Dark Victory. Brenda Joyce
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vu.
There were twelve floors in the building; their loft was on the eleventh floor, because eleven was a master number. The Roses always looked at the numerology of everything that they did, and tried to choose appropriately. It was more tradition—and superstition—than anything else.
The moment Tabby opened the triple locks on her front door—before she could even cross the threshold—she knew that something was wrong. She didn’t know if she suddenly had a new sixth sense, one warning her of danger, or if it was mere human instinct.
She froze, staring wide-eyed into the large spacious interior of the loft. For one moment, nothing seemed out of place. An immaculate white kitchen was to her right, while a great room with a media area, a living area and two desks faced her, done in shades of beige and chocolate. The far wall was whitewashed brick, as were two central pillars. She and Sam had chosen the furnishings together, and everything was sleek and modern, classic and timeless, right down to the pale leather sectional and the glass coffee table.
Her gaze slammed to the iron-and-glass table in front of the sectional and she inhaled. A huge bouquet of bloodred roses was in a vase in its center. It had not been there when she had left for the Met that morning. Sam had left at dawn to work for a few hours at HCU, and Tabby knew she hadn’t been back since. No one had access to their loft, except for Kit. Tabby knew she hadn’t stopped by, either—and certainly not with red roses.
Tabby said firmly, “Who’s there?”
Only silence greeted her.
She hated weapons in general, and only carried pepper spray with her, except at night, when Sam insisted she arm herself with a .38. Tabby had been using a protective spell for years; it was one of the few spells she could summon up really quickly. It didn’t afford total protection—madmen and demons could breach it if they were really determined—but most humans could not.
“Good over me, good around me, good everywhere, barring dark intent. Circle formed, protecting me,” she murmured swiftly. Then she stepped inside, straining to hear, aware of the white cocoon she was in. She had left the door open so she could run if necessary. “Who’s there?” she said again, more loudly.
The loft was quiet and it felt vacant. Nothing felt awry or evil. She went to the kitchen drawer, took out her gun and went to the first bedroom door. It was wide-open and she glanced inside the room, which was filled with the gray light of dusk. Sam’s bedroom had one dark, almost ebony wall, but the rest of the furnishings were beige. Still, she could see clearly and it was empty.
She checked the closet and the hall bathroom; they were empty, too.
Refusing to put down her guard, she checked her own blue-and-white bedroom—also empty.
Only somewhat relieved, Tabby put down the gun and locked the front door. Someone had left the roses. She walked over to the sofa and sat down, looking for a card. There wasn’t one.
She pulled off her knee-high, medium-heeled brown boots and stared grimly at the roses, wondering what kind of threat they were. Had they been a romantic gesture, they would have been delivered to the front door. The roses were an omen—and not a good one. She’d call a locksmith tomorrow and have the locks changed.
The dark Highlander’s image returned to her mind. Tabby hesitated, and then went to the locked chest at the loft’s far end, set against the brick wall. She unlocked it with the key she wore on the chain beneath her pearls and took out the Book of Roses.
She was pretty sure that the spell she’d made up on the spot at the Met wouldn’t work. The Book of Roses contained just about every spell ever invented. But the Book was almost two thousand pages long. Some of the passages needed translation—they were in a very unusual and ancient form of Gaelic. Although Tabby had been studying the Book for seventeen years, she did not know it thoroughly—only a very ancient Rose ever could. Her grandmother Sara had studied the Book for generations, and had been able to find spells in a heartbeat—assuming she didn’t already know the spell by heart. But Grandma Sara had been an amazingly powerful and wise witch. She had died of old age in her sleep a few years ago, and Tabby still missed her—she always would. But she often felt as if Grandma was with her still, smiling with approval and encouragement. Just then, she desperately needed her guidance.
Because finding the right spell could be a huge challenge. Once in a while, Tabby could find a spell in a few hours, but usually it took days or even weeks to locate the exact spell she needed. She was almost certain she had neither days nor weeks to find the Highlander.
She prayed for some otherworldly help and began thumbing through the book, pausing to read bits and pieces and key words. As she did, his powerful image remained firmly implanted, front and center, in her mind.
The words began to jumble. Tabby stared at them, realizing she was exhausted from the events of that day, but she did not intend to quit. “Who are you?” she murmured, staring at the pages before her.
Of course there was no answer. She sighed, curling her legs up under her, telling herself she wasn’t going to take a nap, not now, not when she needed to find him. But she could close her eyes just for a minute, she thought.
Her lids drifted closed. She cradled the Book to her chest. She refused to fall asleep; instead, she relived their brief encounter at the Met, hoping for a clue as to who and what he was. But nothing in her memory changed and she was so tired…
Suddenly he was looking at her—and the burns and blisters were gone from his face and body. He was gorgeous. She sat up, wide-awake.
Sheer disappointment claimed her. The Highlander was not standing there in her loft; she had been dreaming.
She tightened her hold on the Book. Her heart was thundering. At the Met, it had been impossible to make out most of his features. She had surely invented such masculine beauty. Real men did not look like poster boys for a romance channel version of Braveheart.
Someone knocked on her front door.
Tabby tensed. It was impossible for a visitor to get into the lobby and upstairs to her door without buzzing from the downstairs front hall first. But someone was knocking loudly and insistently on her front door. Someone had gotten through the building’s locked doors. She became really alarmed, glancing at the red roses, her concern for the dark Highlander now taking a backseat to the intruder at her door.
“Tabby, are you home?” her ex-husband demanded.
Tabby jumped to her feet. Randall was banging on her front door? She hadn’t seen him since the divorce, twenty-one months ago, except by chance one night, when he’d been out on the town with a nineteen-year-old Russian model—one of the many models he’d cheated on her with.
Her gaze slammed to the roses. No, it was impossible. He’d never start things up again—not that she would let him.
“One moment,” she cried loudly, flustered and uncertain. Even though she had no wish to ever see him again, she felt a moment of distress. She had loved him. They’d been intimate, a couple; they’d been husband and wife. She’d given him two years of her life—and she’d thought it would be forever.
But their marriage had been a lie—one big, fat, long lie. Randall was ambitious and successful, on a fast track to the top, making millions of dollars for his clients and himself. He’d been smooth, charming, macho and charismatic, and she’d truly thought he loved her wildly, with all of his heart. While she’d thought that, he’d been out on the town with the city’s most beautiful women—the kind of women he could brag to his cronies about.
As she went to the front door, she could not imagine what he wanted. “Hello, Randall. This is truly a surprise.”
His gaze slid over her from head to toe, in a very familiar way. He smiled and shook his head. “Even barefoot, you’re as elegant as ever!”
She felt herself bristle, but she contained the surge of anger. She did not want any flattery from him.
Now he said, dropping his tone, “You could walk out of a steam room