Charmed (Death Escorts) (6 page)

Chapter Six

“Vending machine -
a coin-operated machine that dispenses merchandise.”

Frankie

Okay, so maybe breaking into his house wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done. But I did accomplish something. Besides getting scared to death, annoyed, and slightly turned on (just because he’s good-looking doesn’t mean I have to turn into some obsessive groupie)…

I learned what he was up to.

I should have known it wasn’t going to be something as simple as wanting to set up a legitimate residence.

He had a new Target.

A high-profile one.

My hands curled around the steering wheel and squeezed until my joints ached. What was it with this guy? How could he be so casual about killing—about robbing someone of their life?

I should have listened to Piper. I should have stayed away from him.

But I didn’t.

Now I knew.

I couldn’t just let him kill her.

The Jeep slowed as I pulled into the parking lot of a place I didn’t even realize I was driving to. It was one of my most favorite places ever. The Iced Princess. The Iced Princess was this completely posh, over-the-top bakery. They were famous here in Alaska for their cupcakes and all pink decor. Everything inside was pink—pink rugs, pink couches, and pink chairs sitting at pink tables.

They had a bakery counter that would make anyone drool. The cupcakes were piled high with homemade icing and usually with some sort of edible decoration. Not every cupcake was pink, but they did always have their signature treat: Princess for a Day. It was a white cupcake in a hot-pink wrapper, piped high with pastel-pink icing and an edible sugar tiara balanced on top.

They also had a coffee bar where even the paper cups were pink. The coffee was so good that not even the most macho of men cared to be seen with a pink cup.

Charming probably wouldn’t be caught dead drinking from a pink cup.

I pushed him out of my mind. I was taking a brain break from the killer.

My sugar stores were running low and I needed an emergency pick-me-up. The Iced Princess was closed—they didn’t open until six a.m. for the coffee crowd, but I didn’t have to resort to breaking and entering again that night just to get what I wanted.

I left the Jeep running and went toward the giant pink machine topped with a glittery tiara sitting by the front entrance. I checked out the electronic menu for my choices and couldn’t decide. I swiped my card and hit a button. Seconds later, I lifted the door on the front and withdrew a pink box. Inside was a chocolate cupcake. Then I repeated the process twice more and collected another two cupcakes. This time selecting the classic Princess for a Day and a Rock Me Raspberry flavors.

I mean seriously.

A vending machine filled with the best cupcakes on the planet? If I could figure out a way to tow this thing home, I would so do it.

I stacked the boxes and climbed back into the Jeep, not bothering to wait until I got home. I needed sugar now. I opened up the Choc-o-holic cupcake and dug in.

It was filled with fudge sauce.

I groaned with joy. “Thank you, Jesus,” I prayed.

After licking all the chocolate off my fingers, I backed out of the lot and drove home, eyeing the other two boxes the entire way. If that place was closer to my apartment, my fine balance between curvy and fat might be in danger.

My brain break lasted until I arrived in the safety of my home, where I ate another cupcake. But it couldn’t last forever. I had a decision to make.

I could forget I ever saw Charming today, forget I knew what he was planning.

Or…

I could make it my life’s mission to stop him.

Who was I kidding? There was no choice here. I wasn’t about the let him charm someone to death.

Chapter Seven

“Charity ball - an event where
the practice of benevolent giving

is carried out.”

Charming

I might consider Alaska a boring place, a forgotten and cold bare landscape where nothing interesting resided. But the upper class, the high-society of the state, seemed to know how to party.

The charity ball that was being held for land conservation and historic preservation drew quite the crowd of upper-crust socialites. It was being held in one of said socialite’s homes—practically a mansion—that sat away from everything else on the edge of a wide piece of land. We were in what only could be described as a ballroom, with gleaming marble floors, soaring ceilings, and what appeared to be hand-painted murals on the walls. On the end of the room was a wall of windows and in the center were wide glass doors that led out onto a stone balcony with a rounded edge and stone railings. Beyond the balcony was a view that could draw the eye for hours and still leave more to see. It wasn’t of a cityscape or a body of water. It was endless land covered in trees and foliage. In the distance were mountains that seemed to rise up into the dark sky and were capped with white—snow that probably never melted.

Even though it was spring, there was still some snow on the ground. I was beginning to wonder if the snow down here ever melted. I mean, what was the point of having a huge balcony if one could never open the doors, let in the night air, and enjoy the view?

I turned away from the sight; it was making me want to go home.

Six months
, I reminded myself.
Do this job and then you can get the hell out of here.

A waiter in a perfectly tailored suit walked by and I snagged a flute of champagne from his golden tray and took a long drink. What I wouldn’t give to just drain the glass and then another. But I had to restrain myself. Appearances were everything. And while it might not seem that anyone was paying any attention to me, they could be.

An Escort could never afford to forget his place. His job.

A job was why I was here.

I looked around the room—servers with trays, a man at a piano playing some boring ballad, and people dressed in gowns and tuxedos. The women dripped in jewels and perfume, laughing their fake laughs and sipping champagne without a care in the world. Security was placed discreetly at all the exits, the windows, and near the staircase at the far end of the room.

I knew the senator must be here already and it wasn’t hard to spot him in the crowd. People surrounded him, laughing and talking. I gazed through his friends, his followers, and the wannabe’s looking for Rosalyn, his daughter. I didn’t see her and I figured perhaps she wasn’t here yet, waiting for a time to walk in and be fashionably late to draw the stares of everyone already in the room.

I suppressed a sigh at the thought. Dealing with a diva was never fun.

I set down my empty glass and snagged another from a passing tray and then worked the room, introducing myself and pretending to be interested in the charity.

As far as events went this one was pretty good. Over my many years of being an Escort, I had grown accustomed to nice things. I liked money. I liked being in places where everyone around me had money too.

Across the room there were a few paintings on display, and I went and stood in front of one and stared at it. It was a decent piece, especially considering the art scene here must be dismal.

Someone came up beside me, stopping to stare at the same painting. I turned my head just a fraction to see who it was.

It was her. Rosalyn.

I turned back to the painting, pretending to study it some more while sipping the champagne. I could feel her eyes on me, but I still didn’t acknowledge her.

“It’s a beautiful painting,” she said finally.

I glanced at her. She was wearing a black gown, the fabric close to her tall, willowy frame. Her dark hair was pulled up away from her face and she wore a necklace that probably cost three million dollars. Vaguely, my mind started running scenarios of how I could snatch it without being caught. If sold on the right market, I could make quite a little profit on a piece like that.

I met her eyes—they were brown—and saw she was waiting for my reply. She expected me to say something vague and non-committal about the art. She thought I was just another one of these rich airheads here tonight to throw around my excessive money.

I looked back at the painting, taking another slow sip of my drink. “I think it’s very sorrowful,” I said. “The lines seem heavy. The shadows there”—I pointed—“behind the man seem to come forward as if to consume him, surround him.” Then I looked back at her. She was watching me with interest and I held back my smile.
Gotcha.
“But you’re right; it is a beautiful piece of art. Sometimes there is beauty in sorrow.”

And then I walked away.

I didn’t look back.

I didn’t pause.

I stopped beside the piano and dropped a twenty into the glass fishbowl sitting on the top and asked him to play something a little less monotonous.

I felt her eyes follow me as I moved around the room. She watched me with interest. I was the man who gave her an unexpected answer. The man who didn’t seem to care or even know who she was. And then I just walked away without so much as a backward glance.

I knew her type.

I was driving her crazy.

Good. Let her think it was her idea to come to me. Let her think she was the cat who got the mouse.

When really… it was exactly what I wanted.

*    *    *

I was speaking with the mayor when she approached. I saw her out of the corner of my eye. The mayor, of course, stopped talking the minute she arrived and he turned to her and smiled. “Rosalyn, you look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you, Mayor Hayes,” she said, her eyes sliding to me.

“Rosalyn, this is…” He began to introduce me only to realize he never bothered to learn my name.

I smiled. “I could bore you with all four of my stodgy names or you could just call me what my friends do.”

“And what is that?” she asked.

“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” the mayor said, already pulling away.

“Of course,” Rosalyn said and I shook his hand before he walked off to no doubt try to secure another sizeable donation.

“You were saying?” Rosalyn asked when he was gone.

“Charming. Everyone calls me Charming.”

She lifted a delicately shaped brow.

I grinned my best devilish grin. “I left my white horse with the valet.”

She laughed. “That’s probably for the best. Whatever would they say if you brought a horse into the ballroom?”

“Want to find out?” I grinned again.

“Funny and art savvy,” she mused. “I haven’t seen you at any of these functions before.”

“I just arrived in town not too long ago. I’m in real estate. Thought I would come and see if there were any opportunities to grow my business here in Fairbanks.”

“And what do you think of Fairbanks so far?”

“It’s very cold.”

She laughed again. I noticed she hadn’t sipped her drink once since arriving at my side. I caught the eye of a nearby waiter and he came over, clearing his throat. I gently took her half-empty glass from her fingers and then slid a fresh one in place.

“How did you know I wanted a new one?” she asked.

“You just seemed like the kind of woman who enjoyed her champagne chilled.”

She smiled and took a sip, stepping just a fraction closer to me than before.

Got her.

Maybe getting this job done in six months wouldn’t be so hard after all.

I smiled down at the Target when a flash of red caught my eye. I looked up and saw a woman in a red silk dress enter the room.

Red was my color.

It was powerful, unforgettable… and it stood out in this room among the people who were all dressed in black.

The woman wearing it didn’t look like anyone else here. She filled that dress out in a way that made every man in the room turn to look. The dress was low-cut and instead of just showing off her skin, she wore a very long strand of pearls that looped around her throat and then draped all the way to her navel.

Her throat…

There was something familiar about it.

I tore my eyes away from the gown and looked up. Blond hair. Curls. Blue eyes.

What the hell was she doing here?

Just as I was about to turn away, she caught my eye and I swear a sadistic smile curved her lips. Her steps picked up and before I knew it she was at my side, slipping her hand around my elbow and inserting herself into my job.

“There you are,” she said like she’d been searching the entire room for me. “I swear the ladies room must be half a mile away.” She batted her eyes at me and I thought about dumping my drink down her chest.

“Is this your girlfriend?” the Target asked, a closed look coming over her face.

No, no, no
. I didn’t have time for this!

I opened my mouth to vehemently deny that accusation, but she beat me to it.

“His girlfriend?!” she asked, horrified. “Good Lord, no.”

 Rosalyn smiled and I breathed a sigh of relief.

But George wasn’t done talking. “I’m his sister.”

I choked on my champagne.

George started pounding on my back, like that would somehow help. “Go easy on the booze there, brother.”

Then she looked at Rosalyn and whispered conspiratorially. “This one likes the bottle.”

She. Was. Dead.

“Does he now?” Rosalyn said, glancing at me with a smile.