Page 8

Annabelle navigated the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, nerves fluttering in her stomach.

Her heels clicked across the floor as she passed the marble columns and walked beneath the ornate chandelier and past the faux-gold candelabras.

She skirted the stunning Christmas tree, decorated in gold and silver, that almost touched the towering roof.

Aunt Marjory had once tried to broker a deal to sell the penthouse here.

The deal had fallen through, but given her aunt’s clients wouldn’t have been interested in anything under four million, it would have gone for a hefty price.

Were Gabriel and Stefanie actually staying here, or did they want the coven to think they were?

She’d never found out where Gabriel had stayed in Paris.

Something she’d only realized after he’d gone.

For all she knew, he could be a millionaire or a beggar.

He’d said he worked in security, but as he’d given her a false name, was that true or another lie?

She hadn’t even known he was a shifter. Did she know the man at all?

Obviously not.

Annabelle took a deep, steadying breath, squared her shoulders and, with purpose in her step, made her way to The Lounge.

She’d spent too much time, and too much emotional energy, boxing up Gabriel and shoving him firmly to the back of her linen closet with the Christmas ornaments to let him back into her life now.

No matter how good that orgasm in her great aunt’s downstairs bathroom had been.

The ma?tre d’ smiled at her as he took her coat and scarf, and she smoothed her hands down the soft fabric of her dress.

She’d dressed to kill—a woolen midnight blue sheath dress that hugged her figure, contrasted nicely with her hair and made her eyes pop.

She’d paired it with heeled knee-high leather boots that not only made her look taller than her five feet seven, but accentuated the swing of her hips as she walked.

Gabriel would see what he’d let go, perhaps regret it, and then Annabelle would have the victory of turning him down.

Of walking away from him. She would walk away from him.

Even if it meant she had to go to the damn tenth century to do it.

She shoved down the memories of another dinner, of another restaurant adorned to celebrate the festive season, as the ma?tre d’ led her across plush carpet, past elegant wingback chairs, to a cozy corner by the windows overlooking the San Francisco city lights.

But when she set eyes on the table, her steps faltered.

There was only one person waiting for her.

Gabriel. Was Stefanie in the ladies’ room?

No. The table had only two chairs, and two place settings.

Gabriel stood. She swallowed. Blinked. A black, buttoned shirt fit snugly across his broad shoulders, and black pants hugged his hips and muscular thighs. He looked divine in black. Who am I kidding? The man would look like a god in a hessian sack.

“Gabriel.” Annabelle gritted her teeth, plastered a smile on her face and slid into the chair the ma?tre d’ had pulled out for her.

“Annabelle.”

A server appeared with a bottle of wine.

A Bordeaux. He’d remembered. She’d developed a taste for it in Paris, cultivated by him.

She glanced at the label. Chateau Talbot, St. Julien 1996 .

Probably not the most expensive wine on the list, but it would set him back at least a couple of hundred dollars.

Would it be crass to scull a whole glass of it?

She fidgeted in her seat. She needed something to bolster her courage.

With the wine uncorked and tasted, and a nod of approval from Gabriel, the server poured two glasses.

Annabelle snatched hers up, tempering herself and taking a sip.

Flavor burst on her tongue, velvety smooth, and before she could stop it a moan slipped out.

It’d been a long time since she’d enjoyed a wine this good.

Over the rim of her glass, she caught the heat in Gabriel’s eyes.

Annabelle set her glass down with studied calm. “Where’s Stefanie? Should we be discussing our plans without her?”

Gabriel took a sip of his wine, his hand, his capable hand, cradling the wine glass. Once they had cradled… She shook her head, banishing the image that came to mind. Paris was over, in the past and it damn well had to stay there.

“By that measure, where is your great aunt?”

Of course he knew of her relationship with the High Priestess. No shifter would barge into coven business without doing a background check.

“The High Priestess cannot be everywhere or do everything all at once. In this instance, I speak for her.”

“As I speak for Stef.”

Damn it. Damn him.

“Why are you really here, Gabriel? The risk of discovery is a part of life for anyone of the supernatural variety. Taking out Faucher won’t change that.”

Gabriel shrugged a muscled shoulder, his shirt pulling tight across his chest. Her fingers curled. Muscle memory was a bitch .

“As I said earlier, in your great aunt’s office, our pack has had dealings with Eveque Faucher.

The information he kept on our pack, has provided—and we suspect—is still providing, our enemies with insight we wish they didn’t have.

If we can eliminate him and his writings, it will be of considerable benefit to us. ”

Lord, listening to Gabriel talk, his deep voice and that almost guttural ‘r’, the melodic singsong quality, even when he spoke in English… Coupled with those chocolate brown eyes, and full lips… Her nipples peaked and she squeezed her thighs together.

Gabriel swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Annabelle?”

His voice dipped deeper, huskier, and she all but melted into her panties. He reached for her hand, and she snatched it away.

“That makes sense.” Did she sound a little breathy? She cleared her throat. “But you had no way of knowing we had something that could help you with that when Dutton’s research alerted you to our interest in him.”

“ Non.” Gabriel tapped the table. “But what if we are wrong? What if our enemies have yet to discover Faucher’s writings? Or, they have only some of them and are looking for more? Anybody, ma chérie , who takes an interest in Faucher is of interest to us.”

Ma chérie. Literal translation, my darling. A common enough phrase in French. Gabriel had called her that many a time. In Paris. Then he’d left her. She shouldn’t read anything into it.

Gabriel leaned his elbows on the table, and a whiff of his spicy aftershave mingled with the musky scent that was all Gabriel tickled her nostrils.

She leaned back in her chair, resisting the urge to breathe it in, to let it surround her.

Too many memories clung to that scent. Memories that stirred up a heat she was desperately trying to ignore.

“Where did the coven find the spell, Annabelle?”

Annabelle stiffened. “Who said it was a spell?”

Gabriel shrugged. “You’re witches. A coven of witches. It stands to reason you would use a spell. Where did you find it?”

Why was it so important to know where it had come from? Did he suspect it was from Faucher’s writings? That would mean the grimoire had belonged to the bishop. Not likely. Not unless the bishop was a warlock himself, and a dark one at that.

“Or did you write the spell, Annabelle?” he persisted. “Another witch in your coven perhaps? Or that… warlock , Dutton?” From the snarl in his tone as he spoke Dutton’s name, it was clear what Gabriel thought of him. On this they were on the same page.

“Huh?” She shook her head. “No.” She might have wished she’d written it, or that someone in her coven had—with the exception of Dutton—but no.

The witch who had, had been far more proficient than she.

The spell was a complicated one. Each time Annabelle had used it, she’d had to take a few hours to prepare herself for it.

Transversing time was no simple matter. If it was, scientists would have discovered a way to master it by now.

Gabriel tapped the table, waiting for her reply.

“I work at Rarity. We specialize in rare and collectible books. I found it in the back of an old book.” Not entirely untrue.

“And where is this book now?”

Annabelle shrugged. “Where most books in Rarity go, eventually. It got sold. As most books do sooner or later. Bought by some anonymous financier upstate, I think. I barely had a chance to take a photo of the spell before it was gone.” Was he buying her lie?

Her great aunt had, but a shifter’s senses were far superior to a human’s.

“It was one page in the back of a manuscript. I had the photo, so I didn’t bother tracking the sale. ”

His gaze slid to her purse.

“I’ve deleted the photo, if that’s what you’re looking for. It’s not the kind of thing you want to leave lying around for anybody to have access to.”

Did he really think she would be stupid enough to keep it on her phone?

With the tech available to hackers these days?

It was far too dangerous to leave it sitting in her image gallery.

She’d deleted it from her phone as soon as she’d left Aunt Marjory’s office.

Once she’d confirmed her aunt had received it.

Gabriel’s gaze slid past her shoulder, then narrowed. Annabelle turned.

What the…

Strutting across the restaurant toward them was Dutton, with the ma?tre d’, red-faced and flustered, trailing along behind him.

She scowled. “Did you…?”

A snarl curled Gabriel’s lips. Nope. He hadn’t invited Dutton. Aunt Marjory, maybe?

“Annabee, darling. Dinner with another man? This will have to stop once we confirm our engagement.”

Annabelle gripped the table. If she didn’t do something with her hands, she was liable to plant her fist right into Dutton’s conceited, irritating face.

Dutton stood over the shifter, his hands on his hips, and looked down his nose at him. “Gabriel.”

Annabelle sighed. Was the man an idiot? Did he really think such blatant stand over tactics would work?

Gabriel merely raised an eyebrow at Dutton. “What an unpleasant surprise. I don’t recall inviting you. Annabelle?”

Annabelle shook her head. “Me neither.”

“As if I would be left out of such an important meeting.” He signaled to the ma?tre d’. “Another place setting for this table, and bring me a whiskey, neat.”

Gabriel grimaced, but he gave the ma?tre d’ approval and the man hurried off.

Annabelle scowled. Aunt Marjory had better not have invited Dutton.

She pushed her chair back. “Excuse me, gentleman. I need to use the ladies’ room.” She slid from her seat, and because she knew it would annoy Dutton, she gave Gabriel her brightest smile and said, “Order for me, will you, mon amour? You know what I like.”

The ‘my love’ was purely to piss off Dutton, but the satisfaction in Gabriel’s eyes had her scurrying away and making a beeline for the ladies’ room.

The door had barely closed behind her when she pulled out her phone and stabbed out an urgent text to Aunt Marjory, demanding an explanation. She paced, her heels clicking an impatient staccato on the floor.

Her phone dinged. A reply from Aunt Marjory.

Dutton did not receive an invite from me. The shifters?

Annabelle screwed up her face. Not from Gabriel’s reaction.

Then how?

Good point. The only people who knew about the meeting were her, Aunt Marjory, Gabriel and Stefanie—Stefanie didn’t appear to like Dutton any more than Annabelle—and Isobella.

There was no way Isobella would have given Dutton that information.

She knew how much Annabelle despised him.

And Isobella wasn’t fond of him, either.

I don’t know, but I think we really need to find out.

Annabelle flicked through her contacts for Isobella’s number. Facing Gabriel on her own was bad enough, but Dutton as well was beyond her forbearance.

Fancy a dinner at the Ritz-Carlton rather than a cheese toastie?

Isobella’s reply was immediate. ???

Gabriel’s here on his own.

Oh. You think he might still have a thing for you?

Annabelle’s fingers hovered over her phone.

Could he? Doubtful. Though, he had been pretty into her in the High Priestess’ downstairs bathroom.

No. If he really did have a thing for her, surely he would have tried to find her in the last three years, or at least returned to her in Paris.

She’d waited a month for him to return, and he’d never showed.

Nope. Shifters were renowned for being highly sexual.

He was merely taking advantage of an opportunity that had dropped in his lap, nothing more.

And Dutton turned up. Uninvited.

*Groan* The man needs to learn the meaning of the word no.

Don’t leave me here on my own, Isobella.

Annabelle stared at herself in the mirror, at her flushed cheeks and her too-bright eyes as the silence stretched between texts.

Pleeeease.

The wait for a reply was interminable.

I’ll be there as soon as I can. But you owe me. Big time.

Thank you, Isobella. You’re the best sister ever.

Ha! I’m your only sister.

Annabelle slipped her phone back into her bag and straightened her dress. With her shoulders squared, she exited the ladies’ room. She just had to keep from killing Dutton, or begging Gabriel for sex, until backup arrived.