first party she’d wanted to attend in a long time.
* * *
She’d been dressed in gray and black, but her hair and lipstick had been closer to the truth of who she really was. He’d been mesmerized by the mass of curls under her hat, bright even in shadows. And her lips in soft light had been flush and full and painted boldly. They hadn’t matched the fear in her eyes. More than ever, he wanted to personally hand-deliver Father Malachi to the fires of hell and throw him in the flames. The Order of Samuel specialized in traumatizing innocents, yet they called themselves holy men. It was obvious they haunted Victoria D’Arcy. She was a bold woman shadowed by fear.
When he saw her enter the rooms he’d had arranged for her reception, his glass paused halfway to his mouth. The hat was gone. And her shapeless traveling clothes were gone too. She’d chosen bright crimson heels and she’d refreshed her lips in the same shade. Her hair was a richer, deeper auburn and more subtle in comparison. Against the black of her dress and her pale porcelain skin, those pops of color stunned. The myriad shades of red in her hair seemed almost iridescent in the shifting light.
It wasn’t only him. She entered quietly, but many faces turned her way. She had stage presence. No actual stage necessary. The whole room subtly shifted within moments of her becoming a part of it. It was no longer a miscellaneous gathering. It was a party with an anonymous star at its heart. She wasn’t a celebrity. She’d been away from the opera world too long and even before that her career had been held in check by daemon politics. She simply shone and everyone in the room unconsciously arranged themselves to bask in the glow.
This was the woman the Order of Samuel sent to bring him down.
He lifted his glass. He took a long swallow of Firebird Pinot Noir. He didn’t savor. He gulped. Because he’d rather fight an army of monks programmed to destroy than this one intriguing woman.
* * *
He watched her. She could feel his attention while she spoke to other guests. There were wealthy travelers, politicians, a celebrity chef, an aging rock star and a billionaire philanthropist—it was a posh gathering for an opera singer that had never been free to seek fame. They were here for Turov. He was sharing his guests with her. But he wasn’t being hospitable. She reminded herself that he used his sophisticated persona as a disguise for his covert activities. By and by, she was swept his way. Time and tide and Brimstone. When she took the warmed crystal stem from his fingers, she realized she’d abstained from accepting a glass of wine until she could receive her glass from his hand.
She sipped. And the room fell away. The aroma was delicate black cherry accented with a spicy hint of cinnamon. The flavor was of fruit and earth. But it was the texture that slayed. It was liquid silk on her tongue, soft and velvety. She savored. She swallowed. The rich, full-bodied vintage did soothe her throat and her spirits.
She wasn’t an expert on wine, but she savored this one with her eyes closed, well aware that it was one of the finest she’d ever enjoyed. When she lifted her lids, she met the deep blue of Turov’s eyes. He watched her drink as if her reaction to his wine mattered more than fire and Brimstone. She lifted her glass for a second sip, to savor and swallow again while he watched. His gaze tracked the movement of her lips and tongue and her throat. His intensity made her flush more than the pleasure of the wine or the effects of the alcohol on an empty stomach.
“You like it,” he said.
Though they danced a dangerous dance of deception, she was stripped to raw honesty by the expression on his handsome face. This. The tasting of the wine between them was not part of her mission or their mutual disguises. Her reaction must be honest and real. His art deserved no less.
“It’s beautiful. Pure pleasure on my tongue. I want to sing—and that is high praise. I haven’t wanted to sing for a long time,” Victoria confessed. This time when she swallowed, she also swallowed emotion. The lovely black cherry flavor lingered as a reminder of her honesty. She hadn’t told anyone the truth about her lack of desire to sing. Not even Katherine.
“You honor my family,” Turov replied.
His voice was rougher. Not as polished. In this moment, his disguise slipped. His face was both harder and more vulnerable. The set of his jaw was a tight line, but one made of marble that could be chipped if she wished it.
This man was the man she’d been sent to harm.
She swayed on her feet as if she’d forgotten to eat before a major dress rehearsal under hot lights. Turov snapped out of his trance. He took her glass and set it on a nearby table, urging her to patio doors that were already thrown wide. They walked through together with his warm hand on her back. Solicitous? Was he the host vulnerable to her enjoyment of his wine? Or nefarious? Was he the damned man who had sold his soul for success? There was no way to tell. Victoria could only step out in the cool air and breathe deeply of rich earth and growing things.
They walked out onto the broad expanse of a decorative-tiled veranda, framed by stone columns and a black slate rail. She leaned against it for support, but also to look out at the vineyards that stretched far into the night. Better to look there than to face her host. How could she read him when she was too afraid of what she might see? She needed to turn him over to the Order. To free their brethren. If he wasn’t a greedy man who had sold his soul for success, who and what was he? She couldn’t afford to care and yet she was intrigued by him. It was as simple as that.
“The Turov family has grown grapes here since they fled the Russian Revolution in the early twentieth century,” Turov said. He had come to stand beside her. His profile was strong and proud. Anyone unaware of the Brimstone in his blood would assume he spoke of history rather than from personal experience.
“And you’ve built on what they established,” Victoria said, playing along.
“In Russia, there’s a saying. ‘You live. You learn.’ I have found this to be true,” Turov said.
It was a confession, but one that was revealing only if you knew his Brimstone secret.
He had refined Nightingale Vineyards’s pinot noir since 1918. He. Personally. He had overseen the process of living and learning for one hundred years.
Michael’s father had been much older, but he’d been a daemon, not a man. Standing beside Adam Turov was different. He wasn’t an immortal creature. He was a human whose life had been extended by selling his soul. How? Why? It didn’t matter. It would be wiser to see him as corrupt and leave it at that. She didn’t need to understand him. She needed only to betray him.
“Sometimes I feel as if I’ve missed a few lessons along the way,” Victoria said. “Opera is all-consuming. Life is more complicated. Reality is harder to navigate.”
“You’ll rest here. You’ll recover. There’s something about being surrounded by growing things. It rejuvenates. Even a jaded soul like mine,” Turov said. “Complications fall away. Simplicity reigns.”
She looked at him then. The house blazed with light behind him. The soft haze from a sliver of moonlight came from the cloudless sky. People laughed. A piano played classical jazz while glasses clinked and indistinct conversation whispered all around. She was most vulnerable when she was seduced into thinking it might be possible for her to relax. Always, after, she regretted her weakness. Her greatest enemy wasn’t someone trying to sell her safety and protection. Her greatest enemy was her wanting what they were selling with all her heart.
Nowhere was ever safe. Any haven was a lie. Her life would always be too complicated to set down roots.
“I look forward to relaxing,” she said. She’d played this role a thousand times. The ingénue. Young and naïve. It was impossible to tell what he thought of her performance.
A figure revealed itself, moving in the shadows of the grounds in between the house and the vineyard. From grass to walkway to grass again, the figure crept.
The transformation in Turov was absolute. In a nanosecond, he went from cultured host with a hint of the Carpathians in his voice to a no-nonsense ruler whose California