Brimstone Bride

And then she wasn’t.

She tried to ignore the sudden pull of Brimstone, holding herself in place because if she didn’t she would immediately move to its source. And its source was her enemy in spite of his allure.

Adam Turov.

It had to be.

“I can do this,” Victoria whispered under her breath, the hoarse sound of her voice still a surprise, though the fire had been over two years ago. She shouldered her handbag and moved toward the portico over the front entrance.

“There’s no turning back once you step through that door,” a voice said from the shadows.

The glow from the windows did little to illuminate her welcoming committee. He didn’t require illumination. She knew who and what he was before he came closer. As he approached, she instinctively inched away and looked over her shoulder.

The Order of Samuel had used her affinity to hunt daemons. She’d been a reluctant bloodhound since she was a young girl. She still was. It hadn’t ended. The man at the airport was stalking her. He might be out of sight, but he wasn’t out of mind. She reminded herself that this time she was here willingly. Her job was to uncover Turov’s secrets and help the Order shut him down.

For Michael.

She forced herself to halt her retreat.

Adam Turov stepped into the light near the front door and he surprised her. He seemed nearer to her age than she’d expected. But she knew he wasn’t. He was much, much older. Fear fluttered in her stomach and she tightened her impressively toned diaphragm against it. She was a welcome guest. A harmless opera singer looking for a restful vacation. She needed to act like he was her host, not her prey.

Her throat might not be up to par, but her core was as iron as ever. For Michael.

“Mr. Turov. It’s nice to meet you,” she said. She recognized him from the magazine she’d been shown. But that didn’t matter—she could feel the Brimstone in his blood. He had already found her because that Brimstone drew him to her like a moth to a flame. The thought was heady as well as frightening. He was tall, sinfully attractive and powerful. Her temperature had risen. His would run hotter than 98.6. Her cheeks flushed. The earthy spring air was cool against her skin. It was the Brimstone, but it was also the man and her deception. Her job had always been to create beautiful, dramatic fabrications onstage, but she wasn’t comfortable with lies offstage.

“Welcome to Sonoma. Are you ready to leave work and worry behind? I’ll show you to the cottage where you’ll be staying. You can freshen up and join us for a drink,” Turov said.

“Do you always personally greet your guests?” she asked.

He didn’t confirm his identity. He probably knew he didn’t need to. He was famous. One of the most eligible bachelors in California. Of course she would recognize the Turov eyes, nose and chin that had graced his father and his grandfather before him. He couldn’t know she was privy to his deal with the devil. He was the only Turov left and had been for over fifty years. Brimstone fueled his longevity. But it had come at great price. What kind of man would sell his soul for wealth and acclaim? Never mind the permanent feel of the estate around her and the rich earth beneath her feet. It would all be ashes eventually. The devil’s due.

“No. Not always,” he said. Only that. No explanation. Her flush deepened as he looked closely at her, one brow slightly raised.

The damned master of Nightingale Vineyards offered her his arm and she lightly accepted it. Little did he know her work—the most important performance of her life—had only just begun. Her heart pounded as they walked around a manicured lawn to a rose-covered arbor that created a dark tunnel. There was discreet outdoor lighting to show them the path. But would he need it if he’d walked this way for decades?

Her son had Brimstone blood. This was different. Turov was no daemon. He was a human who had sold his soul. His was not an innocent, natural burn. He was dangerous in spite of his tailored suit and his cultured accent.

Who was the prey in his garden? She was afraid the tables had been turned already.

“You’ve lost your voice?” he asked as they walked through rose-scented shadows.

“I’ve strained it. There was a fire a couple of years ago. I breathed in extreme heat and smoke. The effects have lingered. I can talk, but I can’t sing. Not in my former way. I might never be able to sing professionally again,” she said.

“That’s a shame. I’m sorry. Never is such a long time and I’d love to hear you sing. Perhaps our pinot noir will soothe your throat,” he said.

She was used to taking on roles, but she wasn’t a spy. She might as well have “fraud” written on her forehead in scarlet. Her affinity was supposed to help her, but she was afraid it did the opposite. She couldn’t be as tactical and distant as she should be. Her senses were completely taken over by the heat in his blood. His arm was solid and strong under her fingers. His warmth radiated outward to counteract the night air. It was as if she walked with a flame. Her feet faltered. Her throat reflexively opened. For the first time in a very long time she felt a song well up in her chest.

“For you,” Turov said. They exited the arbor tunnel into a private courtyard ringed by high hedges. At first she mistook the cottage as a part of the hedge, but it was actually a stone building completely covered in lush vines of dark red roses. They tumbled and curved and twined, a profusion of color as the night came on, a riot of greenery and blossom.

“Oh,” she breathed out. She risked no other syllable. Her chest was full. Her lips trembled. She wanted to sing. It was the Brimstone. Katherine had shared the truth about their affinity and how their gift for music responded to daemon blood. They’d used music to drown out the magnetic pull, but in special cases the music seemed to resonate with the power of Brimstone. She had to keep up her guard. She couldn’t afford to allow this man to inspire her to song. Not if the song would bind them together. He was bound for the hell of the Order of Samuel’s clutches. That was all.

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 (#u74923b9c-4c95-5f6f-9521-7fcd7cae7a48)

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.