Rogue Angel: Gabriel's Horn

by Alex Archer

  “Wow,” she said again.

  “Of course you would feel that way. Gesauldi knew you would feel that way. Gesauldi’s creations always leave people feeling this way.”

  “You’re a dressmaker?”

  He scowled. “Dear woman, Gesauldi is an artist!”

  Annja examined the dresses. “Of course you are.” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or angry. “Garin really didn’t think I could dress myself, did he?”

  “Did you have a Gesauldi dress for tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Then you couldn’t have dressed yourself.”

  For a moment Annja considered telling the man to take his dresses and go. But she couldn’t. She’d never worn anything that glamorous in her life.

  She turned to Gesauldi. “Are you in the habit of delivering your dresses yourself, Mr. Gesauldi?”

  He grinned at her, obviously pleased that she was so enraptured. “Only for very special clients or very beautiful women, Miss Creed.” He inclined his head in a respectful bow. “Tonight I am honored to do both.”

  Johan leaned forward and whispered behind his hand to Annja. “Do you see, Miss Creed? I could hardly have thrown such a man from the hotel.”

  “No,” Annja agreed. “You couldn’t have.”

  * * * *

  Later, soaking in a fragrant bath while Gesauldi arranged the dresses and his tools, Annja sipped green tea and thought about her date. She wondered what Garin was up to.

  The attention was extremely flattering. Or quite unflattering, depending on how she chose to view Garin’s efforts. Either he wants to treat me like royalty or he wants to make sure I measured up to his standards. That was an unhappy thought. Annja sipped her tea and chose not to think like that.

  * * * *

  The phone rang while Annja, feeling much refreshed and looking forward to Gesauldi’s fitting, was drying off from the bath. She’d soaked to just preprune stage. She wrapped a towel around herself and picked up her phone.

  The phone number was European, but that was all she knew.

  “Hello.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s true.”

  Annja recognized Roux’s voice at once. The old man had a raspy voice that was unmistakable.

  “It’s not true,” Annja said, sensing from Roux’s tone that he wanted confirmation.

  “Good.” Roux sounded minutely appeased.

  “Now,” Annja said, “what’s not true?”

  Roux took a deep breath and it made the phone connection sound cavernous.

  “That you’re going out with Garin,” Roux snapped. “Tell me that’s not true.”

  Despite having grown up in an orphanage in New Orleans, Annja suddenly got the idea of what it might have been like to have to deal with a displeased father. Not surprisingly, it felt a lot like dealing with an irate nun.

  “Where did you hear something like that?” Annja asked.

  Roux cursed. “So it is true.”

  “Who I go out with is hardly any business of yours.” Annja put her phone on hands-free mode, tightened the towel around her and reached for another to wrap her hair.

  “It is when it’s Garin,” Roux said.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Not against Garin. Are you going out with him?”

  “We’re having dinner.”

  Roux cursed again. “Do you find yourself so enamored of him that you can’t control your hormones?”

  “I resent that,” Annja said.

  “By all means, feel free.”

  “I’m in perfect control of my hormones.”

  Roux vented a derisive snort.

  “I’m going to dinner with him to pay off a debt,” Annja said. “Garin helped me out while I was in India.”

  “A debt?” Roux sounded as though he couldn’t believe it. “You don’t pay off a debt like that. At the very least not in the manner in which you’re doing it.”

  “Dinner’s not exactly the worst thing that I could imagine having to do.”

  Roux snorted again.

  “And,” Annja went on, “as I recall, you don’t mind waving the debt card around when you want my help with something.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “I helped you find the sword.”

  “So what? I’m going to owe you forever now?”

  “No,” Roux said. “Having the sword means you have a duty and an obligation to the powers behind that sword.”

  “Whatever powers might be behind this sword, it’s definitely not you.”

  Roux sighed in displeasure. “I help you with what you’re supposed to do. We’re on the same side.”

  Although she didn’t say anything, Annja doubted that. Roux, like Garin, had his own agenda. Neither of them chose to entrust her with it. Roux was always exactly on the side of Roux.

  “Harboring any leniency with Garin is a mistake,” Roux said.

  “There’s no leniency,” Annja said. “There’s dinner.”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Miss Creed,” Gesauldi called out. “Gesauldi doesn’t wish to hurry you, but time is of the essence.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Annja replied.

  “Was that Gesauldi?” Roux demanded.

  Annja furrowed her brow. “Do you know Gesauldi?”

  “He sent the dressmaker?” Roux shouted.

  “Gesauldi heard that,” Gesauldi called from the other room. “Gesauldi is no dressmaker. Gesauldi is an artist.”

  “He heard you,” Annja said.

  “I don’t care,” Roux snapped.

  “How do you know Gesauldi?”

  “If Gesauldi is involved,” Roux said, “then Garin is seeing this as more than a one-time date.”

  Annja smiled, then caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and turned away. You’re not going to think past tonight, she told herself. But she knew she was.

  “I don’t get that impression,” Annja said.

  “Annja,” Roux growled, “Garin sent Gesauldi.”

  “Of course he did,” Gesauldi said from the other room. “You only send for Gesauldi when you want the very best.”

  He must, Annja thought, have ears like a bat.

  “Maybe you should ask Gesauldi how many times Garin has sent him to dress his women,” Roux suggested.

  That thought had crossed Annja’s mind, but she hadn’t given in to the impulse.

  “Gesauldi will never tell,” Gesauldi said. “A promise from Gesauldi is like a little piece of forever. Because Gesauldi will take such knowledge to the grave with him.”

  Terrific, Annja thought. “You know, Roux,” she said, “it wouldn’t have hurt you to let me have my little moment here.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Roux said.

  Annja hung up.

  * * * *

  At seven-thirty, Johan called Annja. “Miss Creed, there is a gentleman here to see you.”

  Dressed in the spectacular black dress Gesauldi had tailored so that it showed her body to its best, Annja surveyed the results in the full-length mirror. She had to admit it—she looked exquisite.

  Gesauldi had also brought along a hairdresser and makeup artist, who worked their magic, as well. She wore her hair pulled back, held by jeweled combs. The only thing missing was a necklace, but she hadn’t brought anything with her. This was supposed to have been a working trip, not one of leisure.

  “Tell him to come up,” Annja said.

  “I have suggested that,” Johan replied. “The gentleman refuses. He insists that such behavior is rude and unseemly.”

  Annja thought about that.

  “Given the circumstance,” Johan said in a lower voice, “I would have to applaud the gentleman on his sense of decorum. If you wish, I can come up for you.”

  “That’s all right,” Annja said. “I’m on my way down.”

  7

  The sight of Annja Creed stepping from the elevator momentarily stole Garin Braden’s breath from
his lungs. She was stunning. Even before Gesauldi’s magic, Annja possessed a natural beauty that made men glad they were men.

  Now—she was a goddess.

  Garin was aware of the effect her appearance had on the men in the lavish hotel lobby. Heads turned in her direction and conversations came to a standstill. And it wasn’t just the men who were affected. Women looked and quieted, too.

  Thin straps crossed Annja’s smooth shoulders and supported the dress. The black material clung to her figure in all the right places. Handmade Italian slingbacks glittered like polished anthracite.

  For a moment, Garin forgot himself in the hush that fell across the lobby. Although he’d seen Gesauldi work his magic before, Garin had never seen any woman as striking as Annja. He’d seen more beautiful women—that was true—but none of them possessed the innate qualities that he’d found at once appealing and unnerving about the young woman in front of him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the old assistant manager who had helped Garin whispered. “But if you don’t mind me suggesting it, perhaps this would be an ideal time to give the young woman the flowers.”

  Garin’s senses returned. He remembered the flowers in his hand. He chided himself for being so overwhelmed.

  When everyone stared at her, Annja felt extremely self-conscious. She knew other women dreamed of making this kind of entrance, but it had never once been in her thoughts. She found that kind of attention uncomfortable.

  She saw Garin as he approached her. He looked every inch the warrior, and as he stood six feet four inches tall, that was impressive. He wore his dark hair long and sported a goatee. His eyes were blacker than oil. He wore a tuxedo that suggested Gesauldi didn’t just handle women’s clothes.

  Johan stood at Garin’s side, dwarfed by the bigger man.

  Garin carried an extravagant bouquet of flowers. He stopped in front of her and looked down. The fragrance of the flowers rode the air between them.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  This is so not a date, Annja told herself. “Thank you. You look very handsome,” she said quietly.

  Garin handed her the flowers, then offered his arm.

  Annja took it and let him lead her out of the lobby. She knew everyone in the hotel watched them go, and she didn’t know if she’d ever have a moment as perfect as that one again.

  As soon as they stepped out of the hotel, a silver limousine glided to a halt at the curb. The hotel doorman got the door, smiled and tipped his hat.

  “There is one thing, if I may,” Garin said. He took a small case from his jacket pocket and opened it.

  What Annja saw inside took her breath away. A string of black pearls as shiny as drops of oil gleamed on the white fabric lining the case.

  “I thought they would set the dress off,” Garin said.

  Annja thought so, too, but she wasn’t ready to give in to temptation. “I usually don’t wear a lot of jewelry.”

  “These will look beautiful on you.” Garin plucked the string of pearls from the case and held them up in his fingers. They looked ready to spill loose at any second. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not wear them.” He started to put them away.

  “Wait,” Annja said.

  Garin looked at her and smiled. “I didn’t think so. May I?”

  Annja turned her back to him. Gently he strung the pearls around her neck. For just a moment Annja thought that maybe the pearls were actually a disguised garrote. If you’re thinking he might kill you, what are you doing here?

  The necklace fastened and she felt the cool weight of the pearls against her skin. She turned to face Garin.

  “I was wrong,” he said. “The pearls don’t make the dress. You make the pearls.”

  “Thank you.” And you’re just too smooth at knowing the right things to say, Annja thought.

  Garin helped Annja into the car and she slid across the seat. She felt uncomfortable and out of control. She didn’t like either feeling.

  “Would you care for anything to drink?” Garin opened the well-stocked built-in bar as the limousine slid into motion and pulled out into the busy street.

  “Water, please.”

  He frowned in displeasure. “I’ve got a good selection of wines.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  Garin poured her a glass of sparkling water and poured wine for himself. “Well,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Annja said. “For the dress. For Gesauldi.” She held her glass in both hands so she wouldn’t spill it.

  Garin grinned a little. “Nervous?”

  “No.” Annja paused. “Yes.”

  After a brief hesitation, he said, “Me, too.”

  “You?” Annja raised an eyebrow.

  Garin shrugged. “A little, perhaps. I have to admit, the feeling is quite unexpected.”

  “Just because I’m a little overwhelmed doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself,” Annja warned him.

  “Of course not.” Garin waved the thought away.

  “In case you get any ideas.”

  “If getting ideas was going to get me in trouble, that dress would make me a dead man.”

  Annja didn’t know how to respond. For a time, neither one of them spoke.

  * * * *

  The restaurant was nestled between business offices downtown. After Garin helped her from the limousine, Annja gazed at the hand-lettered sign above the door. It read Keshet. A homemade sign tacked above an entrance that looked as if it let out onto an alley wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring.

  “Is something wrong?” Garin asked.

  “After the buildup of the dress and the limo, this isn’t quite what I’d expected,” Annja admitted.

  Garin grinned. “You were expecting me to take you to one of those flashy restaurants.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  Annja gazed at him warily and wondered if this was some kind of trick. “Should I be?”

  “If you are, I’ll buy you dinner in any restaurant of your choice. In the world.” Garin offered his arm again. When Annja took it, he led her toward the burly doorman.

  “Good evening, Mr. Braden,” the man said in English.

  “Good evening,” Garin responded.

  The doorman opened the door. Annja turned and found Garin almost filling the tiny hallway that led from the door. Muted lights illuminated the way over a plain concrete floor. She joined him.

  Another doorman opened the next door. When she saw inside, Annja was even more surprised.

  The restaurant was even smaller than she’d imagined. A quick estimate of the tables in the room meant that fewer than fifty people could sit in the room at one time.

  Instead of a wall separating the cooking area from the diners, the kitchen was exposed for all to see. A squat woman in her late sixties ran the kitchen staff with the ironhanded control of a Marine Corps drill instructor. Her gray hair was cut short. She wore black pants and a green blouse with the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. The kitchen staff responded to her orders like a well-oiled unit.

  “Mr. Braden.” A young hostess with olive-colored skin and a perfect smile joined them. “It’s been too long since you’ve visited us.”

  “Merely growing my appetite for Mama’s cooking,” Garin said.

  “She was excited to learn that you would be coming.” The hostess led the way to the only table in the room that wasn’t occupied.

  Located at center stage, the table had a perfect view of the activity in the kitchen as cooks worked the stovetop and kept bread rotating through the ovens. Garin took Annja’s chair and seated her.

  “Thank you,” Annja said.

  “You’re welcome.” Garin sat beside her at the table so he could watch the kitchen.

  After taking their drink order, the hostess returned with water for Annja and wine for Garin. “Mama will be with you in a moment.”

  “Thank you, Petra,” Garin said.

  “Of course, Mr. Braden.” The young woman’s fingers
trailed softly across Garin’s when she handed him his glass.

  Annja was surprised at the sudden jealousy that struck her. She took a deep breath and focused on the kitchen. It’s not jealousy, she told herself. No one would like watching her date get hit on by another woman.

  And even if Garin wasn’t a real date, he was accompanying her tonight. There were lines that weren’t supposed to be crossed.

  Servers brought heaping plates out to the guests, who clapped and exclaimed appreciatively in a half-dozen languages. The diners still waiting looked on in envy.

  Annja’s stomach growled in anticipation. The smell of the food was divine. The aroma of fresh-baked bread permeated the air.

  “Hungry?” Garin asked.

  “Famished,” Annja replied. “So what’s on the menu?”

  “I don’t know.” Garin sipped his wine. “Mama arrives in the morning and decides then. She could walk into any kitchen in the world and get a job.”

  If she had to make a decision to believe that based on the smells in the dining room, Annja would have. She also noticed the pride in Garin’s voice when he talked about the woman.

  Mama left the kitchen area with two salads and walked to their table and put them down. Garin stood immediately and hugged the woman. He dwarfed her in size.

  “Ah,” Mama said, turning to Annja, “and you must be Annja Creed.” Her eyes glittered as she surveyed Annja. In just that brief second, Annja knew that her measure had been taken, and she had no clue if she’d been found acceptable or wanting.

  8

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” Annja said, not at all certain if the statement was true. Still, she smiled and made the best of it she could.

  “I have heard so much about you.” Mama spoke with a thick accent. “This one—” she poked Garin in the chest with her forefinger “—I know him a long time. And before him, his father.”

  Father? Annja gazed at Garin in idle speculation. “Do you mean Roux?”

  Mama waved that away. “No. I know Roux, as well.” She shrugged. “I like him okay, but he can be an old goat.”

  “Roux tried to cook in Mama’s kitchen one night,” Garin explained.

  Mama held a hand to her ample breast. “He has so much nerve, that one.” She whispered behind her hand. “That was long ago. When I was much younger and more beautiful. He also pinched my bottom.” She rolled her eyes in feigned shock. “I slap his face for him, I tell you.”