And now, it was as if I’d been totally erased.
Ghastly hunting trophies hung on the walls with dead predators caught in angry, roaring poses, or petrified animals frozen at the very moment they’d been shot. Horns, antlers, claws and fangs were on display everywhere. It was horrible, without a single trace of me—or what I used to think was me—and it made me stop, stunned.
“My-my room?” I whimpered.
Creek wrapped me in his arms.
Granny Tinker might be the psychic one at Turtle Shores, but Creek sure had an uncanny way of knowing what to do every time something got under my skin. He hugged me tight and pressed his cheek against my hair.
“We’ve all lost something, baby,” he whispered in comfort, rocking me a little. I could feel his strength pour into me. “That’s why we stick together at Turtle Shores—no one there will ever try to replace you.”
Then he cupped my cheeks in his hands and stared into my eyes. “Focus,” he warned, his gaze becoming so intense it scared me a little. “Tonight, we’re beautiful, and tough as nails. We’re on a mission. So we’re gonna get into that ballroom, and you’re gonna show me how to waltz, okay? And then we’re gonna fleece this asshole Tweedle for everything we can carry. Ready?”
I nodded, pumping up my courage. Throwing my shoulders back, I stood erect and raised my chin to a more regal stance. Then I clutched Creek’s hand and took purposeful strides towards the double French doors at the end of the hall like a princess about to survey her kingdom. Every nuance of my Geisha training suddenly came flooding back, and my mind reeled with cold Alpha chick manifestos designed to give me an edge.
I own everything and everyone I see—
People who glance at me will be floored by my charisma and power.
Charm is a force field that silences even the harshest critics.
This night is mine. And winners take all, no regrets.
Okay, so maybe my Geisha mantras were a bit over the top. But as the house servant returned to hand both Creek and I glasses of champagne and then opened the French doors for us to enter the ballroom, the music stopped and a hush fell over the entire crowd.
“Smile darling,” I whispered to Creek through my teeth. “You’re now the son of a Russian black market billionaire who doesn’t speak a word of English, and I’m your money whore. Don’t worry, this crowd is so shallow, they’ll drool at you muddy feet.”
I glanced at Creek, but he didn’t even crack a smile.
I should’ve known—he’d never been capable of phoniness. As long as he kept his mouth shut, everyone would be sucked in by his shocking good looks and air of mystery. And this night was in the bag.
“Sergei Azurkmonanoff from St. Petersburg and his guest,” I declared to the house servant, who nodded us in.
“The distinguished Sergei Azurkmonanoff and . . . companion,” the servant announced loudly over the crowd. I flashed a high-wattage smile to the sea of gray hair in the room, relieved to spy several young couples in the back who were the only ones who appeared younger than 40. Faster than I could say, “Move your ass, Creek,” I tugged on his hand to make a beeline to the far end of the room, keeping up my most stellar smile.
Chamber music filled my ears as the quartet on a small platform started up their stringed instruments again. Perfect, I thought, now it will be too loud for people to ask many questions. I dared to take a sip of the Dom Perignon. It was so dry I nearly spit up. Coughing, I gazed at Creek for rescue.
“Nyet,” he purred at me, shaking his head as if I were a silly child. I saw a twinkle rise in his eyes. All at once, he threw back the entire flute of champagne as though it were a shot of moonshine.
“Ah,” he pounded his chest and smiled triumphantly, lifting his glass to me in a mock toast. “Ain’t got nothin’ on the Colonel’s brew,” he whispered in my ear, and we both cracked up.
In one fell swoop, he’d set me completely at ease, and we giggled as we handed our glasses to a nearby servant who passed by. Then Creek gave me a gallant little bow and grasped my hand.
“Time to dance,” he whispered.
I nodded and set my hand delicately on his shoulder, trying my best to look sophisticated, when I noticed Creek’s attention was glued to my breasts that bulged over the gown’s plunging neckline.
“Creek, concentrate,” I whispered, yanking the dress up a little over my cleavage. “We have to waltz right now to blend in.”
Creek shook his head and blinked. Then he flashed me an amazing smile, the kind that lit up the whole room.
I swear, several women around us nearly fainted at his feral charisma.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Follow my lead.”
To my surprise, he whisked me away in a series of magical three-steps on the dance floor, smoother than any of the ballroom veterans that surrounded us. Beneath the sparkling chandeliers, I felt like we were floating. Expertly, he weaved our bodies through the crowd of black tuxes and bright, flowing gowns as though he’d done this dozens of times.
Creek caught the wonder in my eyes, and it made him laugh.
“Surprised a guy from the backwoods can sweep you off your feet?” he whispered slyly as we skirted past other couples, our moves the most graceful in the room. “When you do round dances at barns and hoedowns from the time you can walk,” he said, cleverly spinning me in a twirl with mischievous grin, “you kinda get the gist of it.”
The pride showed in his eyes, and in that instant I felt like we were the only two people who existed—and the music was flowing right through us and making us fly. Every note from the quartet seemed to match the sparkling feeling that alighted in my heart. I wanted to stretch out my arms, just to see if I might actually rise in the air to the rhythm of Creek’s gentle swirls. But a peculiar knot began to tighten in my stomach, as though my insides were clenching like a fist.
It didn’t make sense. Hours had passed since I’d eaten Lorraine’s pot pie, and surely I would have digested my dinner by now?
Turning a little, I caught sight of Charles Tweedle—and the knot in my belly changed into a mean twist, like a knife. He was a short, balding man with sharp features and a strange, brooding air of darkness—the kind of guy you could feel before you set eyes on him. And if you weren’t careful, something about his dark energy could make your throat tighten up and squeeze.
Tweedle’s badger eyes locked onto mine, and I saw him smile. Not just any smile, but the grin of a pirate. We were making his ballroom look good, and he knew it—and he would probably parlay the success of this event into climbing several rungs up the social ladder. As Creek kept maneuvering our bodies into smooth waltzing steps, Tweedle glared at me and gave me a nod. Shivers skimmed down my back. His eyes appeared like they already owned me, and the “taking” was merely a matter of logistics. He broke away from the men he’d been chatting with at the edge of the dance floor and walked straight towards us.
“Dance?” he commanded in a husky tone, ignoring Creek.
Creek stiffened, offering no response. But he refused to let go of my hand.
I gave Tweedle a sweet smile. “He doesn’t understand English,” I apologized. “Do you Sergei?”
“Well I insist,” Tweedle said, and before I knew it, he’d shoved himself between me and Creek.
And I got scared. Really scared.
Not because Tweedle’s thick hand gripped mine until it hurt while his other hand thrust into the small of my back as if he were ready to throw me down and have sex right then and there. But because the ferocious look that took over Creek’s gaze made me fear he was about to tear him apart.
Creek’s angry eyes searched mine.
Go—I can handle this, I lip-synched silently to Creek as Tweedle pushed me away from him far too hard, forcing my body into jerking, three-step strides. He was so short I could feel his hot breath upon my cleavage, but it wasn’t until his foot crunched mine that I nearly lost it. Stifling a yelp, I held my ground as he shoved me round and round in disorganized circles
. By the greedy look in his eyes, it quickly became apparent why he’d picked me.
He thought I was the prettiest woman in the room.
He probably had no idea I was only sixteen—or maybe he just didn’t care.
And when I glanced to the side of the dance floor at his skinny, helmet-haired wife Chloe, who was laughing with some of her society friends, it was obvious to me that she didn’t give a damn either. I knew her type. As long as Tweedle kept the big bucks rolling in, she was happy to amuse herself at the country club or with her own string of secret lovers.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Tweedle interrupted my thoughts. His words sounded a bit winded by his own aggressive dance pace.
I offered him another smile. “R-Regina,” I lied. Thinking fast, I decided to make this dance from hell count big time. “You know, my poor friend Sergei doesn’t know a speck of English.” I clutched Tweedle’s shoulder and forced his body into a hard left to make him see Creek standing alone by the wall. “He can’t entertain much small talk with your guests. Believe me, Sergei’s not good for anyone when he’s unhappy. Do you happen to have a Smoking Room somewhere that we could enjoy? So he might want to bring me back again to see you some time?”
I knew damn well where the Cigar Room was in the house, but I wanted Tweedle to feel like it was his idea.
Then I shocked myself by seductively tracing a finger along Tweedle’s sweaty temple and dragging it down his cheek to his lip. Moving in on him, I invitingly edged my mouth within a hair’s breadth of his. Tweedle reciprocated by nibbling a little on my fingertip, his mouth slipping into a smile.
“Sure,” he said. I could feel his hot breath on my finger. “The Smoking Room’s upstairs. Very secluded—perfect for intimate entertainment, if you know what I mean.”
Ew—ew—ew!!
I wanted to yank back my finger and then crawl underneath the dance floor and die.
And I spotted Creek to the right of me by the wall, his hands balled into fists.
Swiftly, I shook my head at Creek, but his rage didn’t decrease a bit, despite the gaggle of women who’d begun to flutter around him, laughing and trying to grab his attention.
What bothered me most wasn’t even my finger on Tweedle’s icky lips, but his smell. The guy reeked of something oily and musky and overbearing—maybe his amped up testosterone. But I was on a mission, and I knew failure was not an option right now.
Tantalizingly, I traced my finger all the way around Tweedle’s mouth. “Well, why don’t you let me show your Smoking Room to Sergei, and then, who knows? While he finishes a cigar, you might just have to give me a tour of the rest of your house? I especially love little, out of the way rooms.”
Tweedle nodded with a gleam in his eye, which I took as my cue to break away. Keeping my hand on his shoulder, I ran it teasingly all the way down his arm before I let him go.
“Thirty minutes?” I said. “And then I’ll come back down to the ballroom, and you can give me a private tour?”
Tweedle nodded without looking me in the eye. His attention was too firmly focused on my breasts.
So I turned and scurried towards Creek with a secretive thumbs up sign. He nodded at me, appearing relieved.
“The stairs,” I whispered as soon as we were face to face. I shot a glance at another set of French doors at the back of the ballroom. “As soon as we exit, they’re to the left, and they go directly to the Cigar Room.”
Creek grasped me by the elbow and we tried to leave the ballroom as nonchalantly as possible, even though I could feel Tweedle’s possessive gaze zeroing in on my back the entire way.
“Dirty old man,” I sputtered the minute we busted past the doors and let them fall shut. By this time, Creek had clutched my hand and was leading me in a race up the stairs.
I nearly fell off Brandi’s shoes. I’d never been allowed to wear high heels at Pinnacle or anywhere else before, but luckily, Creek’s grip was sure and steady.
“Hold on, baby,” he said as we scaled the steps, focusing on a door we could see above us on the left. As soon as we reached the top, we darted inside and flipped on the light.
Nothing was the same here, either. Instead of the dark, cherry wood paneling and the pool table that used to sit in the middle, the Cigar Room was now was filled with airy frescos painted on pale, stucco walls and what looked like Louis XIV-style chairs. Some decorator must’ve made a killing on the original artwork.
But fortunately, the old humidor was in the exact same spot. Creek and I dashed to the glass door and stepped inside the slightly warmer and humid space that had shelf upon shelf of expensive cigars—with a few bags of coke sandwiched in between.
“Guess Tweedle aims to please,” I nodded at Creek with a shrug.
We both stared at the parquet floor. It had little zig-zags of dark and light hardwood planks spread across the bottom of the humidor. My heart was racing out of control. I tried hard to remember what my dad had said about the location of his secret box.
“Third ebony plank to the right, just underneath the section for illegal Cuban cigars,” I said aloud, squinting at the floor, then up at the shelves.
But the Cuban cigars weren’t there any more.
I gasped, running my hand up the boxes. They were all from Brazil, Camaroon, the Dominican Republic . . . alongside bag after bag of white powder, and a few grayish rocks I didn’t recognize.
“Oh my God, where is it?” I cried, stomping my foot on the floor to see which piece of wood might fidget a little. “How can we possibly find the loose plank?”
Creek got on his knees and began banging the planks with his fist. “None of them move, Robin. I don’t think it’s actually the same floor.”
Horrified, I kneeled down beside Creek in shock. He was right—upon closer inspection, I could tell this wasn’t the same floor at all. My dad’s parquet floor had been fashioned from rare woods. When I pressed my hand against the surface, I realized it was cold and made of stone.
Panicked, I felt my own body heat rise to my forehead, and my pulse throbbed in my ears.
“Creek, what are we going to do?” I howled. “We only have a few more minutes!”
Creek grabbed me by the shoulders.
“You saw her. You told me you did. You have the gift, and you can find her now—”
“What?” I shook my head. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The feather!” Creek’s gaze met mine with a laser-like focus that rocked me to my bones. He pulled one of Brandi’s high heels off my foot and held it up. “Before you put on your shoes at the dry cleaners, I slipped a feather inside here, in case we needed it.”
“Those feathers aren’t magic, Creek!” I said, flabbergasted. “We’re not in the boondocks right now. Granny’s voodoo doesn’t work here.”
Creek glared at me, his stare so cold I felt like he’d frozen my heart into place.
“Maybe the magic does work here,” he challenged, “If we let it. There doesn’t have to be a difference between the deep woods and this humidor. What matters is what we feel in our hearts. We don’t have anything left to lose, Robin—except for Brandi’s life.”
Leave it to Creek to say the one, piercing thing that could totally knock the wind out of me.
He was right.
“Okay-okay,” I folded my arms in a huff and closed my eyes. I felt incredibly silly in a sparkling ball gown like some over-the-top New Age chick hoping to channel a spirit, but it’s not like we had a whole lot of options left. I cracked one eye open just long enough to yank the feather from Creek’s hand, and then I waved it in the air and tried to focus.
“M-Mom,” I said haltingly—I’d never called anyone that out loud before. “I need your help right now. I don’t know if you’re alive or dead. But I need your spirit to show me how to find Dad’s box.”
I felt Creek’s warm hands cover mine, but other than that, nothing came.
No images of Alessia’s beautiful face. No hearing her penetrating words
in a dream-like moment. My mind was a total blank.
“M-Mommy,” I whispered. My teeth clenched together as I allowed myself to go deep inside, to that tiny but very golden place where I dared to believe—in spite of all of the odds—that there might actually be a mother who existed for me somewhere. One who really cared. And it left me feeling totally vulnerable and exposed. I licked a tear that had slipped onto my lips and pressed on. “We don’t want to lose Brandi,” I blurted in a pleading tone. “All it takes is money. Stupid money! Please, Mom, please help us—”
And that’s when I noticed it. Not all at once, but gradually, as though embracing me like a mysterious hug. A fragrance began to envelop us, similar to lavender, with a touch of wild grasses from warm, sunny fields. The smell started to permeate the humidor, dominating the husky, leathery scent of cigars. And then I heard a thump that scared the freaking daylights out of me—
A plain wooden box had fallen to the floor, jolting my eyes open.
Creek and I stared at each other, spooked. We glanced down, noticing that cigars had spilled from inside the box, along with a small feather.
And two cards.
La Fortuna and Amore—
The Wheel of Fortune and The Lovers.
I began trembling.
“It-it’s a sign,” I stuttered, my fingers quivering as I picked up the cards.
Creek gently lifted up the box and ran his hand along the bottom of the inside, giving it a hard knock. Sure enough, it sounded hollow. Before I knew it, he’d smashed the box against the stone floor.
There they were—a sheet with the Swiss bank account numbers typed on it and old newspaper clippings. I seized them, my whole body shaking now. On a yellowed article stared back at me, in faded black and white, the most beautiful face I’d ever seen. And I recognized her—she was the same woman from my dreams. The caption below the photo read: Alessia de Bargona, the most striking young woman to grace the Cincinnati social register in decades.
“It’s her, Creek!” I gasped. “The contractors must’ve found this box when they replaced the floor and put it on the shelf. Her picture’s so beautiful. This must be what my dad meant when he said he keeps Alessia here.”
Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) Page 19
