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Prologue
Robin
SHE COMES THROUGH the door on a cloud of silk and rose perfume, a throwback to another time. Her fur-trimmed cloak is a deep aqua and her white dress falls to the floor in light folds, a thin band of sky-blue ribbon gathering the fabric at the high empire waist. A pair of peacock feathers rise from the diamond clasp holding the silk turban at the center of her brow.
“This room isn’t worthy of you,” I murmur, crossing the carpeted floor too damn fast to be cool.
“If I don’t get this wig off right now, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Fritz’s raspy baritone ruins the Regency illusion. Grinning, I get close enough to wrap one of the wig’s blond ringlets around my finger, cupping his artificial bosom in my other hand. “This dress shouldn’t be made of silk. Muslin was softer.”
“Whatever.” Elbowing me out of the way, he lifts the whole apparatus—wig, turban, and feathers—off his head and sets it on the nearest flat object, a small side table made of chrome and glass. We’re in a suite at the Intercontinental, surrounded by modern furniture and windows that, during the daytime, overlook the city of Los Angeles and beyond that, the Pacific Ocean.
At night it’s as if the earth is covered with a thick carpet of stars that fall off into darkness.
Yes, a suite is an extravagance, but . . . I had my reasons for booking it.
Those same reasons prompted me to dim the lights and light a pair of tapers before he arrived.
“Come here, baby,” I say, lifting an emerald necklace from the pocket of my black hoodie.
He glances at me over his shoulder, ripping off the mesh wig cap so his blond hair flops over his brow. “Did you get it?”
Taking a step away from him, I dangle the necklace from my fingertips. It’s Victorian, three strands of pearls supporting an oval emerald the size of a walnut. As simply a historical piece, its value would be measured in the tens of thousands of dollars.
As a necklace that once belonged to Queen Victoria, it’s worth significantly more.
He runs a fingertip along the filigree surrounding the emerald, his eyes sparkling as brightly as the diamonds set into the thin platinum bands. “Good. I’d be highly annoyed if I got dressed in drag for nothing.”
I move close enough to drape the necklace around his throat, taking time to inhale his seductive scent as I snap the clasp closed. Though the emerald isn’t a perfect match with the blues he’s wearing, I secretly want him to fuck me with it draped around his neck. The way he pets the stone and laughs makes me think my desire might not be so secret after all.
This particular necklace had been in the possession of one of LA’s more prominent socialites, the kind of woman who is friends with the likes of Nicole Ritchie and Paris Hilton. Fritz finagled an invite to the Halloween Ball, and I’d made a much less public arrival. The hostess never knew what hit her.
The event was a fundraiser, and once my agent sells the necklace, I’ll make a substantial donation on the socialite’s behalf. Rob from the rich and give to the poor, right?
I lay a soft kiss right above the top row of pearls. “Help me get this thing off,” he says, tugging at the coat’s fur collar and trading antagonism for invitation.
“I’ll help you take all of it off.”
I make good on my promise, removing his heavy cloak and laying it over the nearest chair, then loosening the drawstrings at his waist and neckline. The silken dress slides off his body, revealing cotton stays and a fine chemise.
“Stockings?” I have to laugh. “Are you wearing nylon stockings?”
“No.” He’s back to being annoyed with me. “They’re silk.” He rips open the stays, which have apparently been held closed with Velcro, and shrugs out of them. The cotton chemise follows, puddling on the floor, and he steps away from me, arms raised, modeling silk hose and satin slippers that lace up his calves with white ribbons.
There’s a bulge in his groin that the sturdiest tucking garment can’t hide.
“Looks painful,” I murmur, and lower myself to my knees. “Come here and I’ll deal with your laces.”
He poses with a coy grin, his sharp features softened by affection. After sashaying around the room, he stops in front of me and lifts one foot, toe pointed. I untie the bow, stroking his calf through the thin silk more than necessary to unwind the ribbons, and remove one shoe. The emerald glows in the candlelight, and laughing softly, Fritz offers his other foot for me to remove the shoe.
Task completed, I stand and rest my hands on his hips. “Tonight was fun.” I lean in for a kiss.
He allows a brief taste, then steps back, laying his finger against my lips. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
“Oh, for fuck’s . . . sex first, then we can talk.”
“No,” he says flatly.
“So getting me on my knees to take off your shoes wasn’t foreplay?”
With a nonchalant shrug, he moves to the couch and drapes himself over the leather upholstery. “You went to your knees on your own.”
I stalk toward him, wondering how a man could still be so annoying after more than five hundred years. “What?”
“You’re pretty when you’re pissed at me.”
“Fuck off and explain to me why I don’t have my tongue in your asshole right now.”
He pouts, the remains of his lipstick forming a perfect bow. “Promises, promises.”
“Marion.” I try for stern but a grin threatens to break through. “If this is your way of edging me, it’s not working.”
“All right.” He flutters his hands toward the chair his cloak rests on. “Sit. I can’t think when you’re looming over me like that.”
Straightening and planting my fists on my hips, I say, “I’m not looming.”
“Just sit.”
Shifting the cloak to one side, I do as he asks and perch at the edge of the chair. “Rip the bandage off, Fitzwilliam.”
“All right.” He looks off to one side as if he needs to draw strength from the city of LA.
Dear Lord, what the hell is he going to tell me?
“Did you see him there?” he asks, still gazing at the window.
“Who?”
His jaw tightens, flexing the muscles in his cheek. “Leander de Lisle.”
The name lands like a swift kick, I blow I can’t dodge because I hadn’t seen it coming. Leander de Lisle is the current incarnation of the Sheriff of Nottingham. I’d been watching his rise from South African playboy to global oligarch, and as soon as Fritz named him, I knew.
The Lady, my Virgin Queen, would call, and soon. She would speak to my soul, making the same demand she’s made so many times before.
Find the Sheriff and take him down.
Fritz knew this. Hell, sometimes I think Fritz knows me better than I know myself. “What of it?” I snap, angry at myself for being so caught up in one task that I’d neglected something more important.
In my defense, I was busy removing a piece of jewelry from around the neck of a prominent woman, surrounded by several hundred people, all of whom were in costume.
“You didn’t talk to him, did you?”
Fritz doesn’t quite meet my gaze. “Yes.”
There’s a heaviness to the word that I don’t like. In fact, I hate it. “You shouldn’t have.”
He shrugs, nonchalance covering something darker. “He asked me to dance and . . . and asked if I’d meet with him.”
I leap out of the chair, landing at his feet. “Fuck. Why?”
“He knew who I was, mamour, just as I knew who he really was.”
“So?”
His nostrils flare, either anger or frustration or both. “How long have you been in LA?”
That question brings me up short, and I flop back onto the chair, crushing his cloak. “A month? Maybe five weeks?”
“I’ve been here almost two years, Robin—”
“I’m aware of that.” We might not be joined at the hip—after centuries, we’d drive each other crazy—but I count every day we’re not together.
“So how much time have you spent studying Leander de Lisle?”
I keep my mouth shut because I’m pretty sure it’s a rhetorical question.
“I’ve been watching him for longer than you know,” he says.
“Good. That’ll help when it’s time to fight him.”
He sits up and rests his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “You don’t understand. He’s so strong . . . If I can get close to him, maybe we can—”
“No.” I slide off the chair and land on my knees, this time because I’m appalled by what he’s suggesting. “You will not get close to him. You will do nothing of the kind.” I wrap my hands around his wrists and rest my head against his. “I’ll bring the men together and we’ll fight him, just as we’ve always done.”
He pulls free of me and meets my gaze, palms pressed together as if in prayer. “Just as we’ve always done, sure, but this time he’s so much more powerful. What if—”
“We will overcome whatever he throws at us.”
“Robin, mamour.”
“Marion. Listen. You are the only one for me.”
“And you are the one for me, but—”
I silence him with a kiss. There is no but, there is only the battle we swore to fight. He freezes, a moment of resistance that soon gives way. His lips part and we go from chaste to filthy in the space of a heartbeat. Our tongues duel and he tangles his fingers in my curls, jerking me closer, hard enough to make my eyes water.
Or maybe those are tears, for if Fritz knows me well, then so I know him.
He wouldn’t have brought this up if he hadn’t already made plans to meet with de Lisle, which means he’s already made his decision.
My lover will betray me. After all this time, he’s chosen de Lisle. I swore an oath to protect all those who are loyal to me, and the idea that Fritz, who is more valuable than any other, would try to get close to de Lisle to fight him?
No. I cannot believe that.
I don’t give orders or commands, so for him to make this choice when I’ve told him he must not, well, the only surprising thing is that he’s admitted it to my face. If he ignores the Virgin’s call, that’s his cross to bear.
So I kiss him and later he fucks me with an intensity born of the knowledge that this may be the last time.
Our love may finally end.
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