Born of Magic: Mata Hari Series #2

by Jo-Ann Carson

  Her six-month anniversary with her lover Sebastian Wilde in Venice is ruined. He doesn’t want her to go back to the life of a spy, but Sadie has no choice. The arms-dealer needs to be stopped and she wants to find the people behind the assassination attempt on her life.

  Ancient Danger is the second book in the Mata Hari series, which can be read as a stand alone. If you like Indiana Jones and Covert Affairs, you’ll love this book, which combines all of their best traits in a a fast-paced captivating and sexy, romantic suspense.

  Buy Ancient Danger today, if you want adventure and romance in your life.

  Life is complicated for Sadie Stewart.

  a cross between Covert Danger and Indiana Jones

  Buy Link

  * * *

  Lovin’Danger

  Mata Hari Series, Book4

  (A Novella)

  Sadie Stewart, international model by day, CIA operative by night, wants it all: the danger and intrigue of being a spy, the glamour of modeling on the international stage and the love of a good man. But after she survives the second assassination attempt on her life, her world spins out of control.

  Art dealer, Sebastian Wilde, a Viking with cool, blue eyes and the body of a Norse God, wants Sadie safe and by his side. And Sadie’s boss, the infamous master-spy, Jeremiah Cole, demands she follow his orders.

  When Sadie faces the assassin alone, she risks everything.

  by award-winning author

  Jo-Ann Carson

  Smart, Sexy Suspense

  Buy Link

  About the Author - Jo-Ann Carson

  Jo-Ann Carson has lived most of her life on islands off the west coast of Canada, surrounded by snow covered mountains, lush rain forests and pristine beaches.

  Growing up, she dreamed of traveling the world like James Bond, searching for relics like Indiana Jones, and finding true love, so it’s no surprise that in her Mata Hari Series she combines elements of adventure, danger and steamy romance.

  Excerpt from Ancient Danger

  CHAPTER 1

  Venice, Italy, October

  Stifling the desire to scream, Sadie stood on top of the fourteenth-century Venetian palazzo looking out over the lagoon and its islands. No point risking the lives of others. She took a deep breath of the salty air blowing in off the Adriatic Sea. The red-tiled rooftops, round domes and cathedral spires of the ancient city spread to the west. For hundreds of years noblemen had used this perch to watch the arrival of merchant ships from the Orient with their exotic wares. Now it had become her trap.

  Below, an opera singer in the bow of a gondola serenaded young lovers nestled inside, while the gondolier at the stern in his blue and white striped shirt navigated the still night waters. Venice, a city steeped in history and secrets, a place where anything could happen in a heartbeat and did; a sanctuary for people like her who wanted to disappear. It was her second home.

  Happy sounds of the party roared around her, while her heart stilled. Sadie kept her cover-girl smile in place, as a tingle crawled across her scalp. Why tonight of all nights?

  She’d been with Sebastian for six months, not always in the same geographical location, but together-together in the way that really counts—in the heart. Tonight was their six month anniversary and she’d wanted everything to be perfect. That’s why she’d chosen to meet him in Venice.

  The fact that a big masquerade ball had been planned for a charity they both supported made it all the more perfect. She looked around, taking in the success of the event with her eyes and the danger with her mind.

  Who could recognize her? A black lace mask fashioned by a local artist covered the top half of her face. She’d dressed in a red, silk and satin Marie Antoinette gown that hid her model thin stature. She blended well with the reveling crowds that packed the Restaurant terrazza.

  Inside, a band dressed in embroidered gold knickers and topcoats played modern dance music heavy on the sax. Their sultry music set a provocative tone. The smell of expensive perfumes and the sweat of people hungry for excitement saturated the warm night air with a growing sense of anticipation that had a throbbing pulse of its own.

  Curling a loose tendril of her long red hair around her index finger, Sadie studied the moment, slowing it down, soaking in every detail. What had she been thinking, leaving herself so exposed? Had she been thinking? She swallowed.

  Fifteen yards to her left loomed the predatory male. Closing in.

  Watching him from the corner of her eye for the last ten minutes she’d assessed the threat level. Way too high for her liking. Tall, lean and sturdy like a basketball center, the man had a fluid and menacing air about him as if he readied for battle. He wore a black woolen cape over black clothes, a tricorne hat over a white wig and a gold, baroque, satiro mask. It was the popular carnivale guise of the satyr, a creature from Greek mythology known for reveling in the pleasures of the flesh and it covered the man’s identity well, but not his intent.

  He looked at her as if she had a bulls-eye on her forehead, and the way he moved, stealth-like, hunting his prey, set off her warning bells. The hair on the nape of her neck rose. He could be an assassin sent to kill her to make her secrets disappear, or he could be someone from her past wanting revenge in a more personal way. Given her former life as a spy, many possibilities came to mind. She balled her fists, letting the sharp edges of her nails pierce her skin.

  She searched for his hands, but they were hidden beneath his long, black cloak. Did he have a weapon? Her senses sharpened as she scanned the area again. He appeared to be alone.

  Two couples close to her chatted about the fruity bouquet of their wine. One tasted an edge of oak, another chocolate. Not a friend in sight. Pulling up her heavy skirt, she prepared to move if he came closer. In peak condition she could run fast, but her gown and stupid shoes would slow her down. Perhaps enough to get caught this time. And then what?

  The satyr took another step towards her and they made eye contact for the first time. A cold connection zapped between them, like the kiss of a lizard. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck and she shivered.

  Escape. She had to escape. People flooded the terrace and restaurant inside, like a tightly knit school of piranha. She could barely breathe let alone move, the place was so packed. Where were the security men? She’d insisted they hire an extra team of trained people, because there would be so many wealthy people attending. Big money draws crime. Had they been distracted? Distracted professionals—that was never a good sign. She licked her lips and edged away from her hunter.

  If only she could slip into the shadows. But there were none. Exposed and vulnerable. She couldn’t scream for help, because that would force the stalker to make a move. That could get nasty. Squeezing her fists more tightly she waited for her moment, knowing that choosing it wisely could be a matter of life or death.

  So many people—innocent people. She couldn’t let anyone get hurt. Not because of her, and the choices she’d made in her life. As her pulse quickened, the irony of the situation humored her. She had suggested this site for the charity ball, because it looked like an enchanted palace in a storybook, and they were raising money for childhood cancer research. Now she’d been trapped in her fantasy. She looked down. Another black gondola left its mooring carrying lovers through the night. If she could go back in time…

  Turning to face the crowd, she scanned the party for Sebastian. He’d left her side twenty minutes ago to take an urgent phone call from his aunt’s doctor. Had that call been staged?

  Not that Sadie needed a man to rescue her. She could take care of herself. But it would be nice to see him and his broad shoulders right about now.

  Elaborate masks and costumes made it hard to tell who the bad guys were. Or how many. But it still appeared the satyr hunted alone.

  She reviewed her options once more. She’d love to phone for help, but lifting her big skirt to remove the cell-phone strapped to the inside of her right thigh would cause too much commotion and give the saty
r time to pounce. She fidgeted.

  The satyr’s stare burned the side of her head. So disgusting. No matter how this night ended, she’d hate the satyr mask forever.

  The cacophony of voices speaking many languages and dialects grew louder. The party had hit its zenith.

  At moments like this, adrenalin pushed her senses to the extreme. The crowd became one large pulsating body of humanity. She could feel and smell the longing of unfulfilled desires in the crowd. A transcendental moment before all hell broke loose.

  Looking over her shoulder, she spied him ten yards away. His mouth was unusually empty of expression, as if he’d faced his existential wall and lost. His dark eyes glared. She grabbed the stone banister with both hands and scrambled to the top. Once on her knees she pulled herself to a standing position. The breeze cooled her skin as she found her balance like a gymnast.

  People gasped. “Dio, Dio,” one man cried. A murmur of concern spread through the crowd as they turned to look at her, the crazy woman

  “Tell Sebastian Wilde I need him,” she yelled at the wide-eyed group of people near her, hoping someone might know the popular art dealer and understand her message. At the very least, the people with their eyes on her would get the desperation of her dramatic act and call the police. The confusion created by her climb would make it harder for her stalker to pounce. She gritted her teeth, hoping the man in black would disappear into the shadows from which he’d oozed.

  But he didn’t. She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. Pushing back his cloak, the stalker quickened his pace and moved to close the gap between them.

  The top of the foot-wide marble railing had been built sturdily, and she could stand on it as long as she didn’t look down. She most definitely couldn’t look down. Edging to the east she focused on keeping her footing steady and breathing. She needed oxygen to fuel her muscles. She’d been trained to handle adrenalin rushes. Steady breathing—would do the trick. She could do this. As long as she didn’t… Her right foot slipped. Damn the stupid shoes. She kicked one off, then the other. People below started yelling and looking up. The marble felt cool to her feet. Her skirt brushed the surface and she pulled it up with her hands.

  “Look a woman is standing on the railing. Look,” yelled a woman below. Other cries were muted as she focused on her step. Tunnel vision. Another sign of the adrenalin rushing through her system.

  The people on the terrace pushed away from her, as if she might pull them over. No one wanted to be grabbed by a lunatic on a ledge. A white-haired dowager squared her shoulders and marched up to her reaching for her with a thin hand covered in blue veins. “Come down from there,” she demanded like an old school marm. “Is it man trouble? Trust me dear, they aren’t worth it.”

  Sadie shook her head. A slight gust of air brushed her shoulder as a shiny Ninja star sped past her skin, missing by an inch. Great, the satyr’s a Mutant Ninja Turtle in disguise. She gripped the surface of the banister with her toes, an impossible task, but she tried all the same.

  The older woman screamed. “Someone’s attacking her,” and ran back into the throng.

  Could this night get any freaking worse?

  As if in answer to her question, a second star whizzed by her mouth. This time it missed by half an inch. Sweet Jesus. Keep your balance Sadie. A familiar metallic taste flooded her mouth, her focus sharpened even more. Left foot, breathe, right foot… She talked her way forward, her muscles cramping from the strain.

  It made no sense. What kind of man would throw Ninja weapons in the middle of a charity ball? He had to be either really desperate, really stupid, or… confident he could get away with it. As her former spy-boss Jeremiah once said: “Venice is a city where secrets hide for centuries.” Sweat poured from her body drenching her bra and panties, which stuck to her like a second skin. She wiped at her eyes to see more clearly. Not looking down. She couldn’t look down. She inched along. Surely someone would come and help her soon.

  A third star. This time a freaking quarter inch away. The air whipped by her face, swishing as the disc sliced through it. The satyr-turtle neared.

  And why Ninja discs? Hiro shuriken were not as deadly as made out in cartoons. The Samurai used them to distract their opponents so they could move in for the kill. Move in for the kill. Was that the man’s agenda?

  Screams and shouts filled the air. In the distance a siren blared. But it was all muted. She could see and feel only her body, the banister and her stalker.

  Without thinking her eyes slid down, seeking an escape route. Damn it. She shouldn’t look. She knew better. Nausea rose in her throat like a volcano. Damn she hated heights. Slick with sweat her hands reached out into the air to steady her body, which teetered as the rush of dizziness hit her head. Escape. She had to get off the banister.

  But the wooziness in her head threatened her balance. Time to gain solid ground. Time to take the initiative. Reminding herself that when it comes to fighting nice girls finish dead, she took a deep breath and jumped back onto the balcony. She turned to face her assailant standing only three feet away. She hoped he didn’t know she had training, because her talent would take him by surprise. In street fights anything goes. And it goes fast. She pushed her body past two people in her way, wanting the first move.

  “Asshole,” she screamed as she aimed her right foot straight for his balls.

  Doubling over, he cried out.

  Her second kick aimed for his head, but his hand caught her ankle and twisted her to the ground. Pain shot up her leg and into her hip. She lay on her back, watching as he raised his right fist to punch her.

  But a large hand caught his arm.

  Behind the satyr stood Sebastian Wilde. Her Sebastian, a giant of a man who looked like a modern Viking with long, sun-kissed blond hair that fell wild and loose to his shoulders. Tonight he dressed as a genie in purple silk. On his broad face he wore a silver mask that accentuated his pale blue eyes. Blue like the morning sky, they were the most intense eyes she’d ever seen. A shiver of recognition mingled with love mingled with relief ran through her body. Sebastian.

  The satyr’s body flew from hers as Seb pulled him away. She sat up to see her assailant grabbed by two security guards. Where had they been all this time? The whole incident had taken only a few minutes, but it had felt like eternity.

  Sebastian reached down for her. “How do you get yourself into these situations?” he said. The ragged tone of his voice hit her like a ton of Ninja stars. That was the thing about Sebastian. She had to read between the lines to understand him. Torn between helping her up and kicking the shit out of her attacker, his voice took on a frustrated edge. A man of action, he didn’t like being torn.

  She let him help her up. These are the sorts of things she’d only figured out by dating him for six months. Dating? Do they even use that term these days? And if they did, did it come anywhere near explaining what they meant to each other? Why think about this now? Her body trembled.

  Once on her feet, she tugged at her dress and brushed hair away from her sweaty face. “I didn’t need rescuing,” she said, not really meaning to say it out loud. The words just slid out.

  He pulled her into his arms and his familiar scent hit her harder than a double-malt scotch on the rocks. “I did it for me,” he whispered into her ear.

  Her body continued shaking from exertion and adrenalin and the potent chemistry of Sebastian. It would be easy to stay in his embrace forever.

  She couldn’t. Not now. Pushing away from Seb, she took another look at her attacker. He’d been hand-cuffed, and the security team were marching him into the main building. Scanning his body from top to bottom she noticed something on his arm. “Wait,” she called out to them. They turned and let her catch up. “Let me see,” she said, pointing to the man’s right wrist. The satyr fought, but the men forced his wrist towards her. A finely detailed tattoo, the size of an American quarter, marked his arm, The Eye of Horace inked in black, in the center of a green triangl
e. She’d never seen such a tattoo.

  In one strong stroke she whipped off his mask, but she didn’t recognize him. He had a round face with faint freckles and a receding chin. He looked unremarkable and not at all like an assassin, more like an overgrown boy scout. She locked his face into her memory. “Why?” she asked.

  “We’re watching you,” he said in a staccato voice and then he collapsed. His face paled and turned pink. Cyanide! He must have had a suicide pill. The men tried to hold him up, but his body sagged between them. They helped him onto the floor of the terrace and took his pulse. It took four minutes for him to die.