Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (2 page)

The knight, a man of fiery passions coming into her life, had to be Callum Lyon. This was good, especially when coupled with the
Two of Wands
. Together, the cards strongly suggested her plan to seduce him would work.

The queen, a distrustful career-focused woman, was probably her. She did not, however, like the card’s position, indicating her need for independence could work against her in achieving the outcome—the
Two of Cups
.

Vanessa compressed her lips as she studied the final card’s imagery: a man and woman exchanging golden chalices under a winged lion’s head atop a caduceus. Though it looked like a wedding, it obviously wasn’t, because she had no interest in getting married. Now or ever. As far as she was concerned, marriage was akin to a prison sentence for a freedom-loving Aquarian such as herself.

Lifting her gaze to Crystal’s, she asked, “What do you think it all means?”

“The knight represents a man who is charismatic, seductive, and passionate,” the medium answered. “A new lover, perhaps, but the affair might be short-lived.”

Tucking a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear, Vanessa smiled her approval. “Good. A fling is all I’m in the market for.”

As underhanded as it sounded, seducing Callum Lyon seemed the only way to get inside Barrogill Castle. According to Mr. Armstrong, Lord Lyon was an interfering, self-righteous womanizer who deserved no consideration. The two men had met at a conference, apparently, and did not hit it off—the reason her boss gave her the assignment in Caithness instead of taking the trip himself.

She was thrilled, of course, that Mr. Armstrong had entrusted her with such an important mission so early in her tenure with his agency, but still didn’t like the idea of using anyone. Even a cad like Callum Lyon. Not that she’d be
using
him per se, she reasoned, since her attraction to him was genuine.

Her plan was to attend his lecture tomorrow evening, do her best to hook up with him, and see where things went. If he invited her to his castle, she was golden. In two weeks, she’d come home and, if she uncovered the evidence she hoped to, share her findings on Mr. Armstrong’s streaming web program,
Supernatural Secrets Revealed
.

“Then again…” said Crystal, calling Vanessa back to the reading, “he could just as easily be your perfect match.”

Vanessa wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Doubtful, since he lives thousands of miles away in Scotland. Plus, I’m not in the market for a relationship, especially one that’s long term and long distance.”

“Even if he’s Mr. Right?” As she said it, Crystal arched a pale eyebrow.

Vanessa pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Right is a fairy tale for women who feel the need to be rescued, which isn’t me.”

“You don’t believe in fairy tales?”

“I used to, but not anymore.”

Even if so-called true love did exist, which Vanessa seriously doubted, how could she trust it to last? Just look at her and Nick. In the beginning, she couldn’t get enough of him and now she couldn’t stand to be in the same city with the man. Luckily, she’d moved several states away for her new job, the offer of which could not have been better timed. Nick wouldn’t stop texting her, begging her to reconsider. As if. Obviously, he did not appreciate her need for freedom or her unflinching dedication to her career, despite how clear she had been about her goals from the start of their three-month affair.

Crystal was watching her carefully with glittering eyes. “You don’t believe in love?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe love
exists
,” Vanessa told her. “It’s just that I refuse to plan my whole life around something so intangible.”

She wasn’t like most women. Marriage and motherhood were never her goals. While her friends dreamed of a house with a husband, kids, and a picket fence, she envisioned herself single and successful in a high-rise apartment with a killer view of some fabulous city skyline.

“Tell me what you make of the Two of Cups,” Vanessa said.

“The card suggests the joining of opposites.” Crystal placed her finger on the winged lion. “You see this?”

Nodding, Vanessa frowned down at the card. “Why is it red?”

“It represents Leo, which, as you know, is a fire sign. But it’s also an alchemical symbol representing the merger of two opposing elements.”

Still frowning, Vanessa swept her gaze over the entire spread. “What does it mean in relation to the rest of the cards?”

“I’d say you’re going to meet a man who’s your opposite. A fiery Leo, it would seem.” Crystal raised her gaze to Vanessa’s. “Are you an Aquarian by any chance?”

A shudder went thorough Vanessa, setting off her inner alarms. She knew what the medium was getting at. Leos and Aquarians opposed each other on the zodiacal wheel, which made them temperamental opposites. Was she wrong to believe Lord Lyon, being a reputed Lothario, would be glad to let her go at the end of their affair?

“I am.”

Crystal looked deeply into Vanessa’s eyes for several moments before saying, “Then I suggest you give your Knight of Wands a chance to change your mind about love.”

PART ONE

The Heart of a Lion

Chapter 1

Twenty-four hours later

John o’Groats, Scotland

“Have a look at your adoring fan over there,” Duncan said, leaning in. “I do believe she’s visually undressing you.”

Callum looked up from the book he’d been signing—
Political Astrology through the Ages
, his latest in a series on the subject. The fan in question stood by the refreshment table, clutching the book to her chest.
Was
she undressing him with her gaze? A smile stole across his mouth as interest deepened its hook. Judging by the heat of her stare, he was already naked in her mind.

While delivering his lecture on the same topic, he’d seen her in the third row, giving him equally heated looks. All through his talk, her presence, not to mention her seductive stare, had made it difficult to concentrate on his notes. Luckily, he knew the topic well enough to wing it.

Licking his lips, he traced the long, smooth contours of flesh and muscle beneath the posh black pantsuit she wore. She was tall and slender—willowy—with an angular face and a wide, full mouth that stretched into an inviting smile as his gaze met hers with an electrical charge he felt in his groin. Her eyes were as blue and deep as a loch. Mesmerized, he returned the smile. How easily he could get lost in those eyes, forget how to swim, and realize too late he was drowning.

He lowered his gaze to her breasts, which were large, firm, and unharnessed. Did she have an aversion to undergarments? He hoped not, given his penchant for naughty lingerie. He dressed her in a lacy black corset and thigh-high stockings. Oh, aye. She definitely had the figure to indulge his weakness. Swallowing his rising lust, he shifted in his chair to ease the tightening in his trousers.

Turning to Duncan, he asked, “Who is she? Do you know?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” his friend replied.

Swallowing, Callum shifted his focus to the woman directly in front of him. She was fiftyish, plump, and squat with curly dishwater hair. “What was the name again?”

“Sorcha.”

“That’s lovely.” He grinned through the qualm inflicted by the name. “I once had a wife called Sorcha.”

His statement clearly aroused her interest. “Would you be looking for a new wife by any chance, your lordship? Because, if you are, I ken a bonny lass who’d be just perfect for you.”

“Oh, aye?” Still smiling falsely, he arched an eyebrow. “What sign would she be then?”

“She’s a Gemini.” The woman beamed at him in a manner suggesting the lady in question was probably her daughter.

“Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well,
Sorcha
, that’s too bad. Because, you see, I make it a strict policy never to get tangled up with anyone born under the sign of the twins. They’re far too changeable for me, I’m afraid.”

He signed her book and handed it back. He made more or less the same claim whatever the answer. Well-meaning women were forever trying to set him up—usually with themselves. He sought out the dark-haired lass again, wondering what sign she might be. Not that it mattered, since what he had in mind would be brief and involve very little talking.

Sending in his psychic tentacles, he glimpsed particles of her life. Odd bits of a puzzle whose pieces didn’t quite fit together. A suspension bridge he recognized as the Golden Gate in San Francisco. Ornate wrought-iron banisters like those in New Orleans. A string of not-nice men. Environmental protests. Tarot cards. A small white house with an inviting front porch.

Probing deeper, he looked for her childhood and family, but found only two women. An older one who radiated warmth and a younger one—her mother, no doubt—worn down by years of disappointed expectations. Oddly, he found no father; only a dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes who seemed familiar.

Pulling out of her psyche, Callum slid his gaze to her swanlike neck. The dark hunger reared its head as his focus alighted on her throbbing pulse. Swallowing, he looked away, returning his attention to the person at the front of the line—a twenty-something lass with frizzy flaxen hair.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting you in the flesh,” she said excitedly as she handed him her book. “I follow your blog every day and have read everything you’ve published.”

The smile that bloomed across his face was genuine this time. As much as he hated these events, they did boost his ego. They also taxed him, mentally and physically. He was ready for it to be over, ready to be home in bed—though not necessarily alone. As he robotically scrawled his signature line—
Let the stars be your guide, Callum Lyon
—he shot another lustful glance toward the refreshment table.

Aye. Good. She was still there, still watching.

Why didn’t she join the queue to have him sign her book? She didn’t strike him as the bashful type. Far from it, in fact. Something in her air gave the impression of self-sufficiency. She was standing there so coolly, like she owned the whole bloody room and, soon enough, meant to own him, too.

Not that he would allow it. He’d bed her and turn her out, just like he always did. Swallowing hard, he shook his head to dissipate the thickening cloud of lust. The room was cold, but he was sweating. He wanted to shed his jacket and loosen his tie, to get away from all these people, but he only smiled and handed the blonde back her book.

He took the next one from a young man in wire-rimmed spectacles, keeping one eye on his prey. He was her quarry, too, judging by the hungry look in her cool blue eyes. God, she was lovely…and far too distracting.

Get a grip on yourself, you randy prick. You’re too old to get hard every time a bonny lass gives you a come-hither look.

Callum shut his eyes. He was already fraying around the edges. Another hour or two of forcing himself to be sociable might unravel him completely. As badly as he wanted her, he couldn’t begin to imagine how he might divide his attention between a bunch of politicos and a sexual conquest, let alone have anything left to give her afterward. Opening his eyes, he gave her another longing look.

When their gazes met with a searing charge, lust surged through his bloodstream. Perhaps a meal and a couple of drinks would restore his vigor. He rechecked the queue. Only two more, thank the stars.

A white-haired crone stood before him now. He held out his hand for her book, opened to the title page, and scrawled his signature line. With a tight-lipped smile, he handed it back and sought the brunette once more. Their gazes met with a high-voltage shock that crackled all the way to his brogues.

There was only one more person in line—a woman with chin-length dark hair, enormous gray eyes, and delicate features. Curiously, she held no book.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, sure he knew the answer.

It’s not you I’m here to see,” she said in an English accent. “While I’d gladly swing among the stars with you anytime, Lord Lyon, I believe your astrology to be—now, how shall I put this delicately?—a lorry load of New Age horseshit.”

The bluntness of her comment startled Callum. If she thought astrology naught but bollocks, why was she here?

He got his answer when she turned to Duncan and said in hushed tones, “My name’s Miranda Hornsby. I’m a reporter for the
Caithness Crier
and I’ve got a tip for you.”

Leaning across the table between himself and the journalist, Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Oh, aye? What kind of tip?”

“I’m about to do a take-down piece on Alasdair Sinclair.” She kept her voice low so only the two men could hear. “So, if you’re as clever as I’ve heard, you’ll have a challenger ready in time for the election.”

“B-but,” Duncan stammered, clearly caught off-guard, “the election’s only a few weeks away.”