Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2)
- Book Description
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
by
Diane J. Reed
Bandits Ranch Books, LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Diane J. Reed
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Bandits Ranch Books, LLC.
This novel is dedicated to all those who wander and fall in love with life.
The Stone of Thieves…for centuries its magnetic draw has twisted the hearts of ambitious men and women with the promise of power, passion, and intrigue until it fell into the hands of unlikely thieves Robin and her boyfriend Creek. But can they steal their destiny away from the curse that pursues this magnificent ruby heart? As the stone begins to spread its sorcery, Robin races to find her long-lost mother in Italy in the hopes of discovering the truth about her unique gypsy heritage and the ruby heart that is rumored to steal souls. Yet when the desire for this stone by powerful members of her family threatens their very lives, Creek decides to take matters into his own hands to protect Robin, his greatest treasure of all.
Stone of Thieves
is a sensual, stand-alone new adult novel and the sequel to
Robin in the Hood
in the Robbin’ Hearts Series.
Due to mature themes, readership is advised for ages 17+.
To read the sequel to
Stone of Thieves
and other books in the Robbin’ Hearts Series by Diane J. Reed, go to:
http://www.amazon.com/Diane-J-Reed/e/B0071FXGOE/
I wake to the smell of blood.
Metallic, like maybe copper or iron, mixed with something fleshy and raw.
And eternal—
It calls to me.
Pulls me in the way a thief is drawn to an open drawer of jewels. Certain as the sparkle on a diamond or the heady aroma of a priceless perfume.
I remain still, my eyes closed, just taking in the scent.
Somewhere between dream and reality, this intoxicating smell invites me, as if wanting to carry me away in the flow of its deep red river. For a second, I feel myself go under, and I wonder if I’ve fallen into that crimson infinity . . .
But when I shake my head and glance up, I spy my boyfriend Creek in the airplane seat next to me with relief. He’s sleeping, his cheeks soft and slack as a child, gold hair skimming his shoulders, his skin rich with that impossibly sun-kissed glow. Yet his stern jaw and fierce cheekbones make him look like a protective angel. Beautiful, sculpted right from a Renaissance master’s dream.
But Creek’s no angel—
And there’s blood dripping down his arm.
Blood from a knife carved into his flesh by my own hand. Right before we got on the plane.
Partners
.
That’s the word he had me slice into his skin, more permanent than any tattoo. And a hell of a lot more enduring than the name of that blue-inked bitch he scratched out, now a long-forgotten scar.
You see, I stole his heart.
And he stole mine, too.
We’re thieves. That’s what we do.
ATMs, bank vaults, carefully-stashed lockboxes—these were our repertoire, until I discovered I’d inherited a fortune from my father’s secret Swiss bank account that he’d registered in my name.
My
real
name.
Not Robin McArthur, like I’d thought all my life, but Rubina de Bargona. The bastard child of my white trash father’s liaison with a pasta sauce heiress from Venice, Italy.
And that’s exactly where we’re headed right now.
Venice—the city of masks. An enigma within an enigma, floating precariously upon the blue-green waters of the Adriatic Sea.
Why?
Because Creek says I need to find my mother. My
real
mother, in order to find myself and steal back my history. She may be a nun, a drunk, or she may even be dead. But whatever I find, Creek says it will return a little piece of my soul back to me.
And he should know all about shattered pieces of soul, because his own mother was murdered in the backwoods trailer park outside of Cincinnati where we met. Where we tried to provide for our hard luck neighbors the only way we knew how: by stealing.
Now, there’s no more need for taking what’s forbidden—except for the truth of who I really am. And something tells me it won’t come easy. Because the de Bargona family was so ashamed of my existence that they farmed me out for an adoption before returning to their ancestral home in Venice for good.
But my daddy stole me back.
After all, we come from a long line of thieves.
In the middle of the night, he broke into my adoptive family’s house, grabbed me from my crib, and then changed our names and started a whole new life built on lies. Lies that both kept us together and tore us apart—until he couldn’t hide the past from me anymore.
I glance at Creek again, at the blood that seeps through his black t-shirt and trickles down his forearm, where it fans out in rivulets as though his arm were sculpted from cracked pieces. A warm light from the window settles across his hard cheekbones, illuminating his stunning features. It still blows me away how much Creek loves me. How he took me under his wing—an angry chick on the lam—and taught me how to care about the people at the trailer park as much as I value my own life. His love stripped away everything I thought I knew, left me bare and gasping, and brought me back to the truth of my own soul—the only thing that Creek says ever really matters.
Grabbing some napkins wedged into the crease of my seat, I somehow manage to mop up the streams of blood dripping down his arm without stirring him from sleep. Impulsively, I can’t help curling a finger along a thick strand of his messy hair that rests on his shoulder, relishing its feral wave that I’ve now streaked with a hint of red. I want to care for him, the way Creek often risked his life to care for me, as tenderly as a treasured child. But what to do with
Delta
napkins that look like they’ve witnessed a crime scene? I scan the nearby passengers, hoping no one noticed, and zip open my backpack to tuck them in. There, in the small outer pocket, is the faded news article of my mother from the
Cincinnati Enquirer
that my dad kept all these years. My heart wriggles into my throat. Despite my blood-stained fingers, I pull out the photo before the napkins can taint her image.
And it’s like looking into a mirror.
Okay, so Alessia de Bargona is in a prim, white ball gown that makes her appear every inch the European debutante—a teenager who’d been biding her time at finishing school before her parents got the chance to arrange a politically advantageous wedding. But her hair is a long mass of dark curls, like mine, and her doe eyes are murky pools with that same bottomless wondering in them—as if she, too, was always searching for who she really is.
I’m so curious about her real personality, as opposed to this scared looking, candy-wrapped girl who bore me at only sixteen. How did she escape the Pinnacle Boarding School to have secret rendezvous’ with my father, a mere stock boy at her dad’s international pasta sauce plant? When she was away from the demands of society, did she laugh easily? Did she let her hair tumble to her shoulders and run barefoot through meadows by my dad’s trailer park, smiling and picking daisies? She must have met Granny Tinker and all the other folks at Turtle Shores who loved her so. Trembling a little, I pull out the priceless ruby heart that Alessia had slipped into my dad’s hand the day her father forced her to walk up to him and declare that she
never
loved him, and they were returning back to Venice.
My dad didn’t believe her then.
And he cherished this jewel as his one true and shining hope that their love would last forever, and we’d someday find her again.
Has that someday finally come?
I gaze at my red-stained fingers, holding Alessia’s picture in one hand and the ruby heart in the other.
And I swear to God, the ruby feels like it’s getting warmer and heavier in my palm, pulsing even. Maybe it’s my imagination. But as I stare closer at the cracks and fissures at its center, wondering how such a flawed ruby could possibly be considered “priceless,” or whether it’s just another one of my dad’s lies, I have an overwhelming urge to lift my fingers to my lips. And to lick off Creek’s blood.
But that’s crazy.
Even so, I can’t help feeling a magnetic connection, as if Creek’s blood is like some kind of conduit to his very soul. The ruby in my hand seems to throb at the thought, and I slip the photo of my mother back into my backpack and cradle the gem in both hands. From somewhere deep inside the stone, I thought I heard a strange, lilting whisper.
Taste it
.
I want to shake my head, throw down this spooky gem on the armrest between me and Creek and run to the restroom to quickly wash my hands.
But I can’t—
All I can do is focus on the crimson facets of light that sparkle inside this ruby, mesmerized. And then I hear that whisper again.
Your soul is marked
.
The pulses of the ruby fall into synch with my own heartbeat.
Taste your destiny, Rubina—
Without realizing it, I’ve brought my fingers to my lips.
For Christ’s sake, I haven’t had sex with Creek yet! We’re just two teens who’ve only known each other for a few months, and spent most of that time operating incognito on the lam. He’s never even had the chance to tell me his real last name.
But none of that can stop the overwhelming urge I have right now to sample Creek’s blood. To swirl it around on my tongue and relish the taste the same way some women brag about abandoning themselves to orgasms. The pull of the life force that courses through his veins reels me in. Hesitantly, despite all rational thought, I take a lick—