by Julie Leto
His gaze locked on her. She nearly shrank back under his scrutiny—but only nearly.
“Where is this place?”
“An island off the coast of Florida.”
A corner of his mouth quirked. Not in a grin, exactly, but he knew what she was talking about, that was for sure. “So you’re a child of Valoren?”
She sneered. “I’m not Gypsy, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then what are you?”
She stepped fully into his personal space. “A woman who is running out of patience. I want the charm.”
“I don’t know where it is,” he replied.
“You’re lying,” she insisted.
“I wish I were. I had the necklace years ago, but I’m afraid it was stolen. You’re one step behind your rival, I’m afraid. Who is, I suspect,” he said, the lilt of a guess in his voice, “your brother?”
Gamma’s heart clenched in her chest. There was a family resemblance. Supposedly around the eyes, though she didn’t see it. “You know Keith?”
Paschal rubbed his chin, his strong, square jaw speckled with white stubble. “We’ve met. He took my class at the university. I don’t think he realized that I knew who he was. Honestly, took some time for me to figure it out. He had a tattoo. Gave him away.”
Gemma nodded. She had that same tattoo, but not in a place visible to the general public.
“So he has the Queen’s Charm?” she asked, her tone bitter. She’d wondered, when she’d taken Farrow’s side in the schism, why Keith hadn’t been more upset. He’d been one step ahead of her, the prick.
“I assume he has it, but I do not know for sure. The necklace was, however, stolen from me before he was born. Twenty years ago now. I’d returned to Germany to figure out where I went wrong in unlocking Rogan’s secrets. A common thief snatched it from my hotel room safe. Poor bugger likely had no idea of its true purpose and power. Probably pawned it for a pint. Then, a few months ago,” he said, his eyes twinkling as if she’d find this portion of the tale amusing, “the charm surfaced with a jewelry dealer in Berlin. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived at the shop, a young American man had paid an obscene amount to entice the dealer to sell it to him rather than to me.”
“Keith doesn’t have obscene amounts of money,” she argued.
“I suspect, though, he has friends who do?”
Click. Alexa Chandler. Jacob Sharpe. He was the hotelier’s stepbrother and he had at least as much money as Farrow, likely more, at his disposal.
“At first,” Paschal went on, oblivious to Gemma’s revelation, “I supposed this American thought it would be a nice trinket for his girlfriend. But then I heard about the fractious doings within the K’vr—”
She gasped.
“Yes,” he said with a nod, “I know of the K’vr. One cannot explore the history and legacy of Lord Rogan without knowing of the K’vr, my dear. Charming group, yours.”
Paschal’s dismissive attitude infuriated her, but she held her tongue. This wily old man could prove even more useful than she’d originally imagined, even without the Queen’s Charm. If her brother had it, she’d need to rethink her alliances. If Farrow had somehow acquired it and his quest to recover it through her had simply been a ruse to keep her busy while he usurped all the power for himself, that changed things as well.
She’d always assumed that her techno-addicted baby brother had not taken the time, as she had, to read the actual books, letters, diaries and sociological papers about the history of Lord Rogan and the followers of the K’vr that had been handed down through generations. According to her studies, the K’vr had possessed the charm sometime in the eighteen hundreds. The leader at the time—a great-great uncle twice removed or some such—had explored the charm’s magic to near obsession.
He’d learned that the necklace that had once belonged to a Hanoverian queen who’d then bestowed the trinket upon a British nobleman sent as governor to the Gypsy haven of Valoren, was literally a key. The magic woven into the links of the gold chain and the delicate points of the interlocked triangles not only provided a powerful protection spell, but had been enhanced by Rogan himself to immunize the wearer against his magic.
With the key in her possession, Gemma would finally enter the castle of Valoren, now rebuilt on an island off the Florida coast. And inside, Rogan’s magic existed. The source of his legendary power would be hers for the taking. Once she was inside.
“So you know what it does?” she asked.
“Quite,” he replied.
Gemma grabbed Paschal by the arm. “Does the source of the magic exist in the castle? Will the charm get me what I want?”
He countered her move and wrapped his hand around her wrist, his thumb pressed painfully between her wrist bones. Strength surged through his wrinkled skin. “You know what I know, don’t you?”
“Let go of me,” she ordered.
The corner of his mouth tilted into a sardonic smile. “You weren’t so adverse to my touch yesterday.”
“Yesterday, I thought you had what I wanted.” He loosened his grip and she yanked free. “Now you’re useless.”
“Am I?”
She marched toward the door, but the cockiness in his voice stopped her. She turned. If ever a man resembled a cat who ate the canary, it was Paschal Rousseau.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
With a flick of his gaze, Paschal alerted Gemma that he knew about the surveillance equipment. Clearly, he wasn’t simply an erudite professor with obscure tastes in Gypsy artifacts. He knew about the K’vr. About the inner strife for leadership. About her brother. Though a copy had been hard to find, she’d read his paper on the existence of Valoren and the cover-up by the court of King George II to erase its existence from the history books. Apparently, he knew, as she did, that the colony had been a breeding ground for unparalleled magic—magic she intended to take for herself.
“The charm alone will not invoke the magic you seek,” he informed her casually. “I know. I tried.”
“You?”
“Twice. Once in Germany, and once”—he moved forward, wrapped his arms around her waist, thrust her close and whispered into her ear—”after I moved the castle to Florida.”
He nibbled on her neck, which she supposed played well for the camera. Thankfully, she was facing the window, so her shocked expression remained out of anyone’s view. Farrow himself likely wasn’t watching, since he’d called a meeting with the elders of the K’vr—a gathering he’d kept her from attending by demanding she get answers from Rousseau before the night was through. She suspected his blind faith in her had started to falter. Between that and the news about Alexa Chandler, which she’d intercepted, Gemma was running out of time. No more games. She needed Rousseau’s knowledge, but not here. If Farrow had even an inkling of suspicion that she planned to double-cross him, they’d both be dead within the hour.
She closed her eyes and, for a few moments, allowed Paschal’s skilled lips to soothe away the tension in her neck and shoulders. She supposed she’d made worse bargains than trading sexual favors for information from a fascinating man like Paschal. He clearly knew more than even Farrow suspected. Her smartest move would be to get him out of the estate now, while Farrow was occupied and darkness was on her side.
“If your brother has the charm,” he murmured, “he’s one step ahead of you.”
She retrieved Paschal’s hand from kneading into her buttocks and pulled him toward the door. “Come on,” she instructed.
“Where are we going?”
She looked straight at the hidden camera. “To tell Farrow what you just told me. He’ll be eternally grateful, monsieur.”
She glanced at the barred window, at the door, then winked. Paschal’s crooked grin told her he understood. Once they’d escaped, she’d pump him for the rest of the information he undoubtedly possessed. If he knew the charm wasn’t enough to gain entrance to the castle, did he know what else she’d need?
Tearing open the d
oor, she was immediately confronted by two of Farrow’s armed guards.
She grabbed the muzzle of one’s gun and shoved it out of her face. “How dare you! Professor Rousseau has important information for Farrow. Move out of my way.”
They complied. Walking proudly, Gemma strutted down the corridor, Paschal’s hand still tight in hers. Once at the archway, a right turn would lead them to Farrow’s suite. Left led into the main rooms of the house, through which they could access the grounds and, if lucky, escape.
At the end of the hall, Gemma moved to the left, but Paschal tugged her hard toward the right.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he placed a soft finger over her lips and moved her out of the sight of the guards.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my many years, my dear, it’s that subtlety can be a valuable skill.”
They had to keep moving. Security cameras were everywhere. If they hesitated too long, they’d be found.
“So you really want to tell Farrow what you told me?” she asked.
“Farrow Pryce? That power-hungry upstart? Good God, no. But I also don’t think his associates will allow us to waltz out the front door, no matter how incredibly persuasive you are.”
“I haven’t persuaded you of anything.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself. You’ve persuaded me to help you.” He glanced briefly down the hall, then reached up and tapped a decorative tile on the wall. A panel immediately swung open and he yanked her inside mere seconds before it slid shut again.
They were drowned in darkness. “How did you know this was here?” she whispered.
His chuckle belonged to a much younger man. “I know something about secret passageways. Judging by the fortified armaments, I guessed this hacienda was owned by a drug lord or other unscrupulous type. And drug lords always have secret passageways.”
“That doesn’t explain—”
“Is now the time, or should we simply make a run for it?”
At that moment, an alarm sounded. Screeching wails blasted around them, though the painful pitch was muted by the walls behind which they hid.
“I guess someone figured out we’re up to no good,” she said.
“It’s been years since I’ve been up to no good,” Paschal said wistfully, then tugged her tight into his arms. “Let’s make the most of it, shall we?”
***
“This is Mariah. You know what to do.”
With a curse, Ben snapped his cell phone shut. He’d already left three messages. Why he’d thought for five seconds that his ex would be hanging around town, twiddling her thumbs, waiting to provide aid in his personal crisis, he didn’t know. Mariah Hunter was a lot of things, but accessible wasn’t one of them—not unless she had something to gain.
“Any luck?” Cat asked, glancing at him from the driver’s seat.
He shoved the phone into his pocket. “No, but keep going. I know where she keeps her bird. I’m sure she won’t mind if I borrow it for a few hours.”
“What if she’s taken it?”
Ben would deal with that contingency when and if necessary. Born into a family of bush pilots from the Northern Territory of Australia, Mariah preferred her Cessna to her Eurocopter. She’d won the chopper in a poker game and the craft had saved both their asses more than once during their string of retrieval operations in southern Mexico. Ben hoped the whirlybird would provide the same good luck this time. if Cat’s visions were accurate—and he had no reason to believe they weren’t—they didn’t have much time to rescue Paschal from the Hill Country before all hell broke loose.
“If she’s got the bird,” he replied, “we’ll take her Cessna and make do.”
“Do you always go around stealing your ex-girlfriend’s flying machines?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “I didn’t say she was my ex-girlfriend.”
“You didn’t have to. There’s a growl in your voice when you say her name. Not a sexy growl, either. More like a mad dog.”
“I don’t growl,” he claimed, but even he heard the guttural undertone in his voice.
Cat snickered and Ben just shook his head. He should have known better than to try and be coy around a gifted psychic like Cat, whose abilities were growing every minute.
“Ma-ri-ah,” he said, stringing out the name so he could enunciate each syllable without snarling, “owes me. And right now, she’s all we’ve got.”
Without his reminding her, Cat switched lanes and took the exit that led to Mariah’s hangar. “I called Alexa,” she offered. “She’s not answering her satellite phone, but her assistant is on alert and can arrange a ride for us in thirty minutes, tops. Crown Chandler has all sorts of private transportation at its disposal.”
Ben checked his watch. They were only ten minutes from the private airport on the outskirts of San Antonio where many of the pilots had questionable pasts, so for the right price, few questions were asked. If the guards remembered him, they would be able to get in and out with minimal fuss.
“That’ll be Plan B, but we’re too close to Mariah’s place to wait for Alexa to pull her strings and get us a lift. Let’s just hope we won’t need a Plan C.”
As they pulled off the highway onto an unlit, single-lane road, Ben had to face the fact that seeking out Mariah was more than just necessary to save his father. Until Cat came into his life, Ben had thought that his ex had destroyed his ability to trust and his ability to care about a woman who, with her innate sensual power, had the means to carve even the strongest man’s heart into a bitter shell. Ben hadn’t realized how high he’d valued his romantic ideals until Mariah had torn them down.
His mother had loved his father in ways Ben never could completely understand. And his father had capitulated to his mother’s every whim—except when it conflicted with one of his mysterious jaunts to retrieve this or that item related to Gypsy lore. Ben had taken up antiquities hunting honestly, so to speak, then had fallen hard for Mariah the first time she’d acted as his partner in crime. He’d been a fool, but so what? He was done hating himself for wearing his heart on his sleeve, where Mariah had had easy access to rip it to shreds. In the four years since their definitive breakup, he’d healed. He’d kept his relationships superficial, but he’d healed.
If he hadn’t, Cat wouldn’t have seeped into his bloodstream so easily.
Luckily for Ben, Cat was as resourceful as she was beautiful. With a wad of cash provided by her heiress friend, Cat bought them onto the airfield property. Two hidden keys, three security codes and a picked lock later, and they were in Mariah’s hangar. Thanks to his ex’s obsessive need to be ready to depart in the shortest amount of time, Ben and Cat were in the air in less than an hour.
“She’s going to kill you, isn’t she?” Cat asked into the speaker that fed into Ben’s headphones.
“If she hasn’t killed me by now, taking her bird in an emergency isn’t going to push her over the edge.”
Cat flashed him a dubious look, then opened the map across her lap. She’d circled the area where she’d sensed Paschal was being held, and Ben had already charted the coordinates into the navigation system. Compared to Mariah, he was a rank amateur as a pilot, but he could get them there.
Question was, could he get them back?
Even at dicey airstrips like Mariah’s, security kept him from bringing his gun with him. Fortunately, he’d known where to look for Mariah’s. He had a high-powered rifle for himself and a pistol for Cat, though she’d refused to touch the weapon unless absolutely necessary. Another difference between her and Mariah.
They seemed to be adding up, which forced Ben to realize that he was, like so many men before him, a complete and total idiot.
After twenty minutes in the air, Cat asked, “We should be close now, right?”
He checked the navigation computer and found she was correct. “You’ve got a great sense of direction.”
Catalina smirked. “Thanks to this,” she said, holding up the catalog of swords she had t
aken from his father’s secret room. Of all of Paschal’s belongings, including the diary, she’d claimed this one had given off the most intense vibrations. His father hadn’t shown much interest in weaponry before. Gypsies weren’t the types to sign up for anyone’s war. But he didn’t waste time questioning her. Not with his father’s life on the line.
“We need to go in low,” he said, scanning the countryside, “and look for a clearing where we can put this down as close to the place where they’re holding him as possible. Since they didn’t ask for ransom or contact anyone, they’re likely not expecting a rescue attempt.”
And yet, as they flew over the estate where Cat sensed Paschal was being held, Ben spotted fortifications that made his skin crawl. Far from any lit road, the spacious hacienda was surrounded by a tall fence, likely electrified, judging by the red lights on the posts that blinked at regular intervals. The land abutted a shadowy ravine. The rock slope, even from a distance, looked difficult to traverse without equipment, and while Mariah was an accomplished climber, he doubted she stored her gear on board the whirlybird.
Otherwise, he’d done the right thing in hijacking Mariah’s helicopter. By land, they’d be spotted easily. Trouble was, how could they possibly put down inside the grounds without being seen? They couldn’t. But if they landed nearby and hiked in, how would they get past the electrified fence?
“We could always knock on the front door,” Cat suggested.
He understood the irony in her tone when he saw armed men standing in the lit entryway. Unfortunately, they saw him as well. One fired. The other tore inside.
Ben pulled up and spun away from the estate. Once clear, he found a safe spot to hover while he organized his thoughts.
“We’re not ready for this kind of operation,” Ben said. He loved his father. He couldn’t bear to think he’d be hurt simply because his son failed to come up with a decent plan.
Cat reached across and laid her hand on his leg. “Too bad for us. We either move in now or never.”
