Alex Archer - Gabriel's Horn

“Good.” Roux sounded minutely appeased.

“Now,” Annja said, “what’s not true?”

Roux took a deep breath and it made the phone connection sound cavernous.

“That you’re going out with Garin,” Roux snapped. “Tell me that’s not true.”

Despite having grown up in an orphanage in New Orleans, Annja suddenly got the idea of what it might have been like to have to deal with a displeased father. Not surprisingly, it felt a lot like dealing with an irate nun.

“Where did you hear something like that?” Annja asked.

Roux cursed. “So it is true.”

“Who I go out with is hardly any business of yours.” Annja put her phone on hands-free mode, tightened the towel around her and reached for another to wrap her hair.

“It is when it’s Garin,” Roux said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Not against Garin. Are you going out with him?”

“We’re having dinner.”

Roux cursed again. “Do you find yourself so enamored of him that you can’t control your hormones?”

“I resent that,” Annja said.

“By all means, feel free.”

“I’m in perfect control of my hormones.”

Roux vented a derisive snort.

“I’m going to dinner with him to pay off a debt,” Annja said. “Garin helped me out while I was in India.”

“A debt?” Roux sounded as though he couldn’t believe it. “You don’t pay off a debt like that. At the very least not in the manner in which you’re doing it.”

“Dinner’s not exactly the worst thing that I could imagine having to do.”

Roux snorted again.

“And,” Annja went on, “as I recall, you don’t mind waving the debt card around when you want my help with something.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I helped you find the sword.”

“So what? I’m going to owe you forever now?”

“No,” Roux said. “Having the sword means you have a duty and an obligation to the powers behind that sword.”

“Whatever powers might be behind this sword, it’s definitely not you.”

Roux sighed in displeasure. “I help you with what you’re supposed to do. We’re on the same side.”

Although she didn’t say anything, Annja doubted that. Roux, like Garin, had his own agenda. Neither of them chose to entrust her with it. Roux was always exactly on the side of Roux.

“Harboring any leniency with Garin is a mistake,” Roux said.

“There’s no leniency,” Annja said. “There’s dinner.”

A knock sounded at the door. “Miss Creed,” Gesauldi called out. “Gesauldi doesn’t wish to hurry you, but time is of the essence.”

“I’ll be right there,” Annja replied.

“Was that Gesauldi?” Roux demanded.

Annja furrowed her brow. “Do you know Gesauldi?”

“He sent the dressmaker?” Roux shouted.

“Gesauldi heard that,” Gesauldi called from the other room. “Gesauldi is no dressmaker. Gesauldi is an artist.”

“He heard you,” Annja said.

“I don’t care,” Roux snapped.

“How do you know Gesauldi?”

“If Gesauldi is involved,” Roux said, “then Garin is seeing this as more than a one-time date.”

Annja smiled, then caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and turned away. You’re not going to think past tonight, she told herself. But she knew she was.

“I don’t get that impression,” Annja said.

“Annja,” Roux growled, “Garin sent Gesauldi.”

“Of course he did,” Gesauldi said from the other room. “You only send for Gesauldi when you want the very best.”

He must, Annja thought, have ears like a bat.

“Maybe you should ask Gesauldi how many times Garin has sent him to dress his women,” Roux suggested.

That thought had crossed Annja’s mind, but she hadn’t given in to the impulse.

“Gesauldi will never tell,” Gesauldi said. “A promise from Gesauldi is like a little piece of forever. Because Gesauldi will take such knowledge to the grave with him.”

Terrific, Annja thought. “You know, Roux,” she said, “it wouldn’t have hurt you to let me have my little moment here.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Roux said.

Annja hung up.

AT SEVEN-THIRTY, Johan called Annja. “Miss Creed, there is a gentleman here to see you.”

Dressed in the spectacular black dress Gesauldi had tailored so that it showed her body to its best, Annja surveyed the results in the full-length mirror. She had to admit it—she looked exquisite.

Gesauldi had also brought along a hairdresser and makeup artist, who worked their magic, as well. She wore her hair pulled back, held by jeweled combs. The only thing missing was a necklace, but she hadn’t brought anything with her. This was supposed to have been a working trip, not one of leisure.

“Tell him to come up,” Annja said.

“I have suggested that,” Johan replied. “The gentleman refuses. He insists that such behavior is rude and unseemly.”

Annja thought about that.

“Given the circumstance,” Johan said in a lower voice, “I would have to applaud the gentleman on his sense of decorum. If you wish, I can come up for you.”

“That’s all right,” Annja said. “I’m on my way down.”

The sight of Annja Creed stepping from the elevator momentarily stole Garin Braden’s breath from his lungs. She was stunning. Even before Gesauldi’s magic, Annja possessed a natural beauty that made men glad they were men.

Now—she was a goddess.

Garin was aware of the effect her appearance had on the men in the lavish hotel lobby. Heads turned in her direction and conversations came to a standstill. And it wasn’t just the men who were affected. Women looked and quieted, too.

Thin straps crossed Annja’s smooth shoulders and supported the dress. The black material clung to her figure in all the right places. Handmade Italian slingbacks glittered like polished anthracite.

For a moment, Garin forgot himself in the hush that fell across the lobby. Although he’d seen Gesauldi work his magic before, Garin had never seen any woman as striking as Annja. He’d seen more beautiful women—that was true—but none of them possessed the innate qualities that he’d found at once appealing and unnerving about the young woman in front of him.

“Excuse me, sir,” the old assistant manager who had helped Garin whispered. “But if you don’t mind me suggesting it, perhaps this would be an ideal time to give the young woman the flowers.”

Garin’s senses returned. He remembered the flowers in his hand. He chided himself for being so overwhelmed.

When everyone stared at her, Annja felt extremely self-conscious. She knew other women dreamed of making this kind of entrance, but it had never once been in her thoughts. She found that kind of attention uncomfortable.

She saw Garin as he approached her. He looked every inch the warrior, and as he stood six feet four inches tall, that was impressive. He wore his dark hair long and sported a goatee. His eyes were blacker than oil. He wore a tuxedo that suggested Gesauldi didn’t just handle women’s clothes.

Johan stood at Garin’s side, dwarfed by the bigger man.

Garin carried an extravagant bouquet of flowers. He stopped in front of her and looked down. The fragrance of the flowers rode the air between them.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

This is so not a date, Annja told herself. “Thank you. You look very handsome,” she said quietly.

Garin handed her the flowers, then offered his arm.

Annja took it and let him lead her out of the lobby. She knew everyone in the hotel watched them go, and she didn’t know if she’d ever have a moment as perfect as that one again.

As soon as they stepped out of the hotel, a silver limousine glided to a halt at the curb. The hotel doorman got the door, smiled and tipped his hat.