Barbara Hancock - Brimstone Bride

The cottage would have been a perfect retreat if that was what she’d truly come to California to find, but the song bubbling up in her made it a dangerous place.

“Your bags are inside. I know you’re tired, but join us once you’re refreshed,” Turov said. “I can’t claim it will actually heal your throat, but the wine is excellent. It will help you relax after your flight.”

“Thank you. I’ll join you soon,” Victoria said. Her voice was a classic film star’s dusky tones. Accidentally throaty and seductive. This was the first time she’d heard it that way since the fire. Always before it had seemed scratchy and ugly.

He opened the door of the cottage and then stepped back to hand her the key. It was a skeleton key made warm by his touch. Her fingers closed around it. She didn’t mean to fist them tightly, but tension betrayed her. He seemed to note her discomfort and watched her gather her composure. His gaze on her throat, moving as she swallowed, felt intimate—and intimacy with him would be dangerous. His many years of life left him too experienced and perceptive. If he got too close, she wouldn’t be able to keep her secrets. Yet she was here to get close. Close enough to fulfill a dark task.

“You’re safe here, Victoria. I read about the fire. How an obsessive fan caused it. Nightingale is a special place. Sacrosanct. We are older and wiser than most retreats. For a long time, I’ve insisted on privacy. I maintain this hideaway at great cost,” Turov said. “Please accept my assurance that no one can harm you while you are here with me.”

In the gloaming, it was too dark to read his eyes. But she recognized a greater danger in that moment than she’d previously acknowledged. She needed retreat. She longed for protection. And the last person she could expect to provide it was the man she planned to betray. His Brimstone blood coaxed her to sing, but it was his offer of protection that weakened her defenses.

“Forgive me if I don’t relax. It isn’t you. It’s me,” Victoria said.

“Yes. I see that. You hold yourself contained. Unusual for an artist,” Turov said.

She hadn’t stepped over the threshold yet. She regretted the pause as soon as his hand reached to tilt the brim of her hat up. Only a millimeter. Only the very tip of his fingers brushed the felt. But her expression felt suddenly exposed to his searching eyes. He lowered his hand. She held her breath. He leaned. Slightly. She might have imagined a lowering of his shadowed face toward hers. She backed up just in case, away from his heat, away from his discerning gaze.

“Join us,” he urged again. “It’s a small party. You’ll be a welcome addition.”

She nodded as she walked into the cottage he’d given her for her stay. The scent of roses would likely always remind her of this adrenaline-fueled retreat. For a few crazy seconds she had thought he was going to kiss her, and she’d recognized the pinch of disappointment in her chest with the realization that she couldn’t have allowed it even if he’d tried.

Chapter 3

Her sister had packed four bags for her. Katherine had spared no effort. It seemed as if Victoria’s entire wardrobe was in the cases as well as some of her sister’s. She shied away from her usual vibrant choices. Instead, she chose a black cocktail dress—a simple silk sheath with a chiffon overlay, complete with satin collar and cuffs. The sheath itself was formfitting and fell to midthigh, while the overlay was longer, with filmy panels that fell to her knees and floated softly around her legs when she walked.

The outfit said she was an opera singer going for a sexy librarian vibe. It also screamed not a spy. Poor Michael. He might be better off if she could do this in a costume and sing the part.

Adam Turov had told her she was safe, but he must sense she was more than she seemed. Even though he had gone back to the main house, there wasn’t enough distance between them to keep the affinity from pulling her toward him. He would be drawn to her too.

That knowledge was frightening...for many reasons.

Michael’s father had been gone for two years.

She’d survived, but she hadn’t thrived.

She’d been a patient, a mother and a sister, but she hadn’t felt like a woman in a long time. She could blame the Brimstone, the affinity, the adrenaline, or she could admit Turov was incredibly alluring without all that. His slight Slavic accent was both sophisticated and somehow rough. She thought he’d rather dispense with polite sophistication and speak bluntly. The mysterious roughness made her long to hear what he had to say. They could never have truth between them, but the idea seduced her.

She couldn’t allow that longing to thrive, so she took extra care with her party persona.

She freshened her makeup, brushed her hair and slipped on a favorite pair of shoes. She hardly noticed the faint light of a waning crescent moon or any movement in the garden as she left the cottage to follow the path to the mansion. She wanted to go to the party in spite of all the reasons she shouldn’t. It was the first party she’d wanted to attend in a long time.

* * *

She’d been dressed in gray and black, but her hair and lipstick had been closer to the truth of who she really was. He’d been mesmerized by the mass of curls under her hat, bright even in shadows. And her lips in soft light had been flush and full and painted boldly. They hadn’t matched the fear in her eyes. More than ever, he wanted to personally hand-deliver Father Malachi to the fires of hell and throw him in the flames. The Order of Samuel specialized in traumatizing innocents, yet they called themselves holy men. It was obvious they haunted Victoria D’Arcy. She was a bold woman shadowed by fear.

When he saw her enter the rooms he’d had arranged for her reception, his glass paused halfway to his mouth. The hat was gone. And her shapeless traveling clothes were gone too. She’d chosen bright crimson heels and she’d refreshed her lips in the same shade. Her hair was a richer, deeper auburn and more subtle in comparison. Against the black of her dress and her pale porcelain skin, those pops of color stunned. The myriad shades of red in her hair seemed almost iridescent in the shifting light.

It wasn’t only him. She entered quietly, but many faces turned her way. She had stage presence. No actual stage necessary. The whole room subtly shifted within moments of her becoming a part of it. It was no longer a miscellaneous gathering. It was a party with an anonymous star at its heart. She wasn’t a celebrity. She’d been away from the opera world too long and even before that her career had been held in check by daemon politics. She simply shone and everyone in the room unconsciously arranged themselves to bask in the glow.

This was the woman the Order of Samuel sent to bring him down.

He lifted his glass. He took a long swallow of Firebird Pinot Noir. He didn’t savor. He gulped. Because he’d rather fight an army of monks programmed to destroy than this one intriguing woman.

* * *

He watched her. She could feel his attention while she spoke to other guests. There were wealthy travelers, politicians, a celebrity chef, an aging rock star and a billionaire philanthropist—it was a posh gathering for an opera singer that had never been free to seek fame. They were here for Turov. He was sharing his guests with her. But he wasn’t being hospitable. She reminded herself that he used his sophisticated persona as a disguise for his covert activities. By and by, she was swept his way. Time and tide and Brimstone. When she took the warmed crystal stem from his fingers, she realized she’d abstained from accepting a glass of wine until she could receive her glass from his hand.

She sipped. And the room fell away. The aroma was delicate black cherry accented with a spicy hint of cinnamon. The flavor was of fruit and earth. But it was the texture that slayed. It was liquid silk on her tongue, soft and velvety. She savored. She swallowed. The rich, full-bodied vintage did soothe her throat and her spirits.