Loe raamatut: «Angels and Outlaws»
Angels and Outlaws
Lori Wilde
Dear Reader,
What if a legend-shrouded ancient amulet belonging to tragic star-crossed lovers and reputed to possess magical powers resurfaced in modern-day New York?
What if there are also dark forces, fuelled by a dangerous obsession, seeking the amulet for personal greed and satisfaction?
And what if six women, all pure of heart and ready for true love, get caught up in the hunt for this special object, only to discover that it will dramatically alter their lives forever?
This intriguing scenario provides the framework for an action-packed six-book mini-series that promises thrills, chills, twists and turns and, of course, lots of steamy, red-hot romance.
The action kicks off in Angels and Outlaws when The White Star amulet is stolen from the exclusive Stanhope auction house in Manhattan and Detective Sergeant Sam Mason is assigned to the case. What Sam discovers about The White Star shocks him and puts gorgeous public relations representative Cass Richards at the top of his suspect list. Will true love win out?
Don’t miss a single story in this series as it builds to an exciting and unexpected conclusion in Destiny’s Hand, available from Mills & Boon® Blaze® in August 2009.
Enjoy the ride!
Lori Wilde
To Kathryn Lye – thanks for all your incredibly hard work on this project. only you understand how much this means.
The Legend Begins
Thousands of years ago in a faraway desert kingdom lived two young princesses named Anan and Batu. Anan was the older sister destined to inherit the throne, but Batu was the prettier of the two with her dark, almond eyes and her thick black hair. While Anan was being groomed to take over her royal duties, Batu was allowed to play freely. Her favourite playmate was Egmath, the son of the bravest soldier in the king’s army.
Late one afternoon, as Batu and Egmath were frolicking among the cypress trees on the outskirts of the village, Egmath noticed the tiny buds on her chest blooming beneath her robe and began teasing her about them. Embarrassed by the odd changes in her body and by Egmath’s gentle jokes, Batu ran away and hid herself among the sand dunes.
She felt confused. Why had his comments upset her so? Until now, they’d joked and teased and poked fun at each other about everything. What had changed? Why did she feel so self-conscious? She ducked her head, crossed her arms over her chest, willed the strange bumps away and just kept running.
Alarmed that he’d hurt his best friend’s feelings and worried that Batu had gone out into the desert alone with no water, Egmath went in search of her. He walked through the heated sand, calling her name, calling out a heartfelt apology, pleading with Batu to show herself.
He crested one dune after another, moving farther and farther away from the village, but no Batu.
Evening crept over the horizon and young Egmath’s fear and guilt grew deeper with each darkening second. The wind buffeted him and blew sand in his face, tossing his pleas into the twilight. She would never hear him now. Time passed. Stars speckled the sky.
“Batu, Batu, where are you?” he cried.
He thought he heard a jackal’s low yipping, but he couldn’t be sure. Panic pulled Egmath faster into the desert night. He stumbled, fell on his face, got up and kept trudging up a high dune. When he reached the summit and peered down into the basin below, terror gripped his heart.
There stood Batu, surrounded by a pack of snarling, hungry jackals.
Egmath had no idea what to do. He had no weapon, and the village was too far away. If he left to go and find help, the jackals would surely attack before he could return. It was up to him and him alone to save her.
Batu hadn’t seen him. She stared at the horrible creatures, frozen with fear, trapped, unable to move. The jackals edged closer in a slowly advancing circle. Egmath swallowed hard, calling up every ounce of courage he possessed. His father had taught him there was nothing more important than honour and bravery.
But how could one young boy hope to fight off eight slobbering jackals? This then was his first test as a man. He would save Batu or die trying.
Armed with nothing more than his love for Batu, Egmath let out a fierce, angry scream, waved his arms wildly above his head and charged down the dune.
The jackals, frightened by the brave young warrior, turned and ran away into the darkness.
Egmath reached Batu. His heart was pounding and he could barely breathe. He was so scared.
“You saved my life,” Batu whispered.
He put his arms around her and held her close. “We must hurry to the village. Before the jackals come back.”
Batu was trembling so hard she could not walk.
“I’ll carry you,” Egmath said.
He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist and dropped her head onto his shoulder.
Their chests were pressed tightly together. She could feel the steady strum of his heart beneath hers. He was her saviour, her hero.
When at last they reached the copse of cypress trees, Egmath set her down, took her hands in his and under the starlit sky looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m so sorry for hurting your feelings,” he murmured. “I should never have teased you.”
“I should not have taken offence. I was silly. Thank you for caring enough to come after me.”
They stared into each other’s faces, and even though they were mere children they both knew they were fated to be together.
Egmath leaned in and tentatively, tenderly brushed his lips against Batu’s for their very first kiss.
And in that same moment a falling star streaked across the sky, throwing itself like an angled spar – darting a brilliant white, yellow and blue. Sealing their kiss. Sealing their destiny.
Egmath and Batu, forever always.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Copyright
Prologue
Stanhope Auction House Upper East Side, Manhattan 12:01 a.m.
RIGHT OR WRONG, he must possess her.
Stealthily, Jean Luc Allard, professional jewel thief, crept from the shadows of the silent auction house, intent on one thing and one thing only.
The surveillance camera mounted overhead whispered as it rotated to scan the perimeter, but Jean knew how to avoid detection. Strategically placed, a high- powered magnet would disrupt the camera’s feed.
For weeks, following the death of high-society heiress Zoey Zander, he’d researched every detail, learned every facet of the auction house’s routine, preparing for the moment when his target would show up for bidding as part of the vast Zander estate. His instructions were clear. He must not allow her to go up for auction, no matter what the risk.
And now soon, very soon, Jean would hold her in his hands.
Excitement trembled his fingertips, anticipation sped his pulse. Nothing thrilled him like a daring heist. Nothing, that is, except what she represented.
The key to his future as a very wealthy man.
It was the most lucrative job he’d ever taken. He was so close, Jean could taste the money.
He’d heard the stories about her. She was legendary in his small world. According to rumor, only those who were pure of heart could possess her without falling under the curse.
Laughable.
His whole life had been cursed. There was nothing she could dish out that would top what he’d already suffered. Besides, he didn’t believe in curses. Ruthlessness? Yes. Cruelty? Oui. Violence? A necessity in his trade. But fabled curses were no more real than children’s fairy tales.
Silently, he crept toward the vault, barely able to restrain himself from rushing forward, when he heard a noise somewhere down the corridor.
He stepped back, pressed his body against the wall, stood stock still in the darkness and willed himself to disappear.
Don’t move, don’t make a single sound, don’t even breathe.
Jean was dressed all in black from his black wool cap to his black leather sneakers. His hair was jet black and so were his eyes. Three days’ worth of beard growth shadowed his jaw. He was one with the darkness, owned it. Holding his breath, he waited.
Footsteps drew nearer, but it was not the sound of the security guard’s booted gait. The footfall was almost as furtive as his, sneaking quietly toward the vault without benefit of illumination.
Was someone else robbing the auction house?
Impossible.
Not on the same night he had chosen. Jean had discussed his heist with no one. A smart thief never talked about his jobs, no matter how tempting it might be to brag. Keeping his mouth shut was what had saved him from jail on many occasions and his ability to stay silent was the main reason his very wealthy, very well- connected employer had selected him for the job.
Could his enigmatic boss have hired someone else, just in case, to make sure Jean kept his end of the bargain? He ground his teeth, angered at his employer’s lack of trust. Was there truly no honor among thieves?
Then again, maybe he was jumping to conclusions. The contents of Zoey Zander’s estate had been extensively detailed in the newspaper. The woman had been wealthy enough to cause thieves on three continents to salivate, and the fact she had no immediate heirs made her fortune that much more enticing.
Jean watched as a broad-shouldered man loomed in the hallway. His mind shot back to an early childhood memory of his father stumbling through their house along a seedy stretch of the Seine. Come here, you son of a whore. Don’t hide from me. But Jean knew if he stayed hidden long enough his father would pass out in a drunken stupor and in the morning forget why he’d wanted to beat him in the first place. He’d learned to hide in plain sight, blending into the shadows, anchoring his fear down tight inside him.
When the stranger reached the door of the vault, he stopped and switched on a penlight.
Jean studied the man’s face in the gloom, but did not recognize him. He was younger than Jean and dressed casually, but elegantly. Like the son of a rich man. The interloper punched a number into the coded key pad and the vault door clicked open.
Interesting.
Where had he gotten the code? Did he work for the auction house? Jean had planned on sabotaging the mechanisms of the vault door and then disengaging the internal alarm with a special device designed by his employer. An anti-anti-theft apparatus. But this poser had simply obtained access to the deactivation code.
Specifically what had he come after?
The man disappeared inside the vault, but left the door ajar.
Jean hung back for a second and then edged forward. Cautiously, he peered through the opening. The man quickly skirted the antiques, memorabilia and other large items of the Zoey Zander collection and headed straight for a tall, upright safe at the back of the room.
Suddenly what had seemed like an imposing obstacle—the unexpected appearance of this stranger—became a blessing in disguise. Jean would let this man do the hard work.
His excitement was back. It tasted sweet and edgy against his tongue. His nose tingled with the smell of secrets, the tang of adrenaline.
The man stuck his penlight between his teeth and shone the thin beam on the lock. He spun the combination. The safe door popped open. Shoulders hunched, he dug inside, retrieved a fistful of jewels and stuffed them into a royal blue felt pouch he’d pulled from his jacket pocket.
Jean flexed his fingers, aching to touch her.
The man straightened, turned and for the first time saw Jean. He startled and then opened his mouth.
But he never got a word out.
Jean slammed the butt of his Luger hard against the side of the other man’s temple.
His eyes glassed over, his knees buckled and he went down.
Reaching out, Jean plucked the felt pouch from his hand as he fell. The penlight hit the floor beside him. Jean bent and picked it up, directed the light into the pouch. He ignored the rubies and emeralds and diamonds. His eyes were hungry for one thing and one thing only.
She smiled up at him, resplendent in the sliver of wan light. Smiled and winked and sparkled. She was perfect. Ivory in the shape of a five-pointed star with a hollow center.
He separated her from the other gems, but in the process, the pin of an onyx brooch pierced his thumb. He cursed softly, brought his thumb to his mouth and tasted blood.
He dropped the brooch and the rest of the jewels on top of the downed man. The interloper might as well have something for his troubles besides a throbbing headache when he awoke.
Jean’s eyes turned back to the amulet, now cradled in his palm, compelled by her allure. His breathing stopped. How could such a beauty be cursed?
Romantic rubbish.
Never mind the foolish legend. At long last she was his. And she was going to make him rich beyond his wildest imagination.
How he loved her.
His White Star amulet.
1
DON’T LOOK DOWN.
Cassandra “Cass” Richards, assistant public relations representative to the haute couture house of Isaac Vincent, stood trembling on a window ledge eight floors above Broadway in Manhattan’s garment district. One wrong move and she would plummet like a runway model’s weight two weeks before the spring collection debut.
Suddenly, shimmying after her Hermès scarf, which had caught on one of the brownstone’s grim-faced gargoyles, seemed more and more like a very bad idea. The brisk spring breeze had whisked it off her neck when she’d leaned out the open window to wave goodbye to her best friend, Marissa Suarez, who was heading off to the Caribbean with her boyfriend and had stopped by the office to leave Cass a key to her apartment just in case.
Wind whipped up her smart pink pencil skirt, sending a bone chill up her spine and causing her to realize that wearing a g-string thong today was probably not the brightest impulse she’d ever had.
And let’s face it, in her much-prized four-inch Manolo Blahnik pink patent leather Mary Janes that had set her back a full month’s salary, she was at a distinct disadvantage for navigating the eight- inch-wide cement outcropping.
How did she keep getting herself into these ridiculous fixes? She bit down on her bottom lip and eyed the traffic below.
Her head reeled dizzily.
Don’t look down.
She was pressed flush against the side of the building, arms splayed out at her sides, the coveted Hermès scarf clutched tightly in her right hand. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of what the dirty bricks were doing to her glamorous outfit.
When she’d first climbed onto the ledge it hadn’t seemed so scary because her attention had been fixed on the scarf. She had leaned out, never meaning to actually end up on the protrusion, but then she’d discovered her reach wasn’t quite long enough. She’d winnowed her hips through the window frame just to give her an extra couple of inches.
Close, but not close enough.
Don’t look down.
She’d held tightly to the frame, swung her legs around and then edged out onto the ledge. Two, three steps maximum was all it had taken to reach that first gargoyle.
Unfortunately, just as Cass had grasped for the recalcitrant scarf, the wind grabbed it again and fluttered it over to a second gargoyle a good four feet farther on down the ledge.
She hadn’t thought about anything except how many lunches she’d had to skip to afford the damned thing. Now, one wrong move and she wouldn’t have to worry about missed lunches or expensive scarves or passersby staring up her skirt ever again.
Please get me out of this alive and I promise, promise, promise I’ll be less impetuous in future, she bargained with the heavens.
She got her answer in the form of raindrops spattering on her head.
Terrific.
Apparently, there would be no divine intervention forthcoming today. Her salvation was up to her. Thank God her mascara was waterproof, but her hair was doomed to frizz.
“You can do this,” she told herself. “You got out here, you can get back. One step at a time.”
She made a tentative move toward the window she’d come out of, knees trembling with cold and fear. The heel of one stiletto hung on a crack in the cement ledge. Cass stumbled and for one horrifying moment she thought she was done for, but an updraft of wind pushed her into the brownstone instead of away from it.
Don’t look down.
Her heart pounded and her stomach roiled. She was never going to get off this precipice and all for a damned scarf.
Ah, but it wasn’t just any scarf.
She’d purchased the Hermès two days after her older sister, Morgan, had closed on a magnificent six-bedroom dream home in Connecticut that she planned on filling with children.
Cass had been happy for Morgan, who was married to the most perfect guy—the sort of down-to-earth, good-hearted man that Cass figured she’d never find for herself. Not that she was looking. Adam was a Wall Street investment banker with a flair for making money and a penchant for spending it on his wife, but Cass wasn’t jealous of her sister’s husband or their grand home or their affluent suburban lifestyle.
No, she’d maxed out her Visa on the scarf because wearing expensive, gorgeous things made her feel better about herself. With her parents bragging about Morgan and pointedly asking when Cass was going to settle down and get married and start producing grandchildren, she’d felt pressured and overshadowed.
And the Hermès had done its job, snapping her right out of her funk.
Truthfully, she liked her life exactly as it was. She wasn’t on the prowl for Mr. Right. She was having too much fun being young and single and dating in the most vibrant city in the world. She’d snagged her dream job at Isaac Vincent. She adored her fourth-floor walkup in Tribeca. Loved that she never had to cook. Treasured her freedom to come and go as she pleased and spend her money on whatever she wanted.
Including exorbitantly priced fashion accessories.
She wasn’t even sure that she ever wanted the husband, the kids and the house. Deep down inside, she doubted she could handle such an awesome responsibility as a family of her own. Best leave that to dutiful Morgan.
But still, sometimes…sometimes…she couldn’t help wondering what she was missing out on.
And when Cass got those itchy feelings, Cass went shopping.
Hence the Hermès.
Made from the purest silk twill. Paisley patterned and pleated and colored with the truest dyes. The hues in the scarf collaborated with a dozen different outfits and she wore it often. It wasn’t as if she’d bought the scarf and then shoved it in the back of her closet. That scarf made her feel rich and important and worthy.
Yet here she was, on the verge of trading her life for a scrap of fancy material.
What was wrong with this picture?
She hazarded another look down, saw that a knot of gawkers had gathered and were pointing up.
Oh, joy.
She groaned as fresh nausea rolled through her. And then she saw the television crew.
The wind gusted again, whistling around the side of the brownstone. Could people see up her skirt? Cass blushed.
Okay, it was official. Things couldn’t get any suckier. She was stuck out on a window ledge, in the rain, inches from death and after the noon news hit the air everyone in New York was going to know what kind of panties she wore.
DETECTIVE SERGEANT SAM MASON followed the collective gaze of the murmuring crowd, spied the woman clinging to the ledge of the building he’d been about to enter and his blood ran cold.
He counted the floors. Eight stories up. Bizarre. He’d been headed for the eighth floor.
“Jump,” hollered a punk kid in the crowd.
“Jump, jump.” Another snickering teen picked up the chant as if the possibility of someone’s death was just a big joke.
“Shut up,” Sam commanded, scowling then flashing his badge at the clueless teens. Had people lost all sense of common decency? “Or I’ll arrest you on the spot.”
The punks sobered and did as he said. Sam swung his gaze back to the jumper.
She’d picked a miserable day for it. The light sprinkles that had greeted him three blocks ago when he’d gotten off the subway had changed into a steady drizzle. The wind whipped wild and biting.
Honey, he thought, and mentally willed her back inside, whoever the guy is who’s driven you to this, he’s just not worth it.
She took a step sideways toward the open window several feet to her left. He prayed she was reconsidering her suicide bid. Then she stumbled and almost lost her balance.
The crowd gasped. By some hand of fate, she managed at the last moment to correct herself. Sam’s heart stilled and a flash of déjà vu fisted his gut. In his mind’s eye ten years dropped away and it was his second week on the job as an NYPD rookie beat cop.
That woman had been a jumper, too, distraught over the breakup of her marriage, perched precariously on the Brooklyn Bridge. Sam had sweet-talked, he’d cajoled, he’d made promises he couldn’t really keep and he had sweated it.
The woman seemed to calm down. To grow peaceful and quiet. Sam believed he’d won. He’d held her in his hands for a brief moment, arrogantly thinking that he had saved her. Then she’d met his gaze with her sad, soulful blue eyes that were too big for her face and she’d simply let go, taking that one fatal step backward into the black abyss.
He’d had nightmares about her for weeks afterward, waking in the middle of the night sweaty and guilty. Cringing, Sam briefly closed his eyes, blocking out the memory.
No. He could not, would not, let it happen again. This time he was older, wiser, more experienced, less full of himself. He was being given a second chance. This time he would save her.
He bound into the building, his brain speeding ahead of him, mapping out rescue strategies. One of the elevators was at the ground floor.
“Hold the door,” he shouted, but the doors bumped closed just as he reached the lift.
“Dammit,” he cursed, frantically jabbing the up button repeatedly. He swung his gaze to the lighted numbers above the remaining elevators. None of them were near the ground floor.
Swearing again, he tore around the corner in search of the stairwell.
“Sir, sir, excuse me, sir.”
The lobby receptionist he’d ignored came chasing after him, her heels striking snap-snap-snap against the cement floor. She caught him at the stairwell door.
“Sir, you must check in at the security desk before you can go up.”
“NYPD,” he growled at the woman. “You’ve got a jumper on the eighth floor.”
Startled, she raised a hand to her throat. “Oh my goodness.”
“Call the fire department and tell them what’s happening,” Sam ordered.
She stood there stunned.
“Now!” he shouted and shouldered through the door into the stairwell.
He took the steps two at a time, the vein in his forehead throbbing from exertion. Less than a minute later he burst onto the eighth floor, chest heaving, sweat on his brow. People in the hallway turned to stare, but he ignored them.
Gotta save her. Can’t let it happen again.
He had a chance for redemption. He wouldn’t let her slip through his fingers, wouldn’t be responsible for sending someone else over the edge.
Sam rushed past several offices that he knew weren’t in the right spot. He zipped through a great room thronged with ribbon-thin models in various stages of undress. Any other time and he might have been tempted to ogle, but not today.
Designers and tailors and seamstresses bustled to and fro. Bolts of lush colorful fabric littered tables, with bows and lace and sewing supplies scattered about. Sam’s eyes darted around the room. Clearly, no one realized that a young woman, quite possibly one of their coworkers, was perched on the window ledge preparing to take her own life.
This was taking too long. He had to get to her before she jumped.
He flung open the door of the next office he came to, angling straight for the window. The sign on the door identified it as Isaac Vincent’s public relations office. The person Sam had come here to interview about a string of high-end home robberies worked in this very office.
Weird coincidence.
Except Sam didn’t believe in coincidences. But he had no time to piece the puzzle together.
The office lay empty.
Sirens shrieked. Thank God the fire department was on the way.
Pulse racing, he rushed to the window and poked his head out, just as his old childhood fear blindsided him like a blow to the brain.
Sam Mason was terrified of heights.
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