Bay of Sighs (The Guardians Trilogy #2)(17)

And black were her eyes, black and wide and mesmerizing against pale white skin. Lips red as blood curved knowingly.

She wore black as well, a dress that molded her tall, stately form.

“Monsieur Malmon.” She walked toward him, glided without a sound—and her voice, faintly exotic, caused his heart to trip. “Je m’appelle Nerezza.”

“Mademoiselle.” He took the offered hand, touched his lips to her knuckles, and felt a thrill like no other.

“Do we speak English? We are in England, after all.”

“As you wish. Please, sit, mademoiselle.”

“Nerezza, please.” With a slither of skirts, she sat. “We will be good friends, you and I.”

“Will we?” He struggled for aplomb, but his heart raced, his blood pounded. “Then we should begin our friendship with a drink.”

“Of course.”

He walked to the bar, poured whiskey for two. Taking charge, taking control—he thought—by not asking what she’d prefer.

He came back, sat across from her. They touched glasses.

“And what brings you to me, Nerezza?”

“Your reputation, of course. You’re the man I need, Andre.” She sipped, watching him. “You will be the one I need. And for my needs, when fulfilled, I can offer you more than anything you’ve had. Dreamed of having.”

“I have much, have dreamed of more.”

“If it’s money, I have all you require. But there are things worth more than gold and silver.”

“Such as?”

“We’ll speak of that, but tonight we’ll speak of stars. What do you know of the Stars of Fortune?”

“A myth. Three stars, fire, water, ice, created by three goddesses to honor a young queen. And cursed by another.”

Her lips curved into a smile sharp enough to slice bone. “What do you think of myths?”

“That many are uncommonly real.”

“As these are real, these stars, I assure you. I want them. You will find them and bring them to me.”

Her eyes were bottomless, lured him into the black. But pride demanded he resist. “Will I?”

“You will. Six stand in your way.”

“No one stands in my way for long.”

“So I have seen, or I would not waste my time, or yours. If you accept the challenge, if you wish to know what I will give you in return, come to the address on my card, tomorrow at midnight.”

“There’s no address on the card.”

She smiled, rose. “Come there, and know your own fortune. Until then.”

She glided out before he had the wit to stand. But when he strode to the doorway, she was gone. As if she’d vanished.

He pulled the card out of his pocket, saw he’d been wrong.

An address was clearly printed on the card.

Fascinated, baffled, more than a little unnerved, he pressed the house intercom. “Lucien.”

“Sir?”

“Where did she go?”

“I’m sorry, sir, where did who go?”

“The woman, the woman in black, you idiot. Who else? Why did you let her in without permission?”

“Sir, no one has come to the house tonight. I let no one inside.”

Furious, he strode away, calling for Nigel. His anger grew until he stormed downstairs, following temper into the butler’s apartment.

When he saw Nigel hanging from his parlor chandelier, he stopped dead.

And laughed.

He was no longer bored.





CHAPTER THREE




With dawn came the soft, shimmering light and the diamond drops of dew on the grass.

And with dawn came calisthenics.

Annika liked calisthenics. She liked dropping down and giving Doyle twenty. The squats and lunges, the shuffles and the jumping jacks were like dancing—the moans and grunts and pants (especially from Sasha) always made her laugh.

Sawyer called Doyle a fucking drill sergeant, and that made her laugh, too. She understood the fuck word was a curse—so versatile!—and used a lot during calisthenics. She understood drill was a tool. But the only sergeants she knew were the sergeant majors, the name land people gave the little striped fish who liked swimming in the reef.

Imagining big, handsome Doyle as a little fish boring into coral made her laugh through her pull-ups.

“What’s so funny?” Sweaty, face pink from exertion, Sasha scowled as she braced for her own pull-ups.

“Doyle is a drill sergeant major. Sawyer said.”

“A . . .” Sasha sneered over at Doyle, who stood signaling her to start. “You’re now a fish,” she called out to him, then mumbled, “God, help me.”

She did one cleanly, a second reasonably well, and a third very shakily, her face going toward red with effort, wet with fresh sweat. Her arms visibly trembled.

Annika started to applaud, and Sasha hissed.

“I’ve got one more. Goddamn it.”

Annika held her breath because Sasha made a sound of awful pain, almost a scream, but her friend pulled up on her trembling arms, managed the fourth before she dropped to the ground in a panting heap.

“Good job,” Doyle told her. “Sloppy form, but gutsy. Shoot for five tomorrow.”

“Shoot for five, my butt. I might shoot you tomorrow.”