THE COLLECTOR 1:
MAGICAL CHANCES
Mechele Armstrong
www.loose-id.com
Warning
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
* * * * *
This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and violence.
The Collector 1: Magical Chances
Mechele Armstrong
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Loose Id LLC
1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924
Carson City NV 89701-1215
www.loose-id.com
Copyright © October 2006 by Mechele Armstrong
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.
ISBN 978-1-59632-348-3
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Erin Mullarkey
Cover Artist: Christine M. Griffin
www.loose-id.com
Chapter One
“You’re fired, Ms. Richards.” The stern woman in the plain gray dress looked like a warden from a women’s prison. Too bad she was Chloe’s boss, although that did make her a kind of warden. “Clean out your desk.”
“Fine.” Chloe should have been begging for her job back, but she would never do that. Not even for the secretarial pool job that paid a miniscule wage, which she needed desperately. She grabbed her empty plastic trash can from under the cheap metal desk and began piling her stuff in it. Not that she had much. But the picture of her niece and the half-dead plant weren’t staying here.
“The trash can belongs to Morton and Saunders.” Mrs. Dannon sniffed huffily. She sniffed often around Chloe as though Chloe smelled bad. Maybe she should use cheap knock-off perfumes, too, to appease the other woman’s nose.
“Fine.” She pulled out the white trash bag and continued sliding her things into it while counting to twenty. Her ex-husband said her temper would get her into trouble one day. Getting charged with assault with a deadly weapon for stuffing the trash can over Mrs. Dannon’s head would be considered trouble.
“The bag is ours, too, Ms. Richards.”
Chloe looked at the bag and back at Mrs. Dannon. “Dock fifty cents from my last paycheck.”
Her boss let out a gasp, her hand over her flat chest. “Well, I never ...”
“Had sex? That much is obvious.” Chloe stuffed one last item into the bag and marched with as much dignity as she could on one broken heel to the elevators with her trash bag over her shoulder, much like Santa.
Only in the elevator did she permit herself to grin. It had been a cheap shot, but the look on Mrs. Dannon’s face had been well worth it. She’d put up with three months of that woman’s shitting on her. It had been two months and twenty-nine days too many.
She blew out a breath, the grin disappearing as she hit the button for the first floor. Of course, what was she going to do now?
The minimal salary had at least paid the bills. Fired women made little money. The job had allowed her to send money to her sister, who needed it even more than she did.
Of all the mornings for the bus to be late, even though, as Mrs. Dannon had pointed out, she’d been on the later bus because she’d already been running late. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for her. She repeated in her boss’s nasal undertone, “Jobs require one to make an effort to be there on time.” Like Chloe didn’t know that.
It hadn’t helped that she’d spilled coffee all down her yellow dress when the bus hit a pothole, that she had a run in her hose, and that her heel had broken off coming up the steps. The damn elevator had been broken again, had men working on it downstairs, but now that she wasn’t in a hurry, was working fine.
You shouldn’t have gotten in here. It’s liable to break again. With your luck.
It probably would. Fate was apparently targeting her today.
How quickly could she get another shitty job? Her shoulders sagged. She didn’t know. Joanne had come to depend on the money Chloe sent her every month. Fast food didn’t make the money this had. She’d do what she had to, but the idea of working for kids younger than she was made her want to hurl. And waitressing, while it made good money, she wasn’t that great at it. People didn’t like wearing their food.
You could always go to see ...
No. That wasn’t an option. Although, if she’d known things would go so far down with her niece, she might have bitten back her anger and taken money when she’d had a chance to. But she couldn’t go back now.
The elevator doors opened.
An immaculately dressed woman stood in front of them. She pulled her glasses down her nose to peer inside at Chloe. “Chloe Richards?”
Oh, God. It must be company security come to arrest her for the damn trash bag. Mrs. Dannon worked fast. “What?” Chloe stepped out of the doors before they shut on her. Had the elevator been going anywhere else but up, she would have stayed on it, but the only exit to the building was on this floor.
The woman didn’t smile. “Are you Chloe Richards?”
Taking a deep breath, she stammered out “Yes.”
“I have a proposal to make to you, Ms. Richards. One that can benefit the man I work for and yourself.”
“What is it? And who do you work for? And who are you?” Chloe suspiciously stepped back from the woman.
“My name is Audra Phelan. I work for the Collector. He asked me to bring you to him.”
“Oh, no. I’m not going anywhere off with ... some woman I don’t know to see some man called the Collector.” She’d wind up with some trophy collected off her person and being a statistic on a crime desk. Turning to walk away, she stopped when the woman’s hand grasped her arm. Chloe looked down at the hand, arching a brow.
The woman released her before her hawk-like eyes surveyed Chloe as if sizing her up for prey. “He has authorized me to make it worth your while to come and see him.”
Don’t think about the money. Don’t think about the money. Too late. “How worth my while?” It would have to be good.
“Very. Five thousand dollars.”
Oh, shit, it was good. “Just to come talk to him?” Chloe shifted her weight on her feet, muttering to herself. She probably could have bartered the price up. She’d missed the chance now, having shown her interest. But that much money simply to have a conversation? The man must be nuts.
Phelan nodded. “He has a business deal he’d like to discuss with you. An important one.”
There was no way. “Look, lady ...”
Phelan held out a check. It was made out to Chloe for five thousand dollars. “Whoa.” It was also unsigned. Drat it. It would be a while before she found another job. Perhaps a long while. Unemployment only lasted so long. Five thousand dollars would go a long way. And it didn’t hurt anything to talk. “All right. But I’m going to notify a friend of who I’m with and when I should be back.”
&n
bsp; Was that a smirk? Chloe didn’t care. “Fine. Phone a friend. It will take about an hour. Shall we walk to the car while you’re telephoning?”
“Sure.” She called her neighbor, giving her the name of the woman she was with and instructions on when she should be calling back. At least her back was looked after enough so Chloe felt more at ease and not like she was going to be eaten with some rice.
When Phelan stepped back, and Chloe saw the car at the curb, her lower jaw fell away, leaving her mouth open. The car was a huge black limousine. An oh-so-nice stretch limo. She hadn’t ridden in one of those since ...
“You’re not connected to Drake Marsters, are you?” Her eyes narrowed. She wouldn’t put it past her ex to create an elaborate ruse to ... to what? Not like he’d want her to come see him. She wasn’t sure what he’d want, but she wouldn’t put it past the asshole to play her like this. To get her hopes all up and then laugh from the sidelines. Her conscience prickled with the unfair thought, but Chloe ignored it. She needed to think of him as an asshole. Otherwise, she thought of him too damn much. And she wasn’t going back to him.
“I assure you, Ms. Richards, I’m not in any way connected to Mr. Marsters. Please, the Collector is waiting for you.”
* * * * *
Sitting and waiting in the large room, which was bigger than her studio apartment, Chloe imagined what the Collector would be like. Probably young. Virile. A beefcake millionaire looking for that special someone to do a job for him.
Oh, please, you’re thinking this is a romance novel. This is your life, remember.
“Hello, Ms. Richards. Enjoying looking at my rental house?”
The man walked slowly, deliberately, across the floor. She was almost tempted to get up and help him, but one look at his determined face, and she didn’t.
“It’s nice.” If this was a rental, what kind of houses did he own?
No young virile man stood before her. It figured; it was her life, which had never been the stuff of romance novels. Well, except for a brief period when she’d thought she’d had it all. With Drake. No, couldn’t think of him right now. Her eyes surveyed the man in front of her. Hair the color of ashes, cut to precision, rested on top of a regal head. He wore a suit the color of soot. His pasty skin and limping demeanor told her that not all was as well as he wanted her to believe. A life was burning down inside of him.
He sat down in a black leather desk chair behind a mahogany desk. “I am the Collector.” His hands reached to the objects on his desk, forming a square with them.
Uh-huh. She’d expected a name now, not this title again. “O.K., Mr. Collector. Ms. Phelan said that you had a business proposition for me.”
A kind smile drew up his lips, revealing dingy teeth. “I do. One I think will be most lucrative for both of us.”
“What is it?”
The Collector slid a folder across the desk. “In there is everything you need to know. I’m looking for an artifact. A totem, if you will.”
She flipped through the sparse pages in the file. They were all connected to an artifact with records on where it had last been seen. “I’m not an archeologist.” She’d majored in history for one semester of college, but hadn’t finished her degree.
“I know.”
“Then why do you want me to find your treasure?” Her nose wrinkled. This man was wealthy. Her apartment would fit a few times inside this rental house. Why would he seek her out to find something for him?
“Call it a feeling. These items are not ... regular artifacts. It takes a special person to locate them.” He folded gnarled hands in front of him.
The item must be something he couldn’t get through regular channels. Wait, like she was so connected to the black market and had contacts that would help her? Why her? It didn’t make sense.
The Collector leaned forward in his chair. “I assure you, Ms. Richards, this is on the ... how do you young folks say it? Up and up? You can procure this item for me. I’m sure of it.” He handed her a small rectangular sheet of paper.
“Holy shit.” She’d never seen so many zeroes on a bank draft before. Her eyes widened so much that they hurt.
He pressed another one into her hands, which didn’t want to let go of the first to take it. “This is for coming to talk to me as agreed. And, it’s now ready to go whether you accept the job for me or not. The first one I gave you will be yours upon delivery of the item.”
The first bank draft wasn’t signed, but the second one now was. Now really, who signed things “The Collector?” But, apparently with as much money as he had, he could do whatever he wanted. “I’ll have expenses.” Her back straightened. Was she taking this job? She didn’t have anything else to do right now. That much money, and she would never worry about finances again. Nor would her sister, and that’s what counted.
He reached into a drawer and handed her a square of plastic. “For expenses.”
She tapped the cool credit card with her finger. “What’s the limit?”
“There isn’t one.”
Stroking the unlimited card with her fingers, she scooted forward in her chair. This man was giving her a job that would earn her more money than she could make in a lifetime and a credit card where she could spend the moon. Maybe her life was looking up. No, there had to be a catch. This was her life.
The man eased back in his chair, grunting with the effort. “You’re probably wondering why I’d give you something such as this card? I know that you won’t take advantage of me, Ms. Richards. Call it another feeling.”
“So, all I have to do is retrieve this artifact and bring it back to you? Nothing else?”
“That’s all, Ms. Richards.”
“And even if I fail, I keep the five thousand.” It was repetitive, but dammit, she was going to be sure of things before she left him.
He nodded. His breath caught as he wheezed low and deep. The sound whistled in his throat. His face turned red with the effort. She rose to her feet, about to call someone. He waved a hand, coughing, until he regained control over his breathing. “Do we have a deal?” The words were hoarse and raspy, barely spoken.
“Yes. We have a deal.” She sighed. Tempted by money, she couldn’t resist.
“Good.” The Collector held out his hand.
She grasped his smooth, cool one in hers to shake. A static spark pinged between them, almost as if it sealed the deal she’d made. A shiver ran along her spine, while her stomach curled up.
Oh, my God, what did I just do?
* * * * *
Drake put his booted feet up on the coffee table in his den. A thought, and on came the television. His mind flicked through the channels, making the TV scan, spending a second on each one.
Chloe had hated it when he channel surfed. Not that she’d known he wasn’t using the remote, but his magic. He’d become adept at convincing the world that he used ordinary means to get things done. It wasn’t hard; people looked to the mundane much easier than the fantastical.
He shook his head, clearing it of the random thought.
Why had he suddenly thought of his ex-wife? He hadn’t in longer than he cared to remember.
His body prickled, hairs standing on end, goosebumps erupting on his skin. The scent of vanilla invaded his nostrils.
He had the oddest desire to look over his shoulder and make sure she wasn’t there. But she couldn’t be, she wouldn’t be. She’d walked away over four years ago, unable to handle the things he’d had to keep from her. But still, the niggling sensation ate at him until he turned his head to view the area behind the couch.
Nothing was there but the usuals, a wet bar along with shelves of books and treasures from his ancestors and his career. His ex-career.
Rubbing a hand over his face, he put his feet on the floor and pushed himself off the couch. Walking behind it, he went to the bar, opened a bottle of tequila and poured it into a shot glass.
He took the shot quickly, wincing as the burning flavor edged down his throat. Pouring ano
ther, he surveyed the things resting on the white wooden shelves. Haphazardly arranged, the objects were not covered in dust or grime only because of the maid who came in once a week to clean.
They displayed the man he’d been and the family he’d come from with a wide array of types from elegant to comical.
Who needed a Drake Marsters lunchbox?
The crystalline artifact drew his gaze as it often did, its rounded smoothness without angles a puzzle. It was one of the most curious artifacts in his parents’ collection, which he had inherited but only brought to his estate two years ago.
This one item in particular caught his attention the most because of the low intermittent hum it made in the lower pitches of the hearing range. Not everyone could hear it. Somehow, he had a sense the artifact was important, though he didn’t understand why. It was the least documented item in his collection, making its monetary value questionable.
Glass in one hand, his other reached out to stroke the artifact’s phallic shape. Even with the obvious representation, his hands were always drawn to it. He couldn’t be close and not touch it.
He’d had a few historians look at it once it had been in his possession a while. None of them could tell him exactly what mineral or crystal had been used to form it. He didn’t know why it fascinated him so much, other than it was different. Like him.
Growing up magical in a world of nonmagic had set him apart, as it had his family for generations.
The artifact jiggled under his touch.
He pressed his fingers deeper into its smooth crevices.
Finishing his second drink, he set down the glass.
Maybe this thing, this crystal, was responsible for the abilities of his kin. He’d had the thought before, one reason why he couldn’t let tests be run despite the historians’ urgings. Suppose it stopped working. Then, he would stop working. But then again, he’d never been unable to do magic, even when it had been packed away in storage for so many years. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the magical ability passed through the males in his family.
THE COLLECTOR 1 - Magical Chances Page 1
