Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (2 page)

And that’s when I hear a woman’s laughter echo in waves.

Followed by a scream.

And everything turns red.

She slaps him.

Hard
—

The man in a black cape and mask takes a step back, teetering to recapture his balance from the force of her blow.

In a shaft of moonlight in a forest glen, I see him brace himself for a moment and struggle to stand a little taller. He rips off his mask to reveal a deeply handsome face, framed by dark wayward hair and caramel skin. His lips slip into a wry smile.

“Think you can get rid of me so easily?” he taunts the elegant woman in what I believe to be Italian, but for some reason I can understand him in English.

The woman is breathtakingly beautiful in her crimson, Renaissance-style ball gown with a matching feathery mask, her face framed by wild, black curls. On her delicate feet are curious, red embroidered shoes set atop tall, wooden platforms.

“Tonight,” the man vows, “you’re no rich man’s whore. You are
mine
.”

Boldly, he steps forward and sinks his face into her pale, uplifted bosom.

The woman throws her dark hair back and clutches at him, her fingers raking through his curls as though clawing her way to his heart. They sway, as if in a dance, and the man in the black cape rips open the front laces of her dress, freeing her breasts to open air. Her nipples are erect, as if she’d been anticipating the caress of his tongue for hours.

“
Mia tesora
,” he breathes. His words hang in the air in small clouds of condensation. I can see the wet lines that shine in the moonlight as his tongue travels down her cleavage and circles her nipples.

It’s cold outside—for some reason I sense the temperature but have no form, as though I’m made of vapor, like a ghost. Yet I can
see
everything in front of me in this secluded glen in the dead of winter, dotted with a lacy scattering of snow on the ground. Even so, I feel a hot blush rush up my being at watching the passion between these two lovers—the kind of sensual feast I’ve never tasted myself, yet I long for so desperately with Creek. The man knows this woman must be freezing, so he gallantly takes off his cape, revealing a gypsy shirt and trousers, and wraps it around her to cushion her fall. In one graceful arc, he lowers her to the forest floor before he tears open more laces and exposes the white skin of her belly and thighs. I watch his hand trace along her legs, gently massaging her skin as he fills her body with kisses.

When he starts swirling his tongue toward her sex, I’m far from shocked. Instead, beneath the delicate flickering of stars, I’m utterly transfixed by this sight, as though I’ve accidently stumbled upon something so forbidden and beautiful, it’s—it’s sacred.

Oh, what I would give if this were Creek and me right now . . .

Their passion is fierce and rises in thin wisps of steam from their bodies that curl in the frosty air. They’re naked now, two starlit lovers at the height of their youth, and I can’t help admiring her perfectly round breasts and the slim line of her waist that fits against his hard, sinewy chest as if they were two clasped hands. When he begins to pump into her, it’s as though the earth itself trembles along with her waves of pleasure. I should be embarrassed, a former boarding school girl who’s stumbled upon this mysterious dream like a voyeur. But the electricity of their desire sweeps me up in its power like a torrent of lightning-charged wind, almost as though it’s happening to
me
. As the woman cries out in climax, her ecstasy filling the forest with a wild, raw sound, I see the man tear away her red feathered mask and toss it aside as though such an act were deflowering her far more than the prospect of burying his hot seed into her body.

The woman lifts her chin to him in defiance, and with a forceful sway of her hip, she expertly makes him come. As he does, and his groan rumbles across the ground, she tilts her head back and laughs.

“You couldn’t stay away from me if you tried,” she smiles.

It’s then that I realize, with a start, that the woman looks exactly like
me
.

A searing light flashes across the glen, filling it with a white hot glow that burns my vision.

“Is this what you saw when you read my palm, my dear? Betrayal?”

The words cut across the forest as a man in a dark robe and a ghostly white mask sets down his lantern and holds up his hand. He traces his finger down a line on his palm.

“All those years ago, when you told me my fortune—did you plan your betrayal even then? Was that you I heard crying out in the forest for your dear children? Or was that the sound of something . . .
else?
Let’s not keep them waiting at home any longer, shall we?”

The man strides over and stabs the woman’s lover clean through the heart with a sword he’d hidden inside his robe. As her lover slumps to the ground, she shrieks and the sound echoes across the woods. The man holds his sword up to the moonlight. He points the sharp edge, dripping with blood, under the woman’s chin and commands her to get up.

Still naked, her white skin gleaming under his lantern’s glow, the woman quickly grabs something from her gown pocket and rises to her feet. She glares at him, unafraid with her perfect form in full display under the moonlight. Although tears stream down her cheeks, every curve of her breasts and hips seem to taunt him with their spellbinding power, and her eyes narrow in rage.

“Taste it!” The man shouts, shoving the point of his bloody sword to her lips. “Taste his
death
.”

The woman laughs and sweeps her tongue across the tip with relish, then holds up a ruby heart that glistens in the moonlight.

“There’s your mistake,” she counters, ripping off his mask to reveal the old man’s face. “Blood on blood lives forever, you fool. When a Gypsy Queen tastes her true love’s blood, her powers only
grow
. Now you’ll never be rid of me.”

“Oh? I wouldn’t be so certain—”

With that, the man grabs the ruby stone from her grip and slices his sword across her throat. Her body instantly drops to the ground, but a mist begins to gather over the blood on her neck, as if her soul has become a vapor and is seeping out of her body. It rises in the air in a swirl and heads for the stone in his hand.

Pulling me along with it!

Despite my own willpower, I feel her spirit tangle fiercely with mine in the night air, circling me like a hot funnel. Her determination is strong—much stronger than I can imagine—and it takes every ounce of my being to withstand against her as she aims for the cracks at the center of that ruby heart.

“Come with me, sweet gypsy!” she cries, somewhere between the fissures of time and space where only spirits seem to dwell. “Together, we can destroy him.”

“No!” I protest, warring against her. I try to condense myself into icy crystals—anything to separate my energy from the force of her hot, steaming vitality. “I don’t want to be absorbed by you!”

“Then what
do
you want?” she hisses in an accusatory tone, as though I’ve transgressed against her with some time-honored violation I know nothing about.

“I want Creek—”

“What is it baby?”

I blink several times, bewildered.

Creek’s warm hands are around my cheeks, cradling my face. His thumbs gently stroke my skin as though I’m a lost little girl. “You were calling my name,” he says. “Loudly.”

The intense blue of his worried eyes soothes me after my red hot nightmare. They’re the kind of icy beautiful that can knock you from your senses for a moment and erase all thought.

I shake my head, still foggy. “I-I must have had a bad dream.”

Creek’s concern only deepens. “But your eyes were
open
, Robin.” He gazes at the ruby heart in my hands as if it might have germs. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” I try to make light of it, even though I’m completely perplexed. I toss the ruby into the front pocket of my backpack like a hot potato. “I ate so much greasy Skyline Chili back in Cinci before we left, it’s a wonder I didn’t hallucinate about Oompa Loompas.”

I smile a little. Though Creek lets his hands fall from my face, I can tell he isn’t fooled. I’m not about to admit to him that I actually tasted his blood on a bizarre whim. Is that the reason for my strange daytrip?

A cloud bank engulfs our airplane, surrounding us in a white haze like the weird vapor I’d become in my vision, and it gives me shivers. For some reason it feels as if we’ve rolled into infinity, where time doesn’t obey the same rules anymore—and I feel like my whole identity on this plane is up for grabs. I know I’ve gone from Robin McArthur to Robin McCracken to Rubina De Bargona in the span of only three short months. And yeah, maybe that’s traumatic. But this seems deeper, like something at a soul level has shifted. I don’t know why, but I feel older now, and a whole lot more world weary than my 16 years.

Peering at my backpack, I spot the wooden bluebird that Granny Tinker had whittled for me as a gift before I left the trailer park, and I pluck it from a side pocket for comfort the way a child reaches for a stuffed toy. Stroking its carefully carved wings, I notice it doesn’t look like the usual bluebirds that hung around Turtle Shores. It’s shaped more like a hawk, and she stained its claws bright red. A bit odd, but then there’s no deciphering Granny Tinker’s strange web of superstitions. When I cradle the bird in my palm, I can feel it has a little trap door on its belly with a tiny hinge that I hadn’t noticed before. Pushing it open with my finger, a slip of paper drops out. I unfurl it and read the inscription in Granny Tinker’s awkward hand.

April 1, 1996 Queen of the Gypsies

I done told ya yer soul was marked.

Beware of threes.

Immediately, my forehead grows hot.

That date is my birthday—

But it’s two years
older
than when my daddy told me I was born.

Oh God.

Could Granny Tinker be trying to expose another one of my dad’s lies?

It would explain why I always did better than the other kids at school, without hardly studying. And why I was the first of my girlfriends to reach my full height and get my period in only the 5th grade—not to mention a training bra by then. But why now? Why did Granny Tinker bother to tell me this for my trip, and what the hell does she mean by Queen of the Gypsies?

“Creek,” I blurt angrily. “How old are you? Really? And don’t you dare lie to me—”

Creek squints his eyes, in that cool way he always used to do before sizing up any threats at one of our bank jobs. His face muscles tighten, strong jaw working slowly over molars. He’s not one to give up information easily, but I believe he trusts me. Then again, he’s never told me his full name, age, where he was born, who is father was—nothing. His jaw shifts a little and his eyes search mine, as though weighing the risk to
me
if I know too much about him. Then his gaze travels over the dried smear of blood that stains his arm.

“You told me we were
partners
,” I remind him. “It says so on your arm.” I swallow hard, going for the kill now. “You also told me you love me.”

Creek’s eyes lock on mine.

God, he can be cold!

I hardly know who Creek is sometimes. He’s like a dark continent that’s been only partially mapped, because no one’s ever been brave enough to try and enter that deep interior.

I draw a breath, my heart lurching a beat.

Except me.

I’m that brave and he damn well knows it. I’ve proven it on bank jobs, and I wonder if this is a make or break time for us. Raising my chin, I stare him down. I don’t give a shit if there’s things about his life he doesn’t want to reveal. He knows everything about me—as much as I do, anyway—and I’m gonna make damn sure this relationship stays a two-way street.

And that’s when I see a sly smile toy at Creek’s lips. The jagged scar on his cheek crinkles into a straight line, like a dagger, which always manages to pierce my heart.

This is exactly why he loves me, and I know it.

Creek surprises me with a kiss, his lips tender and moist and so thoroughly absorbed, it’s as if he could inhale me right now. My hands instinctively seek out his chest, roaming over the contours of his hard muscles. Our breaths sync, chests rising as one. I feel his warm palm slip behind my neck and finger a cowlick, stroking so softly I could purr. He cradles my head like I’m precious to him. I guess this is our relationship in a nutshell. I’m the only one who stands up to Creek’s ice, and he’s the only one who can practically drown me in his hotness, making everything else fall away . . .

Oh yeah, and he’d kill anybody who tries to mess with me.

When he breaks from our kiss, without a word, Creek pulls a passport from his back pocket and tosses it onto my lap.

I open it up. It reads,
John Corrigan, May 3, 1996.
Today is only May 1st, so he’s still 17 years old?

I whip out my passport too, feeling flustered that I hadn’t checked it out yet. It states,
Lisa Harris, April 1, 1998.
That means 16 years old.