Page 9

Over his wineglass, Gabriel eyed Dutton.

Their talk with Marjory Jackson earlier had yielded more than he’d expected.

Marjory Jackson was looking to retire as High Priestess.

Annabelle was Marjory Jackson’s niece, and was who Marjory was pinning her hopes on as her replacement.

Dutton, the fils de pute , according to Marjory, wanted the coven, not Annabelle.

Gabriel wasn’t too sure about that. He’d seen the look in Dutton’s eyes at Marjory’s house.

The way he’d stared at the swell of Annabelle’s breasts as she’d poked him in the chest, furious he’d dared to insinuate their marriage was a done deal.

Gabriel grimaced. Coven politics, it seemed, were no less convoluted than pack politics.

He glanced at his phone again. Nothing. No word from Pierre or Louis.

What he was going to do if his Annabelle turned out to be the Bella Rodriguez, he couldn’t even contemplate.

Stef had asked him if he was sure she was his, and he was.

Wasn’t he? His leg bounced beneath the table, and his wolf paced in his mind.

He and his wolf were about going out of his skin just thinking about letting her go again.

Dutton set his whiskey on the table. “Why don’t we get down to business? Annabelle cannot go on this mission. I’m sure you agree.”

Gabriel hid his amusement behind his wine.

He did agree, but not for the same reasons as Dutton.

He tilted his head and regarded the warlock.

Could Dutton be the coven’s plan de sauvegarde ?

They’d suggested Marjory come up with a contingency plan, should something happen to Annabelle.

Like Gabriel claiming her. Could Dutton be it?

Gabriel didn’t think so. Marjory had been very diplomatic, but she hadn’t been able to hide her distaste for the warlock. Not completely. Not from him.

“I’ll not allow it,” said Dutton.

Gabriel choked on his wine. Were they thinking of the same Annabelle?

“And it’s clear to everyone in the coven, with the exception of the High Priestess, that I should be the one to undertake this task.”

Was it clear, or was Dutton nothing more than a crétin arrogant ? The latter, he suspected.

Annabelle, a vision in midnight blue, exited the toilette .

And like in Paris, when he’d first spotted her strolling along the Seine, her coffee in one hand, her camera in the other and her woolen leggings showcasing her shapely legs as she spun around taking in the view, she mesmerized him.

She walked toward their table, her dress clinging to her curves as she moved.

Wearing no soutien-gorge, her breasts bounced as she sashayed across the room.

And those boots… Fuck me. He wanted her naked but for them. Gabriel spread his legs a little, allowing more room for his burgeoning cock.

He followed the line of her dress, from the swell of her breast, past the curve of her hip, down to the hint of skin between the hem and the tops of her boots, giving her a thorough eye fucking.

It’s what he suspected she’d had in mind by wearing that dress, those boots and no brassiere.

He was not one to disappoint. Not his Annabelle.

She slid into her seat, glaring at him, though the effect was sultrier than perhaps she intended. Anticipation sizzled up his spine. He would have his woman beneath him before the night was through.

She turned her scowl on the warlock. “Dutton, you’re still here. What a pity.”

Dutton clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “ So you really think you can take on this tenth century witch hunter, Annabelle?”

It was tempting to hook his foot around the connard’s chair, reef it out from under him and watch him fall.

Annabelle’s eyes turned the icy blue of the Arctic. “Yes, Dutton, I do. Now”—she dismissed Dutton with a flick of her hand—“Gabriel, what can you tell us about this Eveque Faucher?”

Gabriel leaned his elbows on the table. “Faucher is not the only danger you’ll face in the tenth century. How accurate is this spell?” He took a sip of his wine—a nice Bordeaux he’d chosen with Annabelle in mind. “You have tested it, right?”

He didn’t like the idea of discussing too much in front of Dutton, but it didn’t look like the connard had plans to leave anytime soon.

Annabelle’s gaze dipped, burned a path across his shirt and caught on the vee of skin laid bare by his open collar. Her pupils dilated, leaving only a thin circle of blue visible. Her breath gave a little hitch and her heart rate increased.

He bit back a grin. “Annabelle.”

Her gaze snapped back to his face. “What?”

“The spell,” he reiterated. “You have tested it, right?”

“Oh.” She flushed, then glared at him, sending a side glance at Dutton. “Yes. Yes, of course we’ve tested it.”

So Annabelle didn’t only dislike Dutton, she didn’t trust him either. His woman had good instincts.

Dutton frowned. “You’ve tested the spell? Already? No one informed me of this.”

Annabelle snorted. “You’re not privy to a lot of things, Dutton. Of course the High Priestess and I tested it. Our whole plan rests on it working.”

“And it worked?” he asked.

A wariness crossed Annabelle’s face, and Gabriel’s hackles rose.

She thrust out her chin. “Yes. Would I be here discussing this mission with you if it hadn’t?”

Gabriel brought his wolf close to the surface and reached out with his enhanced senses. He scented no lie, but… Annabelle shifted in her seat. She wasn’t telling the whole truth, either. He’d sensed the same as when she’d talked of her discovery of the spell. Interesting.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “How many times have you used it?”

Annabelle shrugged. “Only a few. It requires substantial preparation, and—” Her brow furrowed ever so slightly. “We may need to practice a little.”

So the spell wasn’t exact. He needed to get his hands on that spell.

Maybe send a copy to Alain d’Louncrais, Stef’s cousin.

Coming from a long line of Langeais wolves tracing back to D’Artagnon d’Louncrais and his witch mate, Alain was both werewolf and witch, unique even in their pack.

He might know of a way to make it more accurate.

The last thing he wanted was to send anyone back in time if they couldn’t guarantee where they’d end up.

Not with his and his brothers’ existence depending on it.

The ma?tre d’ sidled up to their table. “My apologies, sir, but there is a lady, just arrived, insisting she is part of your table.”

Gabriel angled around Annabelle for a look at the woman standing at the podium. His breath stalled. Long dark hair, dark eyes and the same skin tone as his own. If he’d had a sister, she would’ve looked much like this. Could this be…

Annabelle turned, smiled, and waved the woman over. “Yes, she’s with us. Thank you.” Annabelle beckoned her friend to take the spare chair the ma?tre d’ provided. “Gabriel, this is Isobella.”

Iso bella ?

Dutton snarled. “You shouldn’t have asked her here. She’s not part of this mission.”

Annabelle slapped her hand hard against the table. “She has more right to be here than you have, Dutton.”

Gabriel leaned forward. “How so?”

“Isobella’s family.”

“She’s a Jackson?”

Annabelle shook her head. “Yes and no. She’s a Rodriguez. Our families are joined through marriage. She’s my sister. Technically, my stepsister.”

Gabriel wanted to punch the air with his fist. He knew it. Isobella Rodriguez was the Bella Rodriguez, not his Annabelle.

His phone buzzed, and a name flashed across the screen.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Gabriel moved away from the table, and as he passed Isobella, something about her scent gave him pause. He glanced at his phone. He needed to take this call. Gabriel headed for the lobby. Isobella would have to wait.

“Pierre, what have you found?”

“Much, brother of mine,” said Pierre, his voice echoing down the line. “And there may well be a few complications.”

“How so?” The right Bella Rodriguez had turned up, leaving Annabelle, his Annabelle, free for the claiming. Nothing Pierre could say would ruin his good mood.

“The coven is a hotbed of dissent at the moment, spearheaded primarily by the King family.”

Gabriel grunted. No surprises there.

“I’ll send you the details on the King family. They’re powerful, and they’ve made a lot of alliances lately. Their matriarch, a witch named Cordelia King… I don’t know that I’d want to cross her.”

That didn’t sound so good for his Annabelle.

“Oh, and there are two potential Bella Rodriguezs,” interrupted Louis. “Step-sisters.”

Pierre must have him on speakerphone. “Mmm-hmm. Annabelle and Isobella.”

“ Oui. ” Louis huffed. “You could have led with that and saved us the trouble. I’m not sure why we bother, Pierre.”

Merde. “Just give me the news, you two.” Sometimes Louis was a little overdramatic.

“Fine, but you owe us. We spent all night working on this.”

“No, you didn’t. If you had, you would’ve answered my call. Let me guess, you were busy horizontally. Both of you.”

Pierre chuckled. “You know us too well, brother.”

“We met her at Le Duplex ,” added Louis. “She had the hottest little ass I’ve ever seen, and that mouth of hers…well… Let’s just say she—”

“Let’s not say anything.” Pierre and Louis were his little brothers.

Twins. Even as children, the two of them had shared everything, and that practice had continued into adulthood.

They shared an apartment, a car and clothes.

And women. Gabriel didn’t know how that was going to work when one of them found their mate.

Probably like his ancestors. They’d share her.

He’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

“Just give me the information I need. Please.”

“Testy, testy,” said Louis.

“Things not going well with Annabelle?” asked Pierre.