by Sarah Piper
“How soon before these dreadful beasts leave my home?” he asked.
“Don’t be daft. We haven’t even served the second course of appetizers.”
Dorian sighed into his drink, then tipped the glass, finishing it with a gulp.
“I see Duchanes took your invitation to heart,” Aiden said. “Brought the whole bloody house.”
“And his… donors.” Dorian’s fingers tightened on his glass, wishing he could slam it into Duchanes’ smug face. The sight of those emaciated women made him want to do something violent. “And Malcolm wanted to ally with this reprobate. What the hell was he thinking?”
“I’m not sure he was.”
Dorian shook his head, attempting to free himself of his thoughts, but it was an exercise in futility. The party and Duchanes both weighed on him, but so did last night’s conversation with Chernikov. He and Aiden had spent the afternoon paging through his father’s journals and walking the twisting, dark pathways of the crypts all afternoon, but if there were ever any clues to where his father had hidden the Mother of Lost Souls sculpture—or to the details of his agreement with the demons—time had long ago destroyed them.
“No one’s getting in there tonight, mate,” Aiden said, as if he could read Dorian’s thoughts. It certainly felt that way; even when they were children, Aiden had always seemed to know just what to say, just how to put Dorian’s rattled mind at ease.
“If anything can ruin us, Aiden, I’m certain it’s contained in those crypts.”
“Where it shall remain until you and your brothers discover and eradicate it.”
“Don’t let anyone else in the garage tonight, either,” Dorian said, bolting the door they’d come through. “I don’t want them breathing on my cars. I already caught the old man trying to take the Rolls Royce for a joyride.”
“Armitage still has a driver’s license?”
“No, the old codger. Thankfully I got to him before he found the keys.”
Aiden clapped him on the shoulder, his smile unwavering. “Sounds like you’re having a splendid evening, just as I predicted. Have you had enough to drink?”
“Just so you know, I’m holding you responsible if any of these prats steal the family jewels.”
“Didn’t your father sell off the family jewels to book our passage to America?”
“It’s a figure of speech, Aiden. Don’t test my patience.”
“You don’t have any patience. But if it makes you feel better, I don’t think your guests are thieves. After all, they’ve paid handsomely for the privilege of your company.”
“That’s fine, as long as you understand it’s coming out of your pay if they are.”
“You need another drink. Here, have mine.” Aiden handed over his scotch. “I insist.”
Dorian downed it quickly, then set the glass on a shelf behind them, taking a deep breath. “All the bloody yakking. The smiling. And now House Duchanes is here, bringing down the value of my property with their very presence. I don’t like it.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“We should’ve just made a donation.”
“I’m not talking about the children’s museum. I’m talking about Isabelle and the company we’re about to acquire. Despite your best efforts, and the fact that you wouldn’t let the geezer drive your car, it seems Armitage and his board members are quite enamored of you.”
“Is that so?” Dorian asked. He’d never admit it to Aiden, but the news filled him with more than a modicum of relief.
“Word is, Mr. Redthorne, you’re the dog’s bollocks.” Aiden pressed a hand to his heart, shooting Dorian a wistful smile. “If only they could figure out why you’re still single.”
“Any theories?”
“Oh, the usual. Deep emotional wounds, fear of commitment, only-child syndrome, take your pick.”
Dorian laughed. “I’ve got a house full of siblings, you knob.”
“I’m just the messenger.” Aiden clapped him again on the shoulder, giving him an encouraging squeeze. “Come along now. If we don’t get back inside, they’re bound to come looking for you.”
“I hate this, you know. Worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“You say that about all my ideas. Especially the good ones.”
“This time I mean it.”
“Great! Now that we’ve got that sorted.” Aiden opened the inner door that led into the massive kitchen, now bustling with caterers and bartenders. “Come on, then. In you go.”
Dorian followed him inside, then punched in the alarm code, securing the garage behind them.
After fixing themselves another round of drinks, the men weaved through the crowded kitchen and into the great room, Dorian doing his best to avoid eye contact while Aiden deflected the talkative guests. By the time they reached the expansive open foyer, Dorian was feeling marginally better.
Aiden had been right; the guests were having a grand time, laughing and chatting amongst themselves, enjoying the hors d'oeuvres and drinks his caterers delivered on elegant silver trays. Now that they’d seen Dorian at home, behaving himself in a mostly civilized manner, perhaps the Armitage mages would feel more at ease about their relationship, softening them for both the acquisition as well as the Redthornes’ eventual offer for Isabelle. And of course, the museum would be able to do some great work with the proceeds.
As much as Dorian hated to admit it, he was glad Aiden had suggested hosting the event. Despite his anxieties and general aversion to putting his private life on public display, Dorian couldn’t imagine the evening being a more smashing success.
But then the greeters ushered in a late arrival, and Dorian’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest. All around him, dozens of dark, depraved gazes slid to the entryway, every one of his guests as captivated as Dorian himself.
There, standing in the foyer, dressed in a black satin dress that exposed her delicious curves and elegant gloves that reached her elbows, was one very devious, sexy-as-sin, copper-eyed woman.
His woman.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charley gave herself thirty seconds to cut the pity party and get her head in the game.
Never mind Dorian’s sexy voice, or the fact that she’d missed out on it last night, too nervous about the impending job to answer his calls or texts.
Never mind Travis’ filthy hands, how she’d fought him off the entire drive up from the city.
Never mind that she’d hardly gotten any sleep, jolting out of bed at every creak and groan, convinced Travis had found a way into her adjacent hotel room.
Never mind that she’d lied to Sasha, telling her that Rudy was sending her on an overnighter for an important conference.
Charley took a steadying breath, willing herself to forget it all. None of it mattered. Tonight, right now, standing in this gorgeous Elizabethan mansion in the shadow of the Catskill Mountains, Charley had one job.
Get in. Get the intel. Get out.
And above all, don’t get noticed.
After checking to confirm no one had followed her up the ornate hardwood staircase, Charley slipped into one of the mansion’s dozen bedrooms and shut the door behind her, confirming what her quick observations of the first floor had already implied.
This guy is fucking loaded.
She hadn’t even done a thorough sweep yet, but she’d already determined it to be exactly the kind of exclusive, eclectic cache Rudy had predicted: paintings from the Italian Renaissance, Russian avant-garde, and contemporary works the owner had likely commissioned directly from the artists; exquisite New Kingdom jars and statues made of Egyptian alabaster and faience; silk scrolls and wall panels from thirteenth-century Japan. The entire home was a museum in and of itself—and that wasn’t even counting the classic cars Travis had mentioned. Charley knew a lot more about fine art and architecture than she did about automobiles, but by the way he’d gone on about them, those beauties had to be worth millions.
Millions that someone else worked for. Someone we’r
e going to hurt…
Shaking off the ever-present guilt, she sent Rudy a coded text to hint at her initial findings, hoping it was enough to keep his incessant check-ins at bay. Having a lovely evening, she wrote. Even better than expected. I think a family trip to the region sounds like a great idea! The more, the merrier. LOTS to do here.
With heavy tapestries drawn over the windows, the bedroom was too dark to explore unaided. Charley flipped on the phone flashlight, quickly scanning her surroundings. It wasn’t the master suite, but even this secondary bedroom was flush with paintings and beautiful antique furniture.
She made her way to a large, walk-in closet full of women’s clothing and shoes, everything protected by clear plastic garment bags.
Interesting.
Rudy’s surveillance had indicated the homeowner lived alone—not with a woman. Then again, with everything bagged up and put away, it was likely the woman who’d once occupied this room hadn’t been here in a while.
A low shelf along one wall held an assortment of jewelry boxes, and inside the largest, Charley found a piece that took her breath away.
With gloved hands, she fingered the ruby-and-diamond bracelet, admiring the way the gemstones sparkled in the flashlight beam.
It’d been more than a decade since she’d earned a place on her father’s crew with that minor jewel heist in Sleepy Hollow. But for a fleeting moment, warmth spread in her belly, a familiar rush that made her feel both excited and dirty.
Excited, because she’d never forget the look of pride on her father’s face when she’d shown him her score.
And dirty, because rifling through personal heirlooms and possessions was one of the most despicable things a person could do. More than just a crime, it was a violation, pure and simple.
With a deep sigh, Charley put the bracelet back, grateful the only thing she’d be taking tonight was information.
Through an open archway at the back of the closet, Charley entered a small dressing room, just large enough for a chair, a full-length mirror, and a chest of drawers.
On the wall above the chest was a painting of a dour woman gazing into a mirror. The reflection staring back at her was that of a young girl. Though Charley couldn’t make out the true vibrancy of the colors in the dim light, she knew the woman’s hair was dark, the child’s light, their eyes the same haunting shade of pale blue.
She knew the painting by heart.
Memory’s Memories, by Viola LaPorte.
It was one of her father’s. From the missing cache.
Tentatively Charley reached for the painting, tracing the frame with a trembling finger. Tears blurred her vision as she realized with shocking clarity that she’d been searching for something like this for the last five years, ever since Rudy had shown up at her father’s penthouse with his head down, unable to meet her eyes.
He’s dead, Charlotte. I’m so, so sorry…
All the auctions, the high-society events, the fundraisers… It wasn’t just because she was afraid of Rudy, afraid of ending up on the street, afraid of losing her sister. It was because she’d hoped, on some deep, impossible level, she’d find the missing cache, piece together the clues, and follow the trail to her father’s murderer.
And here, tonight, was her first clue.
It shouldn’t have surprised her. With a $70 million street value, a cache like that didn’t just vanish. It might go underground awhile, but it always resurfaced, usually in pieces. A painting here. A vase there. Even one piece could lead them to the rest.
This was it. Her one piece.
Charley blinked away her tears and looked again at the painting. If this one had shown up, others would follow. Maybe they already had. Maybe they’d even be in this very house.
She tried to text Rudy, but her brain kept tripping up, her hands shaking, the gloves making it all the more difficult. She needed to get out of there, get some air, and get her head on straight.
Because after tonight, everything was going to change.
Out beyond the Hudson, the rolling hills of the Catskills turned lavender beneath a curtain of mist and moonlight, an ethereal sight that only made Charley feel more alone, more confused. She’d wandered out to the gardens, trying to decide how to tell Rudy about the painting, but now that the cool night air had cleared her head, she was rethinking it.
Rudy had always believed Charley’s father had double-crossed them. He and the others had agreed they couldn’t waste precious resources seeking vengeance for a man who’d betrayed his crew, no matter that the man was their own flesh and blood. As far as Rudy was concerned, it was a business decision, plain and simple. She didn’t have to like it, but she had to live with it.
Now, Charley leaned against a maple tree at the edge of the garden, its leaves shivering in the breeze, and closed her eyes.
What the hell should I do?
Rudy was hell-bent on stealing the artwork in this house. It was worth a fortune—probably the biggest score the crew had ever attempted. If he discovered the painting and anything else from the missing cache, he’d likely fence it, no love lost. Charley could try to reason with him, but in the end, he’d just tell her to let it go. To move on.
And after five agonizing years, the only piece of evidence in her father’s murder would vanish again.
No. She couldn’t let that happen. If Charley was going to trace that painting back to her father—to whoever killed him—she needed to do it alone.
And that meant going back inside, finishing the job Rudy had sent her here to do, and coming up with a solid plan before he and Travis made their next move.
She’d just decided to head back to the event when she was unexpectedly corralled against the tree, strong arms encircling her from behind, a dark command whispered hotly in her ear.
“Come with me. Don’t make a sound.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The New York art scene was small and incestuous, Dorian reminded himself. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for Charlotte to be here. A coincidence, yes—but not impossible. She seemed intimately familiar with the inner workings of the art world; perhaps she’d heard about the fundraiser and decided to attend. Perhaps she was a companion to one of his guests. Or maybe she was employed by the museum—she did tell him she had a work event tonight.
You’re a fool, Redthorne. A bloody fool.
No matter his justifications—his hopes—Dorian could no longer deny the fact that she was dodgy. He’d followed her out to the gardens with every intention of confronting her about it too. But by the time he’d gotten her into the guesthouse, his priorities had changed.
Outside the nonstop fantasy streaming through his mind, he hadn’t seen her in days, and his memory was a poor substitute for the real thing. Her black dress clung to her curves, long hair hanging in loose waves over her shoulders, dark red lips damn near hypnotizing him.
And the gloves? Devastating.
An awkward silence crept in.
“You look stunning,” he finally said.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Redthorne.” Her gaze trailed down to his feet, then back up, her smile devious. “The tux suits you.”
“Really? I bloody hate it.” He loosened his bowtie, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his shirt.
Charlotte smiled again but didn’t say anything else. He hadn’t yet turned on the interior lights, and in the dim, moonlit entryway he couldn’t quite read her expression, though she’d come with him willingly after the garden ambush—almost eagerly. Still, her heartbeat was erratic now, and she hadn’t uttered more than a surprised greeting in the gardens, offering no explanation for her presence at his fundraiser, or—more importantly—for why she’d been sneaking around upstairs.
He hadn’t asked about that yet. Part of him was afraid of the answer—afraid he’d have no choice but to send her away for good.
Or worse.
Who was this woman?
Was she somehow connected to Duchanes? They’d both been at t
he Salvatore auction as well, but… no. Charlotte had seemed genuinely afraid of the vampire when Dorian had found them in the bedroom that night.
Had Armitage sent her to spy? To unearth secrets more desperate and depraved than the truths that had left the Redthornes unallied and witch-less?
Dorian took a breath, steadying his nerves. Ravenswood held only one dark secret, and right now, that secret was secured in the crypts, undeciphered from the mountains of journals his father had left behind.
Besides, the idea of a spy seemed preposterous, even for Armitage. The old mage was becoming a huge pain in Dorian’s ass, but he was a by-the-book pain in the ass.
No. Whatever Charlotte was up to, it was her own brand of trouble.
Trouble Dorian couldn’t get enough of.
“So, this was your work event?” he asked, reaching up to brush a lock of hair over her shoulder, his hand lingering on her soft skin.
She sucked in a breath and glanced up into his eyes, the sparks between them as undeniable as ever, burning Dorian’s resolve to ash.
“And your boring party?” she asked.
Dorian ran his hand down her arm, fingers encircling her gloved wrist. “What are the chances?”
“I was wondering the same thing.”
“Do you work for the museum?”
“No, I’m a… consultant.” Her pulse picked up, thrumming against the gentle press of his thumb. “But my company is a major supporter of their work. When we heard about the event, we couldn’t pass it up.”
Dorian relaxed, but only slightly. Even if her story were true, which he doubted, it didn’t explain why she’d been snooping upstairs, like she’d been snooping at the Salvatore auction.
“Have you been inside the manor yet?” he asked—a small test.
Please don’t lie to me, woman…
“Oh, yes. It’s incredible, but it’s… it’s so overwhelming in there.” She wrinkled her nose—the most adorable look of distaste Dorian had ever seen. “I kind of hate parties, to be honest.”
