially vulnerable.”

  He held out his palm and I noticed the small bug I’d planted under his desk earlier.

  Caught. He knew what I was as I knew what he was. But there were degrees of knowing.

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. So now he knew I wasn’t beyond checking him out as a suspect.

  Deal with one issue at a time. But before I could he asked, “Do your superiors know what you are?”

  “Not
your concern.”

  He tilted his head. “It can be my concern if I reveal to them what I know about you.”

  “I don’t respond well to threats.” I stepped close enough my voice wouldn’t carry. “Especially from arrogant warlocks.”

  He smiled, his teeth a gleam in the darkness.

  I was near enough to smell his very sexy cologne and the heat of his skin beneath it. No cinnamon here as there’d been in his office; something more elemental, more primordial.

  Mistake.

  He paused, then asked, “Are you willing to die?”

  “Not if I have a choice,” I answered truthfully, surprised that I spoke so freely to him. What was wrong with me?

  He said something in a tongue I didn’t recognize. I didn’t hear it as much as feel it, wrapping around me, lulling me, soothing.

  A spell? Would he be so bold?

  In a heartbeat.

  He stepped closer, hands now jammed in his pockets, his shoulders loose. So why did I feel threatened?

  “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice hoarse, my legs weighted to the rooftop as if they grew there.

  Not good. What had Ling Mai called this place? The tiger’s den. And Bran was the tiger. I fingered my ring, twirling it slowly, each revolution like hearing a song sung far off and faint. Touching the ring was like having a crossing guard stop sign flashed before me. It could shout STOP, but didn’t indicate if a Mini Cooper or a semi-truck was bearing down on me. And it sure as heck wasn’t making it easy not to get caught in the web Bran was weaving.

  Van. Think Van.

  I squared my shoulders and shook my head. “If you have nothing new, it’s been a long day and I understand we’re leaving early in the morning for the next location.”

  I summoned every ounce of energy I had to whisper the words. There was tired and there was stupid. Stupid could get me killed.

  “Yes.” He didn’t move, but I sensed a change. “I mean what I said.”

  I too easily recalled his words. “About my leaving?”

  “It’s still true.”

  “You asked specifically for me.”

  They weren’t the words I’d meant to utter.

  “My wanting you to leave is not personal.”