Warrior's Angel (The Lost Angels Book 4) Read online

  Shock went through Rhiannon. She turned to look back at the crowd where Lambent had disappeared. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “That was Samuel Lambent.”

  “Yes, it was,” said Verdigri through the side of his mouth. “So be on your best behavior when we join him and his men for drinks, because that man is richer than God.”

  I can’t do this, she suddenly thought to herself. Samuel Lambent had been the world’s most eligible bachelor for years. He was gorgeous beyond being comfortable, and she could attest to the fact that the rumors about his eyes had all been true. They were indeed like a coming storm.

  And Verdigri was also right. He was richer than God. He was overwhelming. He was intimidating. He could have any woman, and probably close to any man, that he wanted, and she was supposed to charm him?

  “I have to know,” she murmured, feeling a tad numb. “How much did he give you?”

  Verdigri swallowed whatever he’d been chewing and took her drink off the table to wash it down. When he’d licked his lips and placed her goblet back on the table, he leaned in and whispered, “Think eight digits. And that’s just the first half.”

  Chapter Five

  The gala’s lights lowered a touch, the music was turned up a bit, and the “dance” floor at the center of the renovated cathedral began to fill with more twisting, turning revelers.

  When a masked woman with an enormous bosom bumped into Mr. Verdigri from behind, causing him to drop part of the piece of pie he was eating, he turned to face the voluptuous stranger. She covered her mouth and excused herself profusely for her clumsiness, he insisted it was his fault, and Rhiannon tried very hard not to grin like a Cheshire cat when he then wiped his hands on a napkin and asked the woman if she would care to join him in a dance.

  The woman’s blush was visible around the edges of her peacock mask as she accepted and placed her hand in his. Rhiannon watched them head out onto the dance floor.

  The music was perfect for the theme of the night, a hypnotic, eclectic mix of classical made into rave, a smattering of waltz, and some kind of underlying beat that kept the lights flashing and persuaded the younger crowd onto the dance floor.

  Rhiannon had just accepted a fresh glass of some beautifully concocted, pink and orange drink from a waiter’s offered tray, when a man in a mask nervously cleared his throat beside her. She turned to find a rather short-ish gentleman with thinning hair but expert taste in costumes nervously stepping closer.

  “My lady, I was hoping you would do me the very great honor of joining me in a dance?” he asked, and she could hear the wobble of uncertainty in his voice. It endeared her to him at once.

  She smiled broadly. “I would love to. Thank you.” She actually adored ballroom dancing, and because of the nature of her work and the flamboyant character of her employer, she’d had plenty of practice over the years. In fact, at one point she’d taken and mastered lessons from an expert.

  The man beamed in triumphant surprise and offered her his white gloved hand. Rhiannon set down her drink, took his hand, and accompanied him onto the dance floor.

  Once there, his confidence increased ten-fold, and Rhiannon found herself swept into a sure embrace just as the band began a waltz number that drew the crowd together in synchronized circles. He was a wonderful dancer, expertly twirling her this way and that, meeting her in perfect rhythm as the musicians and their sound system caressed the crowd.

  Rhiannon found herself smiling of her own accord, her tense body easing into relaxation despite the demanding nature of the dance. Any initial concerns she’d had about making a good impression on her employer’s possible benefactor began to melt away while the music moved them from one step and into the next.

  At a certain juncture in the dance, partners separated, and each woman was paired with a different man. Rhiannon found herself dancing with another gentleman, this one a bit older, with graying hair and a taller build.

  A few minutes later, partners were switched once more, Rhiannon was a touch more breathless, and the tempo of the dance increased, spinning women’s ball gowns in ever increasingly large displays.

  The lights overhead flashed rhythmically, colors blurred around her, and as partners were switched one final time, Rhiannon spun to find herself sliding into the strong, firm grasp of a tall, broad-shouldered stranger.

  The night seemed to skip, and a zap of something electric went through Rhiannon’s slim frame.

  She blinked, her brain suddenly feeling fuzzy. Then she looked up at her new partner, and the cathedral, its decorations, the clocks and tapestries, the food and drinks, and the swirling, twirling revelers all retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone… with the man from her dream.

  Just as it had been in that cryptic, troubling dream, she couldn’t see all of him; much of his face was hidden by his mask. But what she could see was enough.

  The man’s grip at her waist was sure, and his strong, confident step did all the work for her, moving her through the dance while she gazed up at him. His scent, a scent like the clean, endless night itself, wafted over her to seduce her senses. He was a study in darkness, wrapped elegantly in black from his tall boots to the black mask concealing his features, and that darkness enveloped her like a living shadow, overwhelming her.

  In her dream, his hair had been lighter, as if blasted by sun and sand. But it was the same hair, thick, wavy, and blond, with a sheen that made it look so soft, she found herself inexplicably wanting to run her hands through it.

  But the mark of the man, the indelible give-away to her dream stranger’s identity, was that part of him that she was lost in at that very moment. Rhiannon stumbled as she was trapped in the terrible, confusing power of his blue, blue eyes.

  He righted her easily when she miss-stepped. But the corners of his sensuous lips turned up in a smile more cruel than Samuel Lambent’s, and those eyes of an impossible hue that had pinned her to the foundations of her dream two nights ago yet granted no quarter.

  Much to Rhiannon’s ultimate surprise, she didn’t want them to.

  The stranger slowed with the waning tempo, and Rhiannon felt his hand press at her back, drawing her closer. He leaned in, just enough, and her already rapidly beating heart quickened. “I must tell you, Miss Dante,” he told her softly, “you look ravishing tonight.”

  His voice was deep and melodic, each lilt and note perfect, each tone sliding around her body like a fog of warm silk. Somewhere in the back of Rhiannon’s experienced brain, alarm bells began to sound. But they were muffled by that fog.

  “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” she heard herself reply. Her own voice seemed muffled, softened by distance and the pounding of her heart. She was surprised she’d managed such an intelligent response.

  “Mm,” he admitted with a slight, wicked smile. He turned, spinning her around him in time with the other dancers. “I suppose I do.” His smile became a grin. There was something about it that sent butterflies – black ones, with blood red wing tips – fluttering deep in her belly. “But if there is one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never to give up a tactical advantage.”

  Spoken like a warrior, she thought.

  At once, the image from her dream flashed before her mind’s eye: The stranger, standing at a cliff’s edge, battle torn and scarred, and utterly, terribly beautiful….

  She swallowed, fighting past a tightness in her throat. “If there is anything I have learned,” she returned now, drawing strength from some unknown place where uncertainty resided, “it’s that I don’t do well when cornered.”

  There was a rumbling, distant but significant, that rolled over the cathedral and signaled an on-coming storm. It didn’t take long for Rhiannon to realize that she was the cause of it.

  He was getting to her, this stranger.

  The man in black looked up toward the cathedral’s rafters – then looked back down at her. Now there was something in his expression that tightened Rhiannon’s gut and forced her pulse into hy
per drive. “You are a force to be reckoned with.”

  Suddenly, his grip tightened, and before she could react, he had stopped at the center of the dancing crowd and pulled her completely against him. The hardness of his body on hers, the darkness of him, the scent of him, and the oceans of depths in his eyes left her at once breathless. For the first time in her life, Rhiannon Dante, the woman who could throw cars with her mind, the woman with pyrotechnic powers that took down buildings, and the one with the ability to bring forth a hurricane, was utterly helpless.

  “But you have weaknesses,” he told her now, whispering the words across her lips. The feel of his breath, and the nearness of his mouth were a heady combination, turning her knees to jelly. Outside, the thunder drew closer.

  If he hadn’t been holding her up, she might have fallen.

  “Everyone does, Rhiannon.” He leaned in, holding her even tighter so that he could whisper in her ear. A shiver, wanton and delicious, went through her when he said, “I’m willing to bet I can find every one of yours.”

  How much, she thought recklessly, even as, against all logic and reckoning, she closed her eyes and turned her head to offer him her neck, abandoning herself to him. How much do you want to bet?

  “Everything you have ever wanted,” he told her as if he had pulled the question from her mind. “And more.”

  A heartbeat later, Rhiannon felt his lips against the pulse in her throat.

  Lightning struck the cathedral’s upper-most peaks, and thunder sliced through the music like a bomb. Overhead lights flickered and went out. People screamed, but the sound was drowned out by the tremendous zapping of wires and sound systems being electrified. Sparks erupted along the walls and shot like fireworks from the bandstand, and Rhiannon blinked, forcing her way back up through the sea she’d been drowning in.

  Pleasure was rippling through her, warming her, weakening her. With no more than a kiss, the tiniest touch of flesh on flesh, she was all but gone to him.

  But chaos had been born around them, people running, fire extinguishers hissing, and Rhiannon’s will had never been easily buckled. Something was wrong. She needed to focus. Someone might need help.

  She felt she was trapped in time and space as she fought to find the strength needed to pull away from the stranger. She managed inches and looked up, moving in a dream-like slow motion, caught in the syrup of the stranger’s seductive grasp.

  “One down,” he told her. His words echoed through her. They were flippant and they were cruel, but this time, he wasn’t smiling as he stepped back into the darkness behind him. His eyes simply burned, like the center of a candle’s flame.

  The hottest fire is blue.

  Those eyes were the last to vanish in the shadows that had been left behind by the failing lights.

  And then the stranger was gone.

  *****

  “The hottest fire is blue.”

  The limousine’s driver glanced up to find her in his rear-view mirror. “I’m sorry, Miss Dante?”

  Rhiannon blinked, realizing she’d spoken the words out loud. “Nothing, Frank. I’m sorry, I’m talking to myself.” She’d just been recalling the words her eighth grade Earth and Space Science teacher had once said to her class as she’d taught them about the different types of stars. Contrary to appearances, red was the coolest type of star, despite a red giant’s size. Yellow, as was their sun, was the next hottest. White was hotter. And blue was the hottest of them all.

  To illustrate the differences in their temperatures, the teacher had lit a candle and allowed them all to peer closely at the flame. The outer edges of the flame were red and yellow. The center of the flame was white – and blue. “The hottest fire is blue,” she’d told them. “That’s why you can’t cook over barbeque coals that are still blue. You need to wait until they die down and the fire turns red or you’ll burn everything to a crisp.”

  In the limousine’s driver’s seat, Frank smiled and shook his head. “No need to apologize, Miss Dante. You’ve had an eventful night.”

  Rhiannon returned his smile, but it was admittedly a tired smile. He was putting it mildly. The encounter with the stranger had brought out the most dangerous aspects of Rhiannon, things she thought she’d learned to control years ago. Though they could have been much worse, the consequences were still dire.

  Tens of thousands of dollars worth of damage had been done to the equipment and property at the cathedral. Fortunately, her employer could afford it, especially if Samuel Lambent didn’t pull his funding – and Rhiannon prayed like mad that he didn’t.

  She wanted nothing more than for Mr. Verdigri to have the money he needed to make the world at least a little more like he thought the world should be. He was a good man. Power in good hands was a good thing. The problem was, he never spared any expense. It wasn’t in his nature. He loved extravagance and cut no corners. “Life is too short,” he would tell her. He would know. “And sparkly things are so very sparkly.”

  So, he was always fundraising.

  What she wouldn’t give to see him in a situation where he would never have to worry about finagling money again.

  Not a single person had been harmed in the fires or mini-explosions caused by the lightning’s strikes, but noise and eruptions had placed people in a state of discord.

  When Mr. Verdigri found Rhiannon at the center of the confused crowd and pulled her aside to make certain she was okay, he couldn’t help but also ask her if she had any idea what had happened. He was well aware of her ability to control weather – and there hadn’t been a cloud in the sky when the gala began that night.

  She’d come clean immediately, admitting that she may have lost control for a moment or two. With a surprised expression, he asked what had brought it on, and she found that was where her ability to be straight forward with him came to an end.

  Rather than tell him the whole truth, she’d simply shaken her head helplessly. “I really don’t know how it happened, Mr. Verdigri. I haven’t lost control in years.” It was part of the truth. She should have been stronger than this, able to weather any kind of seduction, magical or not. She should have had a fist-hold on her abilities. She was flummoxed.

  His gaze had narrowed thoughtfully, and he nodded in acceptance. He knew it had been a very long while since she’d lost control.

  “I know,” he said calmly. But there was a turbulent sea of questions behind that calm.

  They’d been joined at that time, by Samuel Lambent, who in the ensuing madness, had removed his mask.

  That was where the night became a terrible blur for Rhiannon. Lambent was not only as handsome as his tabloid pictures made him out to be, he was painfully beautiful, from his voice to his dark, tumultuous gaze, which all but reflected the hurricane of emotions going through Rhiannon that night.

  The man was the very tower of grace, too. When Rhiannon’s nervous employer had begun apologizing profusely to him, no doubt hoping he wouldn’t pull his promised funding, Lambent had waved his hand dismissively, and said, “Mr. Verdigri, nature is the wild, redheaded step child of the Cosmos; she’s unpredictable at the best of times, and deadly at the worst.” Then he’d chuckled and added, “Besides, if these are the kinds of effects you can provide for my programs, then you’re delivering on your promises already, and I’m impressed.”

  Smooth, Rhiannon thought now as she looked back on the evening and the limousine took her closer to her hotel. Very, very smooth.

  Lambent was an enigma. Rhiannon had dealt with enough non-human people over the years to recognize little signs or clues to an individual’s otherworldliness. Was he more than he pretended to be? The man hadn’t aged a day since he’d taken to the public eye. Of course, with as much money as he possessed, there were plastic surgeons who could see to that.

  But he didn’t have the aura of someone who’d been “messed” with cosmetically. No, it wouldn’t surprise her if Lambent was something more than human. He was too handsome, almost unnaturally successful, his reach was
scary long, and the way his eyes made her feel….

  “He can’t be a vampire,” she whispered to herself, and then realized she’d spoken out loud again. Fortunately, she’d done so quietly enough that Frank hadn’t heard her this time.

  Lambent couldn’t have been a vampire. He was seen out and about during the day, and from what she’d learned through her dealings with them, vampires could not take the sun at all. Besides, she’d only met a few vampires old enough to be able to control the length of their teeth enough to make the fangs disappear, and vampires that old were very, very rare.

  That meant the stranger in black was in the clear, too. When he’d smiled at her, there had been no hint of fang. Thinking back on it now, she remembered that she’d half expected to see them. It would have explained a lot.

  Rhiannon sighed and rested her head against the leather back of the seat. The two men would remain a mystery for now.

  An odd thing, though, was that no one had mentioned anything to her about the man in black. No one had seen her dancing with him, and in fact, Mr. Verdigri had told her he hadn’t known she was dancing at all. It was as if she’d gone out there with one man and then vanished for several minutes.

  One down….

  Rhiannon experienced a sudden shiver as a crystal-clear image of the stranger’s eyes appeared in her mind and his voice echoed through the halls of her brain. He’d said “One down,” as if referring to the weaknesses he’d promised to uncover.

  But what had he been referring to? She hadn’t done or said anything.

  Rhiannon took a deep breath. Assuming the man was a creature who could read her mind, the only thing she’d been thinking about was him. Except when the lightning struck and she’d forced herself out of her seduction-induced stupor because she was worried about people getting hurt.

  Oh my God.

  That was it. Her number one weakness – was her fear that others would suffer, and her hatred of the fact that they did.

  He wouldn’t have had to read her mind to figure that out. She’d pulled away from him when chaos ensued. She’d been lost in him until that moment. Up until then, he’d been in complete control. It was her fear for the people in the cathedral that finally gave her the will to break away.