Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
The Dragon of Sedona Excerpt
The Dragon of Sedona
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books By Genevieve Jack
Manhattan Dragon: The Treasure of Paragon, Book 3
Copyright © Genevieve Jack 2019
Published by Carpe Luna, Ltd, PO Box 5932, Bloomington, IL 61702
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
First Edition: October 2019
eISBN: 978-1-940675-54-1
Paperback: 978-1-940675-51-0
v 3.0
Chapter One
She was supposed to be dead.
Rowan felt remarkably spry for a corpse. But then she’d died multiple times since coming to America over three hundred years ago. New identities were necessary for an immortal. Every so often Rowan would shed her proverbial skin and start over with a new last name, a new address, a new life. It was easier to do in New York. The city that never slept rarely slowed down to notice one mysterious woman with unfinished business or the fate of one of her identities.
She wasn’t a thief, but Rowan had come to steal.
A dragon was born with a certain set of instincts. Keen observation was one of them. A natural affinity for anything rare and valuable was another. For example, Rowan had spotted the teardrop-shaped blue diamond around Camilla Stevenson’s neck from across a crowded gallery—an example of her keen observation skills. Understanding that the stone was, in fact, the six-carat Raindrop of Heaven, sold at auction recently for $1.2 million? That was her talent for recognizing the rare and valuable.
She didn’t need the money.
Rowan was rich. Very rich. It wasn’t cash luring her up the path to the white brick mansion in the Hamptons, an enchanted lockpick weighing down her pocket. It had more to do with her history as an exiled princess of Paragon than any financial motive. She’d witnessed her brother’s murder at the hands of her uncle before she was cast into this world, and Rowan had no patience for corruption. What the wealthy Gerald Stevenson and his wife Camilla had done made them the exact type of elitist scum that drove Rowan to distraction. She’d steal the diamond not for its value but for revenge.
For a human, playing Robin Hood in the Hamptons would be a ticket to the slammer. The place was crawling with security, and there was only one gated drive in and out of the property. Humans, though, couldn’t make themselves invisible. Nor could they fly.
Besides, there was no better alibi than being dead.
The night hummed a familiar tune. Crickets chirped, insectile lovers calling to each other from the grasses; the waves brushed the beach in a soft caress behind her; and a warm spring breeze off the Atlantic rustled the branches of the hawthorn trees that grew along the main drive.
“Thank you, Harriet,” she murmured as she slid the enchanted lockpick into the lock of the french doors at the back of the Stevensons’ home. It was a sophisticated lock. Stevenson was a real estate developer and was no dummy when it came to home security. But security systems had their limitations. For example, most weren’t able to record an invisible intruder or detect a lockpick charmed with ancient English Traveller magic.
The door parted like the lips of an eager lover, and she slipped into the dark interior. No alarm. No dog. That was fortunate. A few lights were on, but she knew no one was home. Gerald and Camilla were hosting one of the biggest political fund-raising events in the city that evening. How could they effectively rezone and gentrify every part of Manhattan if they didn’t consistently line the pockets of their political allies?
Fucking assholes.
The gem practically sang to her from the master bedroom on the second floor. It was time to save the jewel from the Stevensons’ filthy hands. She trailed down the hall, allowing her invisibility to fade to conserve energy. Invisibility and flight took their toll; she’d need that energy for the journey home.
The hardwood creaked beneath her feet. Rowan paused outside the bedroom. A delicious scent she’d never smelled before met her nose, sandalwood and dark spice. She breathed deeply and felt her eyes roll back in her head at the intoxicating fragrance. What the hell was that?
A fine shiver traveled through her body, straight to her core. Whatever it was, she wanted to roll in it. She made a mental note to find out where Gerald Stevenson bought his cologne. It couldn’t be Camilla’s. It was too masculine. Too heady. It took effort to pull herself together, but she managed to slip into the master bedroom and refocus on the task at hand. The Raindrop of Heaven wasn’t going to steal itself.
The room was a white-walled wonder with decor that belonged in the Museum of Modern Art. At its center, a bed the size of a barge was flanked by two twisted wire sculptures worth more than most people’s yearly salary. No doubt they were paid for in cash. People like the Stevensons loved to use art as a way to launder their wealth and evade the taxman. All the more reason they were overdue for some bad luck.
And she planned to deliver it.
Once she oriented herself, she found the door Harriet had described in her vision and had to smile at the Traveller’s accuracy. The best decision she’d ever made was to save her dear friend from tuberculosis in 1904 with the gift of her tooth. She’d never regretted using dragon magic to bind herself to the powerful Traveller whose psychic gifts and practical magic rivaled any witch’s. Harriet’s friendship had proved priceless over the years, and her magical abilities had come in useful on more than one occasion.
The Stevensons’ giant walk-in closet was built of cedar and had a convenient keypad on the jewelry drawer that served as a safe. Rowan held the lockpick against the keypad and watched the keys glow purple, one at a time. The magic revealed which numbers to push and in what order, and she enthusiastically followed its suggestions. The drawer popped open with a hiss.
The Raindrop of Heaven winked up at her from a bed of blue velvet. She caressed the cool facets of the diamond before plucking it from its cushion along with two matching earrings. She shoved the lot in the zippered pouch around her waist, pure satisfaction curling the corners of her lips.
Take that, you corrupt piece of shit.
Rowan’s nostrils flared. The delicious smell from the hall was back, even stronger than before. Cloves and sandalwood. Her inner dragon stirred and licked its lips. Sh
e whirled to find a man standing in the bedroom behind her, staring at her through the open door to the walk-in closet. A bear of a man, big, rough, and all male. He scratched the stubble on his jaw, amaretto-colored like his hair, and scanned her with eyes the gray of stormy seas. His arms crossed over the chest of his sport coat, and his head cocked to the side.
She cursed under her breath. She’d been so distracted by the smell, she’d forgotten to make herself invisible again. Too late now. He’d seen her. The real her.
Thankfully, he was alone. She could handle one man. It wouldn’t be pretty, but she could handle him. Their eyes met.
In a voice edged in grit, he asked, “Who the fuck are you?”
Detective Nick Grandstaff stared at the woman in the Stevensons’ closet and tried to decide if she was real or a lovely hallucination. He was leaning toward hallucination. After all, he’d been awake for going on twenty-four hours now, and she was too perfect to be real. Only a figment of his imagination could strike all his personal erotic notes. Long, dark waves cascaded down her back. Silky. Shiny. Touchable. He imagined his fingers buried in that hair. He’d startled her, and when she turned toward him, her amber eyes overwhelmed him as if he’d stared into the sun. And oh God, her curves. Curves for days. Curves that made his palms itch to touch her.
“I’m a friend of Camilla’s,” Fantasy Woman said, moving toward him. She folded her hands innocently in front of her hips. “She said I could borrow a pair of shoes.”
He snorted. After years working as a homicide detective, Nick was a human lie detector. He could hear the lie in her voice as clearly as if the words came out of her mouth colored red. Whoever this woman was, she was up to no good.
“I wasn’t aware Camilla had any friends.”
Fantasy Woman laughed through her nose as if she couldn’t help herself. He thought he might die from the thrill the sound sent through his body.
“What’s your name?”
“Nick.” He frowned. She was supposed to be giving him information, not the other way around.
She inhaled deeply. Those amber eyes narrowed on him. Bedroom eyes. Soul-stealing eyes. Goddamn, she was sexy. He felt her presence warm his bones like a tropical breeze.
“What are you?”
“Detective,” he mumbled. What the hell was with the oversharing? He mentally shook himself.
“Detective Nick.” Her gaze flicked down to the gun holstered under his shoulder. “If you know what kind of people Camilla and Gerald are, why are you here?” Again, she inhaled, leaning toward him. Did he stink? It had been a long night. He resisted the urge to sniff himself.
“Look, sweetheart, I’m on duty here. Security. You need to tell me your full name. Nobody cleared you to be here. I’m going to have to call this in and get a verbal confirmation from Camilla.”
One of her hands reached out to dance her blood-red nails across the tops of Camilla’s shoes. Goddamn, he could imagine how those nails would feel on his skin. Gently trailing down his chest. Digging into his back. He shifted, wishing he had something to hold in front of his pants. He needed a cold shower and to get his brain out of fantasyland.
Ignoring his request for a name, she hooked her long, elegant fingers into a pair of black Louboutins. The overhead light glinted off her ring as she removed the shoes from the shelf. That thing was a monster. Anyone who could afford a ruby of that size didn’t need to be borrowing anyone else’s shoes. Close now, she looked at him through her lashes and waved the shoes as if they were all the explanation he should need to let her go. He blocked the door with his body.
“Easy enough to clear this up,” he said. “I’ll give Camilla a shout.” He raised his phone to his ear.
In the blink of an eye, her hand wrapped around his wrist and squeezed. He paused, his finger hovering over the Call button. Her touch sent a delicious rush through him that made his cock twitch. He lowered the phone.
“Did you know the Stevensons’ actions are shutting down a community center that serves at-risk kids?” She glared at him. “How can you defend people like that?”
“Huh?” All he could see was her lips. All that existed was her perfume, a smoky citrus-and-cinnamon scent that drove him wild. His breath hitched.
“Camilla and Gerald bought the land out from under them. They’re shutting it down. Over a hundred needy kids use that facility. It’s a lifeline for some of them. You know how guys like Stevenson work. He’ll probably turn it into a Baby Gap.”
Nick swallowed. He’d been an at-risk kid himself at one time and had spent many afternoons inside his local community center. While he wasn’t aware of the specific scenario, he’d be the last one to approve of such a thing. Still, it didn’t matter. Although he sympathized, she didn’t belong here, and it hadn’t escaped his notice that she still hadn’t told him her damn name.
“I don’t know anything about that.” He planted his hand on the doorframe, boxing her in. “Tell me who you are now and I’ll clear this mess up with Camilla.” He suspected she wasn’t there for shoes, but he wished she was, wished there was a reason he could let her go and maybe get her number while he was at it.
He blinked and she was gone, ducked under his arm. She strolled through the bedroom toward the doors to the balcony. Damn, she moved fast. And as he looked back into the closet, he could see why. A jewelry drawer was open and whatever had been inside was gone, three empty impressions in the blue velvet.
He whirled and drew his gun, leveling it on the woman. “Stop!”
“Are you going to shoot me, Detective? For borrowing shoes?” Her red lips spread into a smile.
“Drop the shoes and put your hands up,” he said firmly. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
She set the shoes down on the bed and opened the doors to the balcony. The ocean breeze coasted in around her, delivering another dose of her scent to his nostrils. He loosened his grip on his gun. He wasn’t worried. She was unarmed, and there was nowhere for her to go.
“You can’t get out that way, ma’am,” he said, his voice thick. “You’re too high up to jump without injuring yourself. Step back into the room and let’s talk about this. Tell me who you are.”
She backed onto the balcony and flashed him a wicked grin. “I’m a ghost.”
Nick almost discharged his weapon. In the blink of an eye, his fantasy woman completely disappeared.
Chapter Two
Nick Grandstaff found himself in Gerald Stevenson’s world-class kitchen with a vague memory that there was something he’d forgotten, something important. His mind felt cloudy, and the faintest scent of oranges lingered in his nostrils. He rubbed his temples and concentrated. Nothing but brain fog. What the hell was he doing in here?
Jesus Christ, was that an espresso machine or a space ship? His stomach growled. Maybe he’d been hungry. That didn’t make sense—he never ate on the job, especially not his client’s food.
He turned on his heel and returned to the family room. Rounds, he was doing rounds. Shaking his head, he gave his neck a hard rub. He had a splitting headache. Fuck, this thing was a migraine. He could hardly think.
Methodically, he walked through each room in the mansion. When he reached the master bedroom, his temple throbbed and his gut twisted. He’d seriously have to hit the ibuprofen when he got back to the security desk. Everything was in order. Balcony doors closed and locked, weird art still overlooking the bed in a creepy way that made him question the Stevensons’ sanity, nothing amiss on the balcony or in the massive bathroom or walk-in closet that was as big as his apartment. His eyes fell on the bedspread.
It was rumpled like someone had sat down or tossed something on top. It wasn’t like that before. During his first walk-through, he’d thought the beds were so tightly made you could bounce a quarter off the top. He frowned. Nothing else was out of place.
At a jog, he surveyed the interior of the house, then locked up tight before inspecting the grounds on his way back to the security office in the guar
dhouse at the property entrance. He didn’t find anything peculiar. Head pounding, he slipped into the guardhouse and pulled up the video surveillance. The Stevensons didn’t have a camera in the bedroom, but they had one in the hall. Maybe he could see something.
He selected the file and navigated back to the time he’d started his last tour of the property, 1:00 a.m. At 12:59, the hall camera picked up a tightly made bed, as he’d remembered. He kept watching. He should appear at any moment. The picture froze, then blipped. The bedspread rumpled. He looked down at the time. One o’clock. He backed up. Unrumpled. Rumpled.
He checked the other security files. Every room empty but the ones he’d been in. No one had come in or out. Another stab of pain pierced his frontal cortex. Fuck, this was ridiculous. He pulled open a drawer and dispensed a dose of Excedrin into his palm, washing the pills down with coffee he’d left on the desk before he’d walked rounds. It was cold and stale.
While he waited for the fuckers to kick in, he leaned back in his chair and advanced the digital recording slowly back and forth again. Exactly as before. Not rumpled. Rumpled. What the fuck? Did the Stevensons have a cat? A ridiculously powerful air-conditioning unit?
It didn’t matter, did it, as long as the thing he was hired to protect remained. He wouldn’t be able to rest unless he knew for sure that rumple wasn’t a sign of something more.
Manhattan Dragon (The Treasure of Paragon Book 3) Page 1
