0.5 One Wilde Night (9 page)

I needed to get out of there, though, to plan my next steps. I needed to recover my laptop, do cleanup, and get on a plane. But the food in my stomach and the money in my bank account were combining to lull me into a momentary lapse of—

I whirled so fast that I hit the man’s arm at an awkward angle, expecting him to be chopping at me from above instead of from the side. Reacting just as quickly, he backed a step away, both of his hands going up in a soothing reaction, but I’d already learned what I needed.

The jolt of psychic awareness seared through me, quick and hot. This man was a Connected, but not just any Connected. Someone pretty high up the food chain.

“Back off,” I practically snarled.

The man who belonged to the hands stood back, allowing me to get an entire view of him. And… well. Then I gaped.

He was a work of art.

Golden eyes stared at me from an impossibly aristocratic face that looked like it had been hewn out of solid bronze. His hair parted in a blue-black wave, framing high cheekbones, full lips, and a chiseled jaw.

There was also no doubt who he was. “Lemme guess.”

Those sensual lips twisted. “You could always draw a card.”

I shook my head and continued up the walkway, the Magician by my side. “Your work is very impressive, Miss Wilde,” he began without fanfare. “I have need of someone with your skills, assuming you have an equal need to be compensated handsomely.”

Already I liked this guy. But questions, I had them. “And who would you be, exactly? Besides a creeper who should be paying rent to my head?”

“For now, it’s enough that I belong to an organization that eagerly desires to acquire several artifacts over the coming months.”

“Eagerly, huh?” That was the second financial reference in as many minutes, and my nerves were already jangling. I thought about good ol’ Carl and the games rich people played. The Magician looked about as money as they came. “Anyone else interested in these artifacts?”

He glanced at me so sharply, I knew I’d hit pay dirt. “You aren’t in competition with Carl too, are you? Because if so, I’ve had it up to here with you people.”

“No. I represent the interests of the Arcana Council.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You’re not meant to.” That jacked me up, but of course, he kept going. “We are in need of an artifact finder, and we have enough work to employ you exclusively—”

“I don’t do exclusive.”

“To aid with your acceptance of the arrangement, we will ensure that you are no longer concerned about those immediately in pursuit of you. Nigel Friedman has already been paid and will be sent on his way. Camilla Asker will be monitored, and if she gets personal, so will we. As to Mr. Donovan, his role in this is quite minor. And quite complete.”

Was it my imagination, or had the Magician’s voice gotten a little snippy at the mention of Donovan? I decided to test that theory. “I don’t know, Will and I go way back. I might need to follow up—”

Without pausing, the Magician turned into my body, pressing me up against the low wall. His heat surrounded me like a living thing, and I gazed into his pale golden eyes for the first time. They looked otherworldly. Like seriously otherworldly. Like other side of the universe other—

His words were low, intense, and to the point. “In three days’ time, you will receive information about your first assignment. Complete it, and you’ll have a hundred thousand dollars wired to your account. Complete it without drawing attention to yourself, and you’ll receive an extra twenty thousand for your trouble. Since that appears to be the only information you require from your clients, is that satisfactory?”

I drew in a breath and released it. It sounded suspiciously like a squeak. “Sure.”

“Good.” He leaned a little closer into me. “There is something about you I cannot place. Your ability to close your mind to me is a mystery I do not understand. And I have walked this world long enough to know most of its mysteries.”

“You’re sounding really SyFy Channel now. You know that, right?”

A smile barely creased his lips. “I look forward to our partnership. And to learning everything about you there is to know.”

His lips hovered over mine, not near enough to kiss me. Maybe this was still a dream, and he wouldn’t get any closer. Maybe…

But no. He leaned in, brushing his lips across mine. Energy shot through my body, not at the same caliber as when the frog amulet had nearly electrocuted me, but close enough. I drew in a sharp breath, reaching for him—

The Magician was gone. Poof.

Show-off.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and turned back toward the ocean. My fingers scraped against a hard edge, and I frowned, pulling out a crisp business card on heavy cream stock. A mere two words were printed on the card, in crisp, aristocratic letters.

Armaeus Bertrand.

No number. No location. The inference was clear—he’d contact me. I simply needed to be ready when he did.

Well, Armaeus Bertrand could get in line. After this weekend’s job, I’d be getting more work. More notoriety. More everything, if I played it right. I didn’t need the generosity of Armaeus Bertrand, and I didn’t need his money. I sure as hell didn’t need—

The wind picked up, riffling through my hair, a brush almost like a caress floating against my cheek. The words in my ear were so faint, I might have imagined them, but I somehow knew I hadn’t.

“I’ll be waiting for you, Miss Wilde
.
”

Read on to see Sara’s first full-length adventure in the Immortal Vegas series, Getting Wilde, which takes place about one year after the events of One Wilde Night. Learn more at my
website
.

Chapter One

The Devil was in the details. Again.

I leaned against the sticky countertop at Le Stube and glared down at the faded Tarot cards, the best Henri could scrounge up on short notice. The Devil trump looked particularly foul in this deck: all leering grin, fat belly, and clawed feet. Worse, it was the third time in as many days he’d shown up in my reading.

And this time, he’d brought along some friends. I’d turned up the Tower, Death,
and
the Magician card in quick succession. Heavy hitters of the Tarot who had no business being in my business, at least not tonight.

Tonight’s transaction, while unpleasant, wasn’t supposed to be complicated. It
wouldn’t
be complicated, I’d decided. I’d had enough of complicated for one evening.

Le Stube’s front door opened. I sensed Henri peering past me with his sorrowful bartender eyes—just as I caught a whiff of the guy coming in. I sat up a little, blinking rapidly. Dude was
pungent
. Even by Parisian standards.

I tapped the Prince of Coins card lying in the middle of all the Major Arcana cards. It was covered by the Five of Wands. So I was pretty sure this newcomer was my contact: some low-level knuckle dragger muling cash for his king, the buyer who’d commissioned this deal, here to relieve me of the artifact I had snugged up against my right kidney. Unfortunately, I was also pretty sure said contact was spoiling for a fight. Which might become an issue, since neither prince nor king was going to get his trinket tonight, if the payoff wasn’t right.

Not my problem, though. I wasn’t the one who’d lied.

“
Un autre?
”
Henri sighed. Like most bartenders in the City of Light, Henri was a master of the resigned sigh.

I swept the cards into a stack and nodded to him, then pocketed the cards. It wasn’t the prettiest deck, but it was trying, at least. I owed it a one-way ticket out of Paris. Henri plucked my glass from the counter, making a big production of concocting something way too involved to be my drink.

He set the mess down in front of me and scowled, gloomy concern evident in every line of his thin, hunched body. Which was more than I could say for the guy shuffling up to the bar, stinking of sour cheese and bad karma, and maybe…peanut butter? Didn’t want to think too much about that.

I barely avoided a wince as he sat down. “You ’ave it?”

“You didn’t tell me about the competition,” I said, picking up my glass. “The price has gone up.”

“You
do
’ave it.” He leaned toward me, his gun nudging into my side. Henri was applying his bar towel diligently to nonexistent dust at the far end of the bar. As if nothing that happened here would bother him, as long as I kept it tidy.

I could do tidy. The cards and their crazy were not the boss of me.

“If you have the money, we have a deal,” I said, Miss Congeniality all the way. “Just at double our original price. What’s more, I suspect you do have the money, honey, because you knew what I was walking into. Unlike me, for the record. Which, frankly, wasn’t very neighborly of you.”

His face didn’t change expression. “You agreed to the terms.”

I shook my head. With the mule this close, we could talk freely without being overheard. If only I could manage it without breathing. “No. I agreed to lift a minor, plate-sized relic off a clueless museum intern. You missed the bit where said flunky was also being targeted by the
Swiss Guard
, who, by the way, apparently don’t wear pajamas when they’re not at the Vatican. You also missed the part where the Swiss Guard had become ninjas. All that’s a little out of my pay grade.” I took a sip of my drink, wincing at the tang as I set the glass down again.
Horseradish.
Nice. If I had to use it on this guy, it was going to sting like a bitch.

“But you
’ave
it.” Clearly the guy thought he could get what he wanted simply by boring me to death. I considered my options. He was powerfully built, with a thick jaw and a boxer’s nose—but his curled upper lip shone with sweat, his beady eyes looked just a teensy bit feral, and his cheeks were flushed. Something wasn’t right here. He was too nervous, too on edge.

“The transaction was compromised.” I spread my hands in a “what can you do?” gesture. “I wasn’t given full information. With full information, I never would have taken the job. But, I can be reasonable. Which means your new price is merely double. So go talk to your boss, get the extra cash, and then we’ll have something to discuss.”

“No.” Again with the gun. Harder this time. Sharper. “You must give it to me
now
.” The man practically vibrated with intensity, and my Spidey sense went taut. This definitely was too much reaction for the relic in question. We weren’t talking the Ark of the Covenant here, no matter how much I was going to charge the guy.

I reclaimed my glass of horseradish whiskey and took in Henri. He remained at the far end of the bar, well out of the way of any untoward blood spatter. Very efficient, our Henri.

“Take it easy, my friend,” I said, as casual as all hell. “We’re just having a conversation.” It wouldn’t be long now, I thought, watching his nostrils flare. The golden seal of Ceres suddenly weighed a hundred pounds in its slender pouch against my body.

It was a pretty thing, really: a flat gold disk the size of a dessert plate, imprinted with an image of the Roman goddess of fertility and grain on one side. On the flip side, a half-dozen thick, raised, symmetrical ridges lined its surface at odd angles.

Not the most spectacular artifact I’d ever been asked to locate, but not the most mundane either. And with the help of the cards, I’d tracked it down easily enough.

Then again, I maybe should have asked a few more questions before I headed out this evening. A third-century BC seal featuring a corn-festooned pagan goddess shouldn’t have been entrusted to your average intern for a late-night museum transfer. And the guy had been really
young
too. Too young, too clueless.

Which might have caused me to stop and reconsider what I was doing, if I hadn’t been so distracted by the ninja shadows of death who’d swarmed the Metro platform the moment I’d made the grab. I’d immediately thought the Swiss Guard had come to swipe the relic out from under me, but why? What had I seen to tip my mind that way?

And why would the Swiss Guard give a crap about such a minor artifact?

“Give it to me,” my contact hissed, officially signaling the arrival of the next stage of our negotiation process: brute force. Then he lunged at me.

I moved just as fast. With a sharp, cutting jerk, I splashed the horseradish whiskey into the guy’s eyes, then shattered the glass against the bar as his hands went to his face, his scream a guttural bellow. Henri was right beside me, ripping the man’s gun away as I shoved my contact flat against the bar, the cut edge of the glass tight against his collarbone, pressing into his thick, sweaty neck.

“And now the price is triple.” I glared at his clenched-shut eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks. “You want to pay, you know where to find me. You don’t want to pay, I got plenty others who will.”

“You wouldn’t,” he sputtered. He tried to open his eyes, but that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. “You were ’ired to—”

“You bet your crusty baguette I would. Tell your boss that if he’s got the money, then he’ll get the package. Otherwise, no deal.” I stepped back as Henri and Le Stube’s bouncer moved in. Henri whipped a spotless white towel off his shoulder to help my contact get cleaned up, while his muscle stood ready to hold the guy tight until I got out of there.