Page 21 of Fae Devoted (Fae Touched #3)
W ithin the first five minutes of meeting Stephen Anderson in the casino for their date , Johnnie learned he was an Anwyll guardian for a town in Indiana.
A mayor of sorts who settled minor disputes between the Colony’s locals and assigned mentors to apprentices in the witch community.
By the time they exited the elevators on the top floor of the Rivière, Johnnie knew Stephen’s middle name was Walter, he jogged eight miles every day, rain or shine, and loved chicken piccata.
His favorite movie was All About Eve , and his labradoodle, Dog— dee-oh-gee— was a social media sensation.
Stephen didn’t notice the sympathetic looks their escort sent Johnnie as the vampire opened the door to Julien DuPont’s penthouse, the guardian too busy extolling the virtues of cushioning and support over flexibility in a good running shoe.
She returned the attendant’s empathy with a wry grimace and entered the large suite.
The patriarch’s residence was decorated in rich fabrics, the couches in velvets and the curtains in brocade.
The mahogany furniture was just as decadent, the wood inlaid with bronze and mother-of-pearl.
Glittering crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling while gilded mirrors and framed paintings by a famous French impressionist adorned the walls.
Mozart’s Flute Concerto played softly in the background.
The overt opulence gave the suite an old-world feel that alluded to Julien DuPont’s European ancestry and the era of his Dádhe Infusion.
The irony of Johnnie’s inability to get a word in edgewise with Stephen didn’t escape her and wouldn’t be lost on Jacob who was eavesdropping via the phone inside her small purse.
He may even find it amusing under different circumstances, but nothing about the present situation was funny to her future mate.
Future mate.
A pleasant heat suffused her chest as she recalled their recent kiss.
The memory filled Johnnie with optimism that the relationship was progressing in the right direction, although she admitted the timing could be better.
And there was the teeny-tiny minor issue of remaining largely in the dark as to why he continued to resist the connection.
After buying her dress, they had returned to the thin-walled motel, and Johnnie collapsed into the bed, fully clothed.
And despite the lumpy mattress, she fell asleep instantly.
Jacob woke her a mere thirty minutes before the scheduled rendezvous with Stephen, and it was a mad rush to get ready for the black-tie affair.
There’d been zero opportunity for him to explain Jeremiah’s scarring—or anything else.
But he promised to tell her everything after the party.
Johnnie would finally understand the obstacles standing in the way of their happiness—and demolish them one by one.
Stephen offered his arm, and she placed her fingers in the crook of his elbow, allowing him to guide her through the crowded suite toward a stunning female Johnnie assumed was the patriarch’s consort. The guardian was an attractive male, but he paled in comparison with his cousin.
Olivia Anderson was fifty, but if human, she would pass for thirty. Shiny blond hair twisted into a chignon highlighted a face the fashion magazines would pay top dollar to feature on their covers, while a long red gown hugged curves swimsuit models would envy.
“Stephen,” Olivia greeted, bussing his cheek with lips painted the color of her dress. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“I’m glad I could make it too, consort.” He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind him. “As I’m sure you’re aware, my job as guardian is vital to our small community. I wasn’t positive the Colony could do without me for a few days, but luckily, no emergencies have come up.”
“Let’s hope our luck holds so we can have a nice, long visit.” Sparkling blue eyes the same shade as Stephen’s rolled when they met Johnnie’s. “And who’s your friend?”
“Where are my manners?” His face reddened. “Joan Long, this is Consort Olivia Anderson.”
“It’s Olivia. No title required.”
“But it’s a great honor—” Stephen sputtered.
“Yes, yes.” Olivia waved her hand, silencing his objections. “May I call you Joan?”
“Actually, it’s Johnnie. My mom was an activist in the sixties. The nineteen sixties that is. She named me after Joan Baez. It would explain a lot about my mother if you knew her. But of course, you don’t. Anyhoo, everyone calls me Johnnie.”
“They do?” Stephen’s forehead wrinkled.
“Didn’t I mention that?” She had, a minimum of three times since meeting him at the slot machines that morning.
“I don’t believe so.” He reached across Johnnie to swipe the Champagne presented to her by an Anwyll server. The waiter blinked and offered another glass from her tray. Johnnie declined. Shaking hands and fine crystal wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.
Olivia sipped from her half-filled flute, the action drawing Johnnie’s attention to the white ink tattoos displayed on her bare shoulders, upper chest, and the length of her slender arms. The intricate patterns were as beautiful to Johnnie as the colorful Monet hanging behind the consort and nearly as beautiful as the approaching DuPont House patriarch.
The leader of the East North Central Region’s vampires kissed Olivia on the temple and drew her into a loose embrace. “Are you having a good time, ma coeur ?” he asked with a faint French accent.
“I am.” Her welcoming smile so full of love it transformed an already exquisite countenance into a breathtaking one. “You remember my cousin Stephen?”
“Guardian Anderson,” the vampire said, tipping his chin.
“Patriarch DuPont, it’s nice to see you again.”
The Dádhe was as stunning as his Anwyll consort, but dark whereas Olivia was light. DuPont wore his black hair pulled in a low tail and a tuxedo covered his elegant frame as though he were born in one.
There must be a female Dádhe in charge of selecting which human men went through transition because every male vampire seemed to be drop-dead gorgeous.
God bless her, whoever she was.
DuPont turned to Johnnie. “Miss Long.”
Her polite smile slipped. Had his sharp Dádhe hearing caught Stephen’s introduction and her nervous ramblings, or had he known Johnnie’s name before she entered the suite?
“Johnnie, please,” she said, extending a hand that trembled. DuPont pretended not to notice, flipping it over and brushing the back with his lips.
DuPont’s perfect white teeth flashed. “And what brings you to the Rivière, Johnnie?” He pronounced it Jui-nee, turning her boyish nickname into a sexy, feminine one.
Jacob debated her backup plan endlessly on the trip to Detroit.
Without the first Mark, the original scheme of pursuing a prospective mate who felt unworthy of claiming his female was no longer an option.
If she were discovered crossing Clan borders under pretense, Johnnie would get sent home with her proverbial tail between her legs.
A Dádhe patriarch or Anwyll grandmaster might not care if a she-wolf skirted shifter law, but a Ferwyn príoh and his pack Alphas would.
They’d consider it cruel to raise the hopes of their unmated clanmates and send her packing.
Lacking the diversion of a bitemark, Jacob eventually agreed a backup story that was closer to the truth was the best way to decrease the chance of her getting caught in a blatant falsehood and still be able to ask after his brother.
“I’m here for a friend.” Johnnie tugged at the sleeve of her new off-the-shoulder, electric blue dress, peeked at Stephen, and then tucked an unruly auburn lock behind her ear.
“Guardian Anderson, I wonder if you’d mind doing me a favor?” DuPont asked, waiting for the witch to agree before saying, “You remember Thlán Rutgers?”
“Yes, I’ve had the honor of conversing with your House’s second in command on numerous occasions.” Stephen’s torso strained toward the vampire in eager anticipation. “How can I be of service, Patriarch DuPont?”
“Stuart went downstairs to check on a card counting issue at one of the blackjack tables. Could you let him know I’d like to speak with him after the problem is resolved?”
“Of course. Right away, sir.” Stephen left without saying goodbye, all but accosting a waiter to take his empty champagne flute.
“Julien,” Olivia scolded, lips curving up. “Your thlán is in his suite with a…guest. And I doubt Stuart will wish to be disturbed until he’s finished his dinner.”
“And your point is…” DuPont grinned.
“Incorrigible, isn’t he?” Olivia addressed Johnnie. “Should I leave you and Julien alone to talk? Although with a room full of vampires, I wouldn’t expect much privacy.”
Johnnie played with the pendant of Jacob’s necklace and shook her head. “That obvious, huh?”
“I love my cousin, although he can be a little…”
“Pompous?” the patriarch suggested. “Pretentious? Self-absorbed?”
“Stop.” Olivia lightly slapped his chest.
“He’s been very nice,” Johnnie studied the tips of her pointy-toed shoes, “but I may have neglected to inform the guardian I wasn’t from this region.
” A witch couldn’t smell the difference between individual Clans, let alone packs, and no shifter female on an official search for her Ca’anam would be interested in a casual hookup.
“Detroit isn’t a prime spot to meet unmated Ferwyn males either,” DuPont pointed out, keen midnight gaze locked on Johnnie.
He was right. Unlike the Dádhe, whose inclination was to live near bodies of water, most Alphas preferred areas with easier access to forests and wildlife when establishing a pack’s home base. In Michigan, that meant farther north.
“I don’t anticipate staying in the city more than a day or two.” Truth. She and Jacob would move on as soon as they determined Jeremiah was no longer in the area and had a clue where he might have gone next.
DuPont cocked his head and waited.