A Risky Proposition, Book 1 of The Third Wish Duology. Dawn Addonizio
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down for the night—if only out of self-preservation.
Sparrow stared at me for a moment longer and then stood, breaking the tenuous connection. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help noticing the way the thin material of his shirt molded the muscles of his chest when he pulled his shoulders back. And my glimpse of a darker image beneath the taut white cotton had me heatedly imagining where else he might have tattoos.
“Well, I’m exhausted, and I’ve still got one hell of a report to write before I go home for the night. You should probably go ahead and get some sleep, Sydney,” he advised as he pulled his jacket straight and made to leave the room.
“Sleep?” I asked in confusion. “You mean here?”
“Why not?” he asked over his shoulder.
“This is Balthus’ hotel room, not mine,” I called, thoughtfully keeping the ‘duh’ to myself as I pursued him through the penthouse and out the door into the foyer.
Sparrow snorted in amusement as he pushed the button for the elevator. “Not anymore. Haven’t you been listening, Sydney? This penthouse is yours now. It was your second wish.”
I was so astonished, my jaw dropped. “Are you sure?” I whispered.
“Yes, Sydney, I was standing right there.” He laughed at my shocked expression. “You wished you could live here. The key’s on the bar.”
I could only stare; speech was a traitor that had deserted me.
“And by the way,” he added as the elevator arrived and he stepped in, “I wouldn’t make any more wishes out loud if I were you. You have an open death djinn contract—any one of them can fulfill it if you make your third wish within earshot.
“And they tend to have excellent hearing,” he called out loudly just as the doors slid shut.
“Of course they do,” I muttered as I watched the tiny blue lights on the wall panel blink their way from 10P down to L. Mind reeling, I slowly turned and made my way back inside the penthouse.
Chapter 3 – Ironing Out the Details
The key to the most luxurious penthouse in Palm Beach was on the bar—just as Sparrow had said.
I plunked down on the buttery-soft leather couch and tried to collect my thoughts. Could I really stay here? Even if Sparrow was wrong about the wish thing, it wasn’t like I would be charged for sleeping here. The hotel had Balthus’ info, not mine. And for some reason, the thought of going home made me a little nauseous.
I tried to pinpoint why, but my brain kept going blank when I reached for an answer. With a sigh, I gave up and looked around the well-appointed living room instead. The silence was a little creepy, so I set my mind to figuring out how to turn on the huge, flat screen TV that eclipsed the wall.
The remote was easier to navigate than I feared, and the channel line-up appeared to be about the same as mine at home. I kicked off my heels and wiggled the circulation back into my toes as I flipped through the digital music stations. I debated over Salsa, and then settled on Light Classical.
It’s hard to be freaked out when you’re listening to something as upbeat as Salsa, but right now I figured I was more in need of serenity. I turned it up and pushed myself off the couch for a little barefoot exploration of the place.
The penthouse had a split level design with a spacious second bathroom and guest room down the hallway opposite the kitchen. I wandered back into the living room and ducked my head into the mini-fridge behind the bar, grinning when I found the half-full bottle of champagne.
It had been a rough night—I figured I deserved it.
I opened the sliding glass doors to the balcony so that I could hear the ocean and turned down the A/C to counter the warm air. Then I dimmed the lights and sank back into the supple cushions of the leather sofa, crystal flute of champagne in hand.
Waterford, and probably worth about $75 a glass, I noticed with weary amusement.
I let my mind drift as I sipped the champagne, enjoying the lyrical instrumentals that sighed from the speakers in soft counterpoint to the waves gently rolling onto the beach below. Before I knew it, I was finishing the bottle.
Stifling a yawn, I tipped the last of the champagne past my lips, savoring the bubbles on my tongue before I swallowed. Then I pulled myself up off the couch, determined to make use of the huge canopy bed.
A hint of Sparrow’s clean, woodsy scent lingered in the air, and I wondered if I’d be seeing the handsome Irish detective again. Probably not if he could help it. Although, he had seemed to warm up to me a bit toward the end of our conversation.
I made my way through the kitchen and down the hall to the master bedroom, pausing to indulge my urge to sink my toes into the thick carpet. I wandered over to the bathroom, hoping to find some toothpaste so I could at least swish it around my mouth. I was pleased to discover both the paste and a new toothbrush wrapped in plastic.
I took off my jewelry and laid it on the vanity, dimmed the lights, then stood by the bed for a moment debating about the vulnerability of being naked. In the end I chose comfort and pulled my dress over my head, dropping it on a nearby chair.
I climbed between the soft, silky sheets and pulled the thick, cream comforter up beneath my chin, luxuriating in the feel of being snuggled in a warm cocoon. My eyes drifted closed and I smiled, exhaling deeply as I released the tension from my body.
Amazing…an actual genie…and three wishes, I mused. And this penthouse was incredible. I had one more wish to go; too bad I couldn’t make it without losing my immortal soul. I frowned. That meant I had already made two. Sparrow said the penthouse had been my second.
What had been my first?
I began replaying the evening, my mind winding back up out of the comfortable peace it had settled into. What had I wished for between my first fateful comment to myself in the hotel lobby and my wish to live in the penthouse? My brow furrowed and my eyes shot open.
“What the hell did I wish for?” I whispered in consternation, my hands gripping the comforter anxiously.
“Relax, Sydney,” chimed a tinkling voice from somewhere in the vicinity of my right ear.
I rolled to the left, nearly toppling off the bed as I frantically searched the room for intruders.
There, hovering just above the pillow next to mine, was the loveliest creature I had ever seen. It was a tiny woman, her delicate wings fluttering slowly and shimmering in the subdued light. She laughed at me in delight, and I felt a blissful grin spread across my face.
She stood approximately three inches tall, her shining dark tresses falling in cascading waves over her shoulders and down her back. She was barefoot and wore a knee-length iridescent dress that seemed to shift from blue to purple to green. Her skin glowed with silvery light, and her small, pointed face shone with happiness.
Somehow, in some deep place that defied memory or explanation, I knew exactly who and what she was.
“Lorien?” I whispered incredulously.
Her smile widened and pleasure lit her violet eyes as she nodded her tiny head in assent.
I had never seen her before, but I had felt her. I had spoken to her almost every day for as long as I could remember. I had never heard her answer, but some part of me had always believed that she was real and not just a product of my over-active imagination.
A distant memory tickled the back of my mind, of a time when I had simply accepted that faeries existed. I didn’t have any sisters or brothers, and floating just beyond my grasp were vague memories of the tiny winged beings acting as my playmates when I was a small child. A haunting, unearthly music accompanied the vision, but sound and sight faded away before I could coax them into solidity.
I had no problem conjuring my very real recollection of trying to explain the faeries to my disbelieving