and beginning to wink with waking stars.
And then she wasn’t.
She tried to ignore the sudden pull of Brimstone, holding herself in place because if she didn’t she would immediately move to its source. And its source was her enemy in spite of his allure.
Adam Turov.
It had to be.
“I can do this,” Victoria whispered under her breath, the hoarse sound of her voice still a surprise, though the fire had been over two years ago. She shouldered her handbag and moved toward the portico over the front entrance.
“There’s no turning back once you step through that door,” a voice said from the shadows.
The glow from the windows did little to illuminate her welcoming committee. He didn’t require illumination. She knew who and what he was before he came closer. As he approached, she instinctively inched away and looked over her shoulder.
The Order of Samuel had used her affinity to hunt daemons. She’d been a reluctant bloodhound since she was a young girl. She still was. It hadn’t ended. The man at the airport was stalking her. He might be out of sight, but he wasn’t out of mind. She reminded herself that this time she was here willingly. Her job was to uncover Turov’s secrets and help the Order shut him down.
For Michael.
She forced herself to halt her retreat.
Adam Turov stepped into the light near the front door and he surprised her. He seemed nearer to her age than she’d expected. But she knew he wasn’t. He was much, much older. Fear fluttered in her stomach and she tightened her impressively toned diaphragm against it. She was a welcome guest. A harmless opera singer looking for a restful vacation. She needed to act like he was her host, not her prey.
Her throat might not be up to par, but her core was as iron as ever. For Michael.
“Mr. Turov. It’s nice to meet you,” she said. She recognized him from the magazine she’d been shown. But that didn’t matter—she could feel the Brimstone in his blood. He had already found her because that Brimstone drew him to her like a moth to a flame. The thought was heady as well as frightening. He was tall, sinfully attractive and powerful. Her temperature had risen. His would run hotter than 98.6. Her cheeks flushed. The earthy spring air was cool against her skin. It was the Brimstone, but it was also the man and her deception. Her job had always been to create beautiful, dramatic fabrications onstage, but she wasn’t comfortable with lies offstage.
“Welcome to Sonoma. Are you ready to leave work and worry behind? I’ll show you to the cottage where you’ll be staying. You can freshen up and join us for a drink,” Turov said.
“Do you always personally greet your guests?” she asked.
He didn’t confirm his identity. He probably knew he didn’t need to. He was famous. One of the most eligible bachelors in California. Of course she would recognize the Turov eyes, nose and chin that had graced his father and his grandfather before him. He couldn’t know she was privy to his deal with the devil. He was the only Turov left and had been for over fifty years. Brimstone fueled his longevity. But it had come at great price. What kind of man would sell his soul for wealth and acclaim? Never mind the permanent feel of the estate around her and the rich earth beneath her feet. It would all be ashes eventually. The devil’s due.
“No. Not always,” he said. Only that. No explanation. Her flush deepened as he looked closely at her, one brow slightly raised.
The damned master of Nightingale Vineyards offered her his arm and she lightly accepted it. Little did he know her work—the most important performance of her life—had only just begun. Her heart pounded as they walked around a manicured lawn to a rose-covered arbor that created a dark tunnel. There was discreet outdoor lighting to show them the path. But would he need it if he’d walked this way for decades?
Her son had Brimstone blood. This was different. Turov was no daemon. He was a human who had sold his soul. His was not an innocent, natural burn. He was dangerous in spite of his tailored suit and his cultured accent.
Who was the prey in his garden? She was afraid the tables had been turned already.
“You’ve lost your voice?” he asked as they walked through rose-scented shadows.
“I’ve strained it. There was a fire a couple of years ago. I breathed in extreme heat and smoke. The effects have lingered. I can talk, but I can’t sing. Not in my former way. I might never be able to sing professionally again,” she said.
“That’s a shame. I’m sorry. Never is such a long time and I’d love to hear you sing. Perhaps our pinot noir will soothe your throat,” he said.
She was used to taking on roles, but she wasn’t a spy. She might as well have “fraud” written on her forehead in scarlet. Her affinity was supposed to help her, but she was afraid it did the opposite. She couldn’t be as tactical and distant as she should be. Her senses were completely taken over by the heat in his blood. His arm was solid and strong under her fingers. His warmth radiated outward to counteract the night air. It was as if she walked with a flame. Her feet faltered. Her throat reflexively opened. For the first time in a very long time she felt a song well up in her chest.
“For you,” Turov said. They exited the arbor tunnel into a private courtyard ringed by high hedges. At first she mistook the cottage as a part of the hedge, but it was actually a stone building completely covered in lush vines of dark red roses. They tumbled and curved and twined, a profusion of color as the night came on, a riot of greenery and blossom.
“Oh,” she breathed out. She risked no other syllable. Her chest was full. Her lips trembled. She wanted to sing. It was the Brimstone. Katherine had shared the truth about their affinity and how their gift for music responded to daemon blood. They’d used music to drown out the magnetic pull, but in special cases the music seemed to resonate with the power of Brimstone. She had to keep up her guard. She couldn’t afford to allow this man to inspire her to song. Not if the song would bind them together. He was bound for the hell of the Order of Samuel’s clutches. That was all.
The cottage would have been a perfect retreat if that was what she’d truly come to California to find, but the song bubbling up in her made it a dangerous place.
“Your bags are inside. I know you’re tired, but join us once you’re refreshed,” Turov said. “I can’t claim it will actually heal your throat, but the wine is excellent. It will help you relax after your flight.”
“Thank you. I’ll join you soon,” Victoria said. Her voice was a classic film star’s dusky tones. Accidentally throaty and seductive. This was the first time she’d heard it that way since the fire. Always before it had seemed scratchy and ugly.
He opened the door of the cottage and then stepped back to hand her the key. It was a skeleton key made warm by his touch. Her fingers closed around it. She didn’t mean to fist them tightly, but tension betrayed her. He seemed to note her discomfort and watched her gather her composure. His gaze on her throat, moving as she swallowed, felt intimate—and intimacy with him would be dangerous. His many years of life left him too experienced and perceptive. If he got too close, she wouldn’t be able to keep her secrets. Yet she was here to get close. Close enough to fulfill a dark task.
“You’re safe here, Victoria. I read about the fire. How an obsessive fan caused it. Nightingale is a special place. Sacrosanct. We are older and wiser than
