Tainted Blood

by Kathy L Wheeler

Candace Cupardé was a ghost. Specifically, Cupid’s ghost. And being a ghost was no picnic. She longed to let loose her displeasure with a few choice words. But, unfortunately, as Cupid (ghost or not, withstanding) that was an impossibility. Choice words just would not form on her tongue. If she tried to say “damn” it came out as “dart.” “Bastard” formed as button on her disobedient tongue, and if she tried to say “hell”—you guessed it: the word “heart” spewed forth. And well, heart just lacked certain satisfactory elements. Like telling the devil to go to—heart? Most irritating.

Candace was almost certain her long-time friend Dracula (hereto referred as devil), also better known as creepy-scary-vampire-guy, had found some way to divest Candace of her one opportunity of transforming back into her former magical self. And she was furious.

“Honestly, Candi—” Drac started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name. Besides, I like it. It makes me want chocolate.” Drac’s somewhat dramatic sigh was almost comical. “I wish chocolate sustained me like blood. It’s much more appetizing.”

“Some big bad vampire, you are,” she muttered.

“So what do you think of our party so far?”

“Our party?” Candace hovered in the cobwebs next to Drac and looked out over a menacing array of monsters. She spotted Frankenstein, the Mummy, several ghouls. Igor was seen escorting an attractive young man carrying Mya through the hall to an empty chamber. She was a selkie.  Candace looked back at Drac situated on a long black chandelier bar, between two flaming sconces.

“Certainly. You and I are a team,” he said with a pointed gaze in her direction. “That was some miracle you worked on Ren and Wendy.”

Candace was down to four arrows. She needed to unite five couples in love. True love. A tricky business, as there had to be the sustenance for the love to take hold and stick. “I had to do that. You were about to sink your teeth into her pretty little neck,” she said glumly. His eyes twinkled with mischief, his grin cheeky. “Oh, go to—” She stopped, shook her head, exasperated. It just wouldn’t have the same impact.

Drac wasn’t a bad vampire as far as vampires went. In fact, most of the time she really liked him, adored him in fact. Her heart (when she’d had a heart) fluttered like a flock of butterflies when he was near. He was so dart attractive. So much so, that sometimes she found herself wishing . . .

Candace pushed away the notion, frustrated. There wasn’t anything she could do about longings far beyond her control. She had no substance any longer.

Drac laid his hand over hers . . . or tried. It passed through her hand, all the way to the bar he sat on. He frowned.

“What?” She laughed, though it was strained and awkward. “Are you saying you’re tired of blood?”

“Among other things.” Something in his voice caught.

Curious at this odd turn, she floated in front of him and looked him in the eye. “What do you mean?”

Avoiding her gaze, he shrugged. “The whole lifestyle is tiresome, if you must know.”

“You mean like being a filmy ghost where nothing and no one can latch onto you?” she teased, shooting through the chandelier and back proving her point.

He scowled. “I suppose that’s what I mean, in a sense.” Drac hesitated, lips pursed as if biting back a confession. He inhaled deeply, then said, “It’s more along the lines of living in a tomb, never seeing the light of day, or being able to check my appearance in the mirror.”

“Well, that I can certainly relate to,” she muttered.

He didn’t seem to hear her. “It was never my plan to become a vampire, you know. The idea was my father’s. He was the true Dracula. I fail to do the family name justice.”

“I don’t understand.” Concern filled her. She’d never seen this side of her longtime friend. Drac was always the confident, dart dastardly, demon. Occasionally, a fetching demon. One might even suggest dreamy demon.

“Father was the one into everlasting life or some such drivel. I guess he just never figured on being stabbed in the heart with a wooden cross by—” He cleared his throat with a cough. “Er, uh, on a night similar to this.”

Hmmm, fascinating. “Similar to this?”

He threw out his hand. “A night of the harvest moon.”

“Ah,” she said. Her senses trembled. Someone was in desperate need of her.  “Hold on.” Candace dashed from the ballroom, slipping through the door where she'd seen Mya carried. She tugged an arrow from the quiver on her back and set her bow. With a careful aim, she let it fly, stabbing the young man in the heart. His hand landed over his heart. Satisfied, Candace whizzed back to Drac and studied him, frowning. She’d never seen him like this before.

Wistful. Regretful.

And that was saying something. They’d known one another for years, hundreds of them. “If you weren’t a blood-sucking vampire, what do you suppose you would see yourself doing? You know? For a living.”

The question seemed to surprise him. She kept one eye out over the rambunctious monsters below. She still had three love connections to perform to fulfill her duty in gaining back her substance. Then she’d be able to vacate this cold, haunted manor.

“The blood is just for survival.”

Candace bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at his haughty defense and murmured some placating nonsense.

His gaze turned distant, his voice grew soft. “Two hundred years ago, I yearned to serve under Wellington, help take down Napoleon. Instead, all I managed was a bite out of him.” Drac shuddered. “His blood was tainted. I was sick for months.”

 “Yeah, but—”

“A little over a hundred years later, I had an inkling that decorated veteran of World War I was trouble.” He scowled, furrowed his brows. “1923, I believe. His attempted coup in Munich failed with a little help from moi, and he went to prison. But as we learned later, that wasn’t near enough to deter him.”

Candace frowned. “Decorated veteran. Who?”

“Adolf Hitler.”

Candace colored at Drac’s appalled glance. “Oh.” He must think her a complete dunce. Hitler was a true devil.

Drac’s gaze shifted below. “I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance. But after that bout of illness with Napoleon . . . Well—”

Of course, words like button formed easily enough for Drac! Candace floated about, considering his words. “Yes, but what about now?” she insisted.

“Rid the world of terrorism.” His response was quick and succinct.

She swallowed a hard lump in her throat. A wave of intense longing, settled over her, and she turned quickly lest he read her emotions on her face.

Drac would have made a dart dashing hero. Heart! If she had the magic to fix that for him . . . well, it broke her (actual) heart. She turned back to him, fanning her face (to no avail). “Oh, Drac,” she said gently. “You want  . . . you want . . . world peace.”

***

Candi’s insight startled, and burned, through him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Drac said harshly. The emotions roiling through his cold veins made him feel hot enough to fear his father’s ashes reassembled in nothing flat, and dog him to the gates of hell.

“Ha!” Candi Cupardé fluttered about like a firefly, but with more spunk and guile than he’d ever witnessed in his six hundred and fifty-five years (give or take) life. In spite of her wispy presence, he admired her long, blond waves and startling, blue eyes that rarely missed a thing.

She thrust down through the air and pulled another arrow from her pouch and aimed. Smack! Right into the heart of Simza Nuri. Only two left.

Pouting was not a masculine trait, but Drac couldn’t help it. For a man doomed to the cellars during daylight, Candi was the one bright spot he counted on. Wasn’t it bad enough he was condemned to lie in a sarcophagus, day after day after day? Whoever said immortality was the end all had not had to live by that creed.

Although, Madame Mirela assured him the possibility of five couples attending this shindig and finding love together was impossible, he didn’t trust the fortune teller an inch. The woman had an agenda of her own. And if Candi did manage to do to join five couples to true love, Drac would be forever alone. She was his destiny. Air squeezed from his lungs like the vice of an iron bar.

Guilt swallowed him. Why couldn’t he just suck it up like a pint of blood, and tell her how he felt? Let her know how much he loved her company. How much he loved her. What kind of selfish bastard kept Cupid to himself?

Just the thought of letting her go nauseated him. He felt ill. More ill than after he’d sunk his fangs into Ivan the Terrible in 1547.

Drac couldn’t lose her. And with only one more pair to unite, she’d be gone from him. Forever.

 “Did you see that, Drac?” Her vivacious laugh pricked this heart like a thousand needles. “Sebastian refused to let me help him, but he didn’t say anything about my poking Natalie. The man is saved despite his protestations!”

Drac blinked, and she bobbed in front of him. Taunting him.

She giggled. “I’m going to make it. I have only one arrow left. Then I’ll be free of this cold, dank life.”

Red colored his vision in the depth of his fear. He covered it with rage. “You might as well give it up, Candace,” he growled. “You aren’t going to win this little battle. And there won’t be another Harvest Moon for two hundred years.” Two more centuries with her.

The fury in her expression would have made him laugh if it hadn’t been so frightening. In a flash, she jerked out the last arrow, set her bow and let go.

Tingles filled Drac’s vision, the red fading to spots of black and white. He wavered on his perch. “You shot me? Me?” This was okay, he thought. Dead is okay. “I won’t have to live without you now, love,” he whispered.

His grip loosened and he fell. Free at last.

***

Love? Drac said love?

“Igor!” Candace yelled. “Igor, catch him.” And me, but the words to save herself caught in her throat. Candace struggled to fly, but her usual light reflexes were hampered by weight she hadn’t needed to account for since the last harvest moon as she tumbled through the air like a lead ball.

An eternity later, she landed on legs that refused to support her unexpected weight. She fell to her knees.

Igor lowered Drac’s unconscious form to the floor. Her throat burned as she tried to swallow. It hurt.

Everyone’s attention focused on Drac. He’d hate that. And now she’d killed him. Candace laid her hand on his warm face. Warm?—yes. To the touch. T.O.U.C.H!

How could that be? She gaped at a hand that should have gone through his cheek . . . completely to other side.

Slowly she raised her eyes to the surrounding crowd. Their united gazes moved from Drac to her. She swallowed again. But none of that mattered. She dropped her eyes back to Drac, clasped his hand in hers and held it to her chest. “Drac, Drac, I’m sorry. Please don’t die. I love you.”

An eerily silence filled the room. Candace raised her head to a parting crowd for the imposing figure of Madame Mirela. She sashayed through the makeshift isle, her full-hooped, Victorian, solid black dress sweeping the floor with each step. Venom dripped from her sooty lashes.

She tipped her elegantly coiffed head in Candace’s direction. “Mademoiselle Cupardé.”

“What are you doing here?” Candace demanded. An urge to protect Drac enveloped her. She scooted closer, tempted to throw her body over hims.

Lips tightened and disgust marring her brow, the woman seethed fury. “Your flimsy arrows are only good for striking at the heart of lovers already destined for one another or  . . . or building furniture.”

“What do you mean?” Candace prayed she understood Madame Mirela correctly. But one glance at Drac’s pale countenance. . .

“Only the hardest of wood can take out a vampire such as  Dracula. Tis how his father met his fate.” Hate shimmered in her gaze and Candace flinched.

Hope filled her despite the fortune teller’s censure. “I don’t understand.” Of course, Candace's arrows were for striking love into hearts not for killing vampires.

“His father drove me to madness and now I have lost his son.” Skirts rustled and bodies shifted at Madame Mirela’s shocking confession.

Horrified, Candace spoke without thinking. “You killed Drac’s father two hundred years ago?” A wisp of memory curdled her insides. “The last Harvest Moon. . .” her voice trailed. Candace had whisked through the ballroom, determined to help Drac’s unappreciative father. He’d been hell-bent on wreaking havoc throughout the region. Drac had been miserable, embarrassed by his father’s antics. The bloodthirsty bastard had shown no mercy to anyone in his path. Candace would have suffered as well, if Sebastian hadn’t already choked the life from her. She owed Sebastian for that at least.

Candace looked down at Drac. “He’s so pale,” she whispered.

But a night of the harvest moon promised miracles and to her relief Drac’s lashes fluttered then opened. He pinned her with a direct, unrelenting fix. “You love me?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve loved you for centuries.” She frowned, confusion filling her. “Why aren’t you dead?”

With Igor’s help, Drac rose to sitting. “I-I don’t know.”

“Bonjour, Dracula.” Madame Mirela turned her viperous demeanor on Drac. “Much to your regret, you fool, your sweet Candi has fulfilled her bargain.” She laughed, but it resembled nothing like humor. “She is no longer just your ghost.”

“Oh.” Despite the throng of individuals (monsters and such) standing about, Drac’s desolation in that one tiny syllable reverberated throughout the ballroom. A thrill of excitement shot up Candace's spine. From the corner of her eye she spotted Wendy in her bright red gown, her lips moving with some incantation. Candace prayed it didn't backfire on them all.

“Alas, her final arrow was not for decimating vampires—the one through your heart—was not of the correct type of wood.” Madame Mirela hissed. “Ash, oak, alder, holly.”

Candace wrinkled her nose as her words penetrated. “Are you telling me that the arrow I shot through Drac did not make him call me ‘love’?”

“Bah.” Disdain pinched her haughty features, and she sniffed. “A ridiculous notion. You have no power over love.”

Drac leaped to his feet, seemingly fully recovered, anger radiating. Candace glanced quickly at Wendy now sporting a satisfied quirk on her face. “Don’t you speak to her like that, old woman,” he hissed. “She’s Cupid! She’s helped millions find their life’s mate. Perhaps millions more, if I hadn’t been so selfish keeping her for my own the last two centuries.”

Candace sat back on her heels, mesmerized by Drac’s dramatic display. He opened his mouth to expose his fangs. The crowd gasped, stepped back. But Candace didn’t see his fangs. Where were his fangs? Gone. Drac’s fangs were gone.

“Drac,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

Madame Mirela bristled. “You are nothing,” she said to Drac. Her shrill voice screeched through the ballroom, threatening the fragility of the champagne glasses. The old woman turned to Candace, piercing her with such loathing, she flinched. “This is all your fault. You’ve robbed him of his immortality. He belonged to me. And, now—I have nothing. You’ve ruined me, Mademoiselle Cupardé. But take heed. I shall have my revenge, two hundred years hence.” Madam Mirela morphed into a crow and soared across the ballroom through the opened French doors at the far end of the hall.

Drac straightened his shoulders and held out his hand to Candace. Candace was touched by the slight tremble he failed to hide. “Come, my love.”

Candace put her hand in his and rose to her feet on shaky legs.

“Please, resume your good time,” he announced to a stunned audience. He peered at Candace, eyes glittering with something undefined. “We’ve plans to make, a sunrise to witness. Our first of many, together.” The clock struck the witching hour as he touched his lips to hers. Warm. Delicious.

“Are you truly okay, Drac?” She glanced over her shoulder to the French doors.

“I am,” he said, tugging her to the balcony doors. Drac tucked her hand into his arm and said, “She’s gone, darling, for at least two hundred more years. Tell me. What sort of wooden arrows are those of yours?”

“Willow, I believe. A soft wood. They wouldn’t hurt a flea,” she promised. “Or a man no longer wishing to be a vampire.”

Thank you for spending Halloween with the OKRWA Wildokie Writers. For information on OKRWA even joining, visit: our website.

You can follow Kathy L Wheeler at Twitter, Facebook, Google+, YouTube, LinkedIn

Lucky Charms

LUCKY CHARMS

By

Silver James

Sedona, Arizona

Present Day

Finnagan’s Rainbow.

       Riley MacDermot stared at the pub sign unsure of whether to laugh or be dismayed. He glanced up and down the street to make sure this wasn’t some American reality TV stunt. St. Patrick’s Day wasn’t that far off and he’d heard the Yanks tended to go all sappy over the day. He grimaced and crossed the street. If he could get a proper Guinness, the indignity would be worth it.

       Authentic Irish music spilled from the open doorway and the interior was far less Faux Irish than he’d anticipated. The oak bar was stained dark from age and use. The tables and chairs scattered about the place were a jumble of styles, all showing the wear and tear of pub life. The aroma of Irish soda bread and… He sniffed again. Could it be possible that bangers and mash hid in the kitchen?

       The food menu was scrawled on a blackboard and hidden among the usual American bar grub, he found the magic words. The place did serve bangers and mash. His mouth watered as he sauntered to the bar and took a seat on a high stool.

       The bartender snarled something over his shoulder and the man’s accent curled Riley’s lips. “Aye, an’ the same back t’ye. I’ll be havin’ a pint of the black stuff, poured properly if ye please, and bangers and mash if they’re edible.”

       The man turned to stare at Riley and without a word, grabbed a glass and partially filled it from a pull lever on the bar. He let the glass sit while he padded toward the window pass through and yelled to the cook. Returning to top off the pint and placing it in front of Riley, the bartender went about his business until the cook yelled back. The man slid a plate heaped with sausage and mashed potatoes in front of Riley.

       Sniffing appreciatively, Riley sampled the food. Not quite like his mum’s but it would do. He loosened his tie and relaxed for the first time since arriving in the States two weeks before. He’d shuttled from pillar to post in search of an elusive thief and the gold the bugger had stolen out from under the very noses of the museum guards.

       He’d hit one roadblock after another and here he was in Sedona, Arizona for God’s sake. The Wild West. What in bloody blue blazes did a good Irishman working for Scotland Yard know about cowboys and Indians?

       At the moment, he concentrated on the beer, the food, and the snarly bartender wearing a nametag with Aidan stamped upon it.

****

       Britt Montgomery wrapped her fingers around the gold coin she wore on a chain around her neck. The gesture soothed her nerves—not to mention the little frisson of energy she received each time she did so. She’d found the coin in a box of doodads in a dusty corner of a secondhand shop. It already had a hole drilled in it so it had been a simple matter to slip a gold chain through it to wear. “For luck,” she’d said at the time—spending money she didn’t have on the bauble.

       Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the free bagel at breakfast had long since digested. Glancing up and down the street, all the restaurants looked high dollar. She had exactly seven dollars and fifty-eight cents in her pocket.

       She snorted. “Hell. I have exactly seven dollars and fifty-eight cents to my name. Face it, girl, you’re broke. If you don’t find a job, you’ll be selling your lucky charm if not yourself.”

       A door up the street opened and a couple, along with laughter and music, spilled out into the night. Drawn like the early bird to a worm, Britt slipped into the pub right behind two guys. She put a flirty smile on her face, hoping they’d ask her to join them. As if! They didn’t even notice her as they waved to two girls already holding a table.

The place was rollicking with only one stool open at the bar. Britt slipped off her jacket, smoothed her form-hugging sweater down her sides and hips, and put a friendly smile on her face.

       “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” She asked no one in particular as she draped her jacket over the stool and prepared to climb up on it. The girl on the left ignored her, too busy talking to her girlfriend, but the man on the right turned and smiled.

        “I’m thinkin’ it might be taken now.”

       Britt stared and hoped her mouth wasn’t gaping open. Three things struck her. Blue eyes. Handsome beyond her dreams. And an Irish accent. Her foot slipped and the man steadied her elbow. Heat radiated from his palm. She licked her lips, unable to take her eyes from his face.

       “What’ll ye have, cailín?”

       “You-you’re Irish.” Britt wanted to headslap herself. D’uh! Of course he was.

       The man chuckled. “Riley MacDermot and guilty as charged.”
      She blinked rapidly and hoped whatever decided to come out of her mouth sounded semi-intelligent. “Britt Montgomery, and I’m normally not this stupid.”

       Riley laughed and winked before raising his hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Aidan, bring the cailín a—”

       Britt glanced at his glass. “Guinness. I’ll have a Guinness.”

       “And would you be hungry, too?”

       She nodded. “Just a burger and fries. Thanks.”

     A dark shadow hovered over her and she tore her gaze away from Riley only to collide with a glower from the bartender. The man was staring at her chest. Blushing, she tugged the scoop neck of her sweater a bit higher. The guy actually smacked his lips.

    “Oy, enough, boyo. Bring the girl her order.” Riley’s voice snapped, full of command.

       With a bored curl of his lips, the bartender sauntered away to comply. Britt studied him, a bit freaked by the guy’s interest. Tall and thin, he had a thatch of red hair and long, nimble fingers that wrapped around the pull handle. He continued to stare at her chest as he set the beer on the bar but she refused to be intimidated. She arched a brow, and in a move designed to show him she didn’t care, Britt picked up her glass and turned to offer a toast to Riley.

       “Sláinte.” He beat her to it but a moment later, his eyes also dropped to her chest.

Britt glanced down to make sure her “girls” were adequately covered. They were. But her gold coin wasn’t. Neither man was staring at her breasts. Apparently, they were focused on her lucky charm.

       “Ahem. Eyes up here, boys!” She hoped she sounded indignant—but maybe a little flirty, too. The thought that Riley might be interested in her that way set her pulse to galloping.

       Riley was enough of a gentleman that his gaze immediately moved to her face. The bartender, on the other hand, continued to stare and his expression unnerved her even more. He looked like her lucky charm was the most important thing in the world and she wondered what he would do to get it. She resisted the urge to cover the coin with her hand.

      Aidan finally moved on called away by a red-haired waitress, and while he remained at the other end of the bar, he watched her furtively. The same waitress plopped a burger basket in front of her a few minutes later, but Britt’s hunger had fled.

     She glanced up at Riley from the corner of her eye and noticed he studiously ignored her, concentrating on his half-full glass of Guinness.

****

       Of all the bloody luck. The girl at his side was the first in ages to tempt Riley to focus on something besides work. Except she was turning out to be his work. The gold coin she wore so blatantly around her neck looked very much like the gold taken in the London museum heist. He needed time to think, and he certainly couldn’t do that staring into guileless green eyes. Not to mention all the blood in his head had rushed south the moment the cailín sat down beside him.

       Riley tossed back the remains of his beer and with a hand that shook slightly, he handed money over to the bartender to pay for his meal and Britt’s. “Keep the change, lad.”

       Without looking at her, he headed for the door, fighting the urge to turn around. Riley pictured Britt hunched over, looking dejected, as she had as he walked away. He wanted to return, take her in his arms, and assure her he wasn’t truly an arse. But until he could look at his files again, and separate work from personal, he had to keep walking. He made the door, stumbled out into the chilly night air, and with a headshake, walked briskly back to his hotel.

****

       Britt chewed but could barely swallow. Despite gulping most of her beer, her mouth remained as dry as the surrounding desert. She’d sure like to know what the heck was going on. Riley had seemed like a really nice guy—okay, a really sexy guy, if she was truthful. A really sexy guy she’d felt a connection to. Until he flipped out and ran away. A shadow loomed over her again and she glanced up.

       The bartender stood there, his right hand stretching toward her even though his long, supple fingers curled against his palm, as if they itched to touch her. No, not her. Her gold coin. She leaned back, putting more space between them.

       “Ye shoulda gone after ’im, ye know.”

       She looked askance. “Oh, really? The dude freaked out.”

       A lopsided grin crinkled one of his cheeks. “Aye, he did a bit of that, true enough. But I have a sense of these things, ye know. If ye see ’em again, ye should be makin’ nice to the man.”

       “Ha. And if you don’t stop staring at my girls I’m going to slap you.”

       He tucked his chin and looked perplexed. “Yer girls?” Realization dawned but he didn’t blush. “Nay, girl. ’Twasn’t starin’ at them. ’Tis yer bauble has my attention.”

       Her fingers curled around the coin protectively. “You can’t have it.”

       The bartender just smiled, his expression condescending. “So you say now, girl. But we’ll see now, won’t we?”

       Unnerved, Britt wrapped up her food in the paper lining the basket in which it was served, snagged her jacket and headed for the door. It might have just been bad timing rather than bad luck, but as she stepped outside, the music ended and the bartender’s laughter followed her into the night.

****

       After a night spent pacing the confines of his room, Riley glanced in the mirror. He looked much worse for the wear. His hair sprouted in odd directions from tunneling his fingers through it. The telephone conversation he’d had with his superior hadn’t helped.

       “A girl has one of the coins?”

       “The girl has a coin. I can’t confirm it is from the stolen cache.”

       “Eye color?”

       “Pardon?”

       “What color are her eyes, man?”

       “Oh. Green.” Green like Irish moss on a misty morning.

       “Hair?”

       “Blonde. No. Brown.”

       “Make up your mind, MacDermot.”

       “The lighting wasn’t very good. Her hair is dark blonde or maybe light brown.” Would it shine with golden highlights in the sun?

       “She doesn’t fit any descriptions associated with the case. Track her down. Find out how much she knows. Maybe she can lead you to the loot and the takers.”

       So here he stood, staring bleary-eyed and sleepless at his reflection. How the bloody feck was he going to find her again?

****

       Britt couldn’t believe her luck. She’d found a hundred dollar bill on the sidewalk last night, which meant she could stay one more day in her hotel. She stroked her lucky charm, smiling and feeling hopeful for the first time in a year. Heaping her plate full from the free breakfast buffet, she planned out her day. She needed to find a job. And a place to stay cheaper than the hotel.

       Her thoughts elsewhere, she turned without looking. She bumped into someone and would have dumped her food had strong hands not gripped her arm and steadied her plate. Glancing up, her gaze melted into surprised blue eyes.

       “Britt?”

       “Riley?”

       “How—”

       “What—”

       “Here, cailín. I’ve a table there by the window. Let’s get you settled and you can eat.”

       A few minutes later, both of them sated and with steaming mugs in front of them, Riley cleared his throat.

       “I’m glad I ran into you. I feel wretched about my behavior last night.” His conscience only twitched a little at the statement. It was the truth but not the whole reason for his need to see her again.

       Her expression didn’t change. “You acted really weird, Riley. And I’m not sure I should be talking to you. You could be like a serial killer or something.”

    Wondering for a moment if the truth would be worse, he decided to gamble. “Actually, I hunt serial killers.” Her expression morphed into one of disbelief. “I work for Scotland Yard. I’m a DCI—Detective Chief Inspector.”

       Britt’s cheeks flushed with color. “Seriously? I mean…that’s like…so…BBC.” Her brow furrowed as she considered. “Are you here on vacation or something? And I want to see some ID, dude.”

       “Something, and here.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and offered her his badge and ID. Despite his best intentions, his gaze was drawn repeatedly to her necklace. When she noticed, her fingers closed over the coin protectively.

       “What do you mean something?” Her expression turned suspicious. “Are you on a case?”

       “I am. There was a heist at a museum in London. We traced some of the stolen goods to the States and I’ve been hot on the trail since.”

       Her jaw dropped and then her lips pressed into a grim line. “Wait! You think I’m involved?” She sputtered angrily as her full lips worked to form words.

       Riley couldn’t stop himself. He leaned in, captured her lips with his in a swift hot kiss. Britt fought for a moment and then melted. His fingers brushed against the medallion as they stroked her neck and a tiny electric shock danced across their tips at the contact. He pulled away to stare at the gold coin. It was glowing, but that wasn’t possible.

       Britt opened her eyes and he thought he might get lost in their soft, green depths. Inhaling deeply to get his emotions under control, he then cupped her cheek in his palm.  “I won't be apologizin' for my actions, and I plan t’kiss ya again, but I gotta know. Tell me, cailín, about the coin. Please?”

       “I bought it. At a shop in Phoenix. And then I bought a bus ticket to come here.”

       “Why?”

       She blinked a few times before her brows knitted and she looked perplexed. “I don’t know. I mean…” Her voice trailed off as her color deepened again. When she pulled back, Riley dropped his hand from her face, only to capture her hand with it. He offered a gentle squeeze but didn’t speak. After several breaths, she continued. “I’m broke. I need a job. But something told me to get on that bus and come here.” She gazed down at their connected hands before glancing back up. “Just like something told me to go into the pub.”

       “Finnegan’s Rainbow?”

       She laughed to cover her embarrassment. “Maybe it’s magic or something.”

     Riley swallowed his chuckle. Who was he to say? His grandfather insisted he’d shared a pint on more than one occasion with a leprechaun. The old man even confessed it to the village priest. He tapped the coin with a fingertip and Britt giggled.

       “That tickles.”

       “It does?”

       “Yeah. I get a little buzz from it when you touch it.”

       He jerked his hand back. “Indeed.” Upon closer examination, he’d decided this coin had nothing to do with the museum heist. He needed to concentrate on his investigation, but something about this woman beguiled him, made him want to forget his duty.

       “Maybe I can help?”

       Riley shook his head in an attempt to refocus and remember what they’d been discussing.

       “I’m a history major. I can help you research and stuff.”

       And stuff. Oh, yes, she could help him with…stuff.

       Britt laughed and looked delighted. “You’re blushing!”

       “Aye, that I am. Ye’ve caught me, cailín, with my mind anywhere but where it should be.”

       “Good.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “Then kiss me again.”

       By dinnertime, Riley had moved Britt into his room, totally smitten by her. They’d even managed a bit of research in between kissing and other more pleasurable pursuits. Convinced Britt’s lucky charm had nothing to do with the stolen loot, Riley faced making the phone call to his supervisor. He had nothing to report and figured he’d be ordered back to London. But he didn’t want to go alone. The whole situation with Britt was crazy. A man didn’t fall in love out of the blue. And neither did a woman, though the girl seemed just as gobsmacked as him.

       They’d agreed to meet at Finnagan’s for a bite to eat so Riley occupied the same bar stool. So much had changed in twenty-four hours. Aidan greeted him with a Guinness and a smirk.

       “Back again, eh?”

      “I am. And waitin’ fer the lady.” Riley noted the bartender’s quirked eyebrow. “And speakin’ of, you’ll be keepin’ yer hands an’ yer eyes t’yerself.”

       Aidan shrugged. “I’m not interested in the fluff.”

       “Yer wantin’ the gold around her neck.”

       The bartender chuckled but the sound held more darkness than amusement. “’Tis a curious piece, doncha think? With a bit o’luck, it’ll return to its rightful owner.”

       Riley bristled. “What’s that supposed t’mean?”

       Aidan shoved another Guinness in front of him. “It means what it means. Do ye love the girl? Enough to fight for her?”

       “What the bloody—” Before he could finish his question, a ruckus at the front caused him to swivel around. A man had a death grip on Britt’s arm as his fist wrapped around her medallion. Riley didn’t even think. He simply leaped into action. Before he could take a deep breath, he’d crossed the room, peeled the man off Britt, and hit him with a haymaker even as he dodged a clumsy punch delivered by the guy.

       The chain around Britt’s neck broke and the gold coin rolled toward the bar. “My lucky charm!” She scrambled after it while Riley wrestled with her attacker.

       He subdued the man, and within minutes, two Sedona police officers arrived. After official stories were exchanged, they marched the man off to jail and Riley could do what he’d wanted from the moment he saw Britt in danger—take her in his arms, holding her against his chest where he knew she was safe.

       “Are ye all right then, love?” Riley murmured against her hair, which indeed shone with golden highlights. Her Irish moss green eyes smiled up at him.

       “I am now.”

       He dipped his head and kissed her. “As am I.” His voice teased her lips. “Ye nearly scared me out of year’s life, though, love. I think we’ll be puttin’ yer lucky charm under lock and key.” His arms tightened around her. “I know it’s too soon, but I’m not a man to beat around the bush. Maybe it is magic. All I know is that I love ye, cailín, and I want ye to be comin’ back to London with me.”

       Britt rocked up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “I love you, too, Riley MacDermot.” She offered a cheeky grin. “I don’t think I need it anymore because I have the feeling you’re my lucky charm now.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "And you know what they say about lucky charms being magically delicious...”

       Neither Britt nor Riley saw the flash that shimmered around Britt’s pocket or the look on the bartender’s face as the gold coin appeared in his hand. He curled his long fingers around it. “Aye, an’ the luck of the Irish to ye both,” he called to them. “And may ye live happily ever after.”

Trust

Trust

by

Kathy L Wheeler

“Darling, you made it!”

          Angelique Daugherty hugged her Aunt Tina tightly, a pang of emotion inundating her. She hadn't seen her since last year’s Valentine extravaganza at the SweetHart Lodge. She’d missed her, especially in light of Angelique’s recently changed status—single.

          “I wasn't certain you would be on hand to help out after speaking with Saffron.” Aunt Tina stood back and leveled Angelique a piercing gaze.

          Angelique snorted if only to deflect her aunt’s sharp assessment. “You know you can’t rely on anything my mother tells you, Auntie. She’s stuck in the sixties.” Hence, the ridiculous name she’d been christened. Her father’s was even worse—Ephram. Yet, the two were still as much in love as the day they’d met and changed their names at the infamous Woodstock. Angelique supposed it was lucky for her that they’d married once they’d realized they had their own little “ankle biter” on the way some twenty years later.

          “She just worries for you,” Aunt Tina assured her.

          “I know, I know. But Saffron needs to realize that you cannot force a love that isn't t-there.” Her voice broke only the slightest, but she plowed on. “Just because she and Ephram found the love of their lives, doesn't mean that everyone will.” The sting of tears behind her eyes irritated her. She blinked them away with stubborn ruthlessness and handed her aunt a brilliant smile. “So tell me, what is my mission this year, Aunt Tina?”

          Aunt Tina’s eyes narrowed on her. “Angelique—” she started.
          Thankfully, Angelique was relieved of the forthcoming relentless probe by the entrance of her Uncle Val.

He swept her up in an engulfing embrace. “About time you got here. I spread the magic dust on the Kramers in 717 all by myself. A sorry sight they were too.” He shook his head. “That young couple was on the brink of divorce after losing their only child. All is well now though.”

A shot of guilt pricked Angelique. She’d grown up in a loving home. Even with her mother’s eccentricities, Angelique had never lacked for affection even if it had felt handed out in a somewhat vague manner. It was just. . .well. . .she was so eccentric—like naming her only child after a character in one of her favorite soap operas from the late sixties. It couldn't be anything normal like “Brooke” or “Erica” from All My Children, or “Laura” from General Hospital. No. She’d gone straight for the truly unique from Dark Shadows. A serial that covered everything paranormal long before paranormal was avant-garde, from vampires to witches to werewolves, naming her after one of Barnabas Collins love interests.

How she’d adored Saffron and Ephram’s stories growing up. Until she’d turned thirteen. That was when the girls at school began to tease her. When they snickered behind her back or called her mother a witch. Taunted her with imitations of howling moons and reciting incantations of black spells. But all the fun ended abruptly when she’d opened her locker one day to find a black cauldron filled with dead spiders and crickets.

Saffron’s waist length hair, peppered with gray and hanging down her back, half the time, unkempt, never helped the image, either. Pink tinted sunglasses and flowing robes of neon colors were the staples of her mother’s unfashionable wardrobe. Angelique smoothed a hand down the sleek contour of her Lilly Pulitzer straight cut jeans in Seamist Blue. Now she was as careful in choosing her friends as she was in selecting her clothes. 
Never again had she invited anyone home. Summers and spring breaks were spent with Aunt Tina and Uncle Val, and her cousin, Lance, at the SweetHart. They were all so...normal. Angelique grimaced inwardly. Okay, so she had trust issues.

But everything changed once Angelique had met Collin, at least she'd thought so. She’d fallen fast and hard, with his stern demeanor that wouldn't scare a pussycat. Strong arms that kept her fears at bay. And it seemed he'd fallen just as hard as she had. Theirs was a continued source of amusement and sexy interludes on the play of their names. Every time she’d huffed out Collin’s name as Barnabas, he’d taken revenge by sneaking up behind pretending to sink fangs into the side of her neck only to leave her with an outrageously huge hickey. Any lingering anger she harbored, fled like fog in the heat of the sun. Her closet was stacked with turtleneck sweaters. Difficult to explain during warmer weather.

But now her heart was broken. All due to her live-in boyfriend’s—correct that!—ex-live-in boyfriend’s—blatant betrayal. Was it only three days ago Angelique had opened the door to their overdeveloped neighbor? A blond bimbo from two doors down, with large boobs and pouty lips, holding Collin’s favorite shirt—a Burberry London Pembury Diamond sport shirt. She loved that shirt. Collin called it maroon, but Angelique knew her shades. It was boysenberry, and a pattern so subtlety woven throughout, it appeared solid. And now it reeked with her perfume.

Blinking back another onslaught of threatening tears, she shoved away her cursed thoughts and thanked God for the safety of her aunt and uncle’s presence, thrilled to be back home. She hugged her uncle a little too tightly. “Oh, Uncle Val, I’m sure that couple will never forget their stay at the SweetHart.” She stood back, pushing wayward blond curls from her face. “Now about my duties?”

****

          Frustration filled Collin Langford. Fingers stiff from the cold, he shoved the key in the lock of his and Angelique’s small one bedroom flat. He wanted nothing more than to warm his chilled body with hers. Winter in Chicago was not his favorite time to travel. Weather, timing and Murphy’s Law had all worked hand-in-hand against him. He was tired. His only desire: to make it home from New York by Valentine’s Day and refuse Angelique any respite from a blast of unrestrained seduction—his. He'd missed her.

Overall, the trip had been a successful one, he supposed, but he should have realized the only luck to be had was bad. It started with his packing. His favorite shirt had vanished. Oh, he knew he’d just misplaced it. It certainly wasn't Angelique's fault. She was a disaster when it came to laundry. Grinning, he shook his head. It would show up eventually. Right now, all he wanted his hot, sweet, adorable girlfriend.

She was not usually one for surprises but for once he wanted to do things his way. Collin thrust the door back, dropped his carryall on the floor, and tossed his coat on the sofa. “Angel?”

          Silence. He worked his way through the small, dark space, flipping light switches. It was cold despite its cozy décor. A sense of dread raised the hair at his nape just as he stepped into the small kitchen. The shirt he’d been unable to find lay in crumpled heap on the tiny dining table; an envelope with his name scrawled across the front lay on top.

*****

          Scowling, two hours later found Collin on a plane bound for Denver, his thoughts teetered between fury and amusement.

          Some homecoming. At least she’d left a note. A note! 

Not a love note. Disgust filled him, shifting quickly to frustration.

          A “get your stuff and get out” note!

He pushed a hand through his hair. No way in hell was he giving up Angelique. He loved her and she loved him. Collin tugged the wrinkled paper from his pocket and studied the erratic handwriting. At best, Angelique’s penmanship was difficult to decipher, but when she was upset it was a miracle he could make out his own name. What had happened? He wondered for the millionth time.

The 727 jumbo jarred as the wheels tapped the runway. He crumpled the note and shoved it back in his pocket. A sense of wry pricked him as realization dawned. The surprise turned out to be his.

          That’s all right. He knew exactly where to find his Angel. After all, it was Valentine’s weekend. With a feral smile, he stood and patted his jacket pocket, made his way off the plane, secure in the knowledge he would and could remedy the situation.

No problem at all.

****

          “I believe, Philomena, this is the nuttiest idea my aunt has had in a very long time,” Angelique muttered. She and Mena were walking through the lodge from the office to the ballroom.

          “Ugh, can you not call me by that reprehensible name?” she demanded.

“Sorry.”

“You know her better than I,” her friend returned blandly.

          “A 'Newlywed Game.' Seriously? Not everyone is wed.”

          “We just have to rename it, but you have to admit the idea has charm. Just look around.” Mena said this so wistfully, Angelique shifted sharply to her, but Mena inconveniently turned her head.

          Angelique glanced around then, and what she saw set her teeth on edge. Everywhere she looked a couple walked hand in hand, like Spence and Aileen Kramer, that couple from 717 Uncle Val claimed he’d reunited with the magic dust. Another huddled in some darkened corner, kissing each other with no thought to passersby. Surely, she'd just passed that same  couple who were said to have met at the bachelor’s party held in the ballroom the night before.
          The whole lodge might as well have been in Paris or. . .worse, the sixties with all their free love and flower power. Angelique had even spotted Jess Travers stealing a kiss from Megan Carter­—while Sarge just stood there and watched!

She stalked briskly to the ballroom hoping it had survived the rowdy, overgrown imbeciles with all their drinking and strippers.
“Well, I don’t know what she thought I could add to the game. You’re the events coordinator,” Angelique said, crossing through the double doors. Relief hit her seeing no remnants of confetti or overturned glasses or other unmentionables like discarded condoms. She shuddered.

          “Mena may be the events coordinator, but the event needs a representative of the SweetHart. Besides, you have an excellent speaking voice.” Aunt Tina’s confidence in her was mind-boggling.  So was the way she was able to silently sneak up behind a person, startling her.

          “Thanks,” Angelique grunted. “Were you able to snag your four unsuspecting couples yet, Aunt Tina?”

          Her nose wrinkled. “I have three. I certainly didn't anticipate how skittish people would be when it came to a little innocent fun.”

          Hah! Innocent fun, my foot. “Don’t worry, I’ll come up with a fourth. Brian seems to have the hots for Toddye, and as one of his closest friends, I’m sure I have enough ammunition on him to ensure his participation.” Angelique smirked. “I think all of his spare time from the slopes has expended into private lessons.”

          “How curious, and Toddye’s such an avid skier too,” Aunt Tina murmured.

Angelique smiled and said, softly, “I’ll tell you, Aunt Tina. I’m glad to see it. It’s been three years since her divorce from Darryl. She deserves some happiness. I’ll definitely talk to him about participating.”

          “I’ll leave it up to you then.”

Angelique considered the staging area that needed to sit the eight selected guinea pigs. “We’re going to have to locate a big strapping male to help with these tables. And, of course Jess is nowhere to be found.”

          “Luckily, we've plenty of others hanging about,” Mena said.

          “Yeah, if we can pry one from a dark corner out of his lover’s arms—”

          “Some of us haven’t been that fortuitous.” The depth of that resonance sent a shiver over Angelique.

          She should have known Collin would follow her. Grimacing, she spun slowly to face him. His broad shoulders blocked the doorway, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed, leaning nonchalantly against the frame. To an innocent bystander he appeared casual. The unreadable depths of his stare made her flinch, until the image of Booby-Pouty-Lips popped in her head, holding out his shirt like some triumphant trophy. The whole scenario filled her head like a badly drawn cartoon.

          Though her fingers itched to push the disheveled hair from his brow, she squeezed her hands into fists. His hazel eyes bore down on her. This was a man who prized order: dinner on the table at six, clean towels on the rack after his shower. Granted he did the cooking and the laundry, but still. She was the wronged party. She hadn't lied about her travel plans.

          “Hello, Phil, Tina. Val said the inn was full.”

          “I hate that name.” Mena muttered under her breath, but Angelique heard her and swallowed a grin determined to hold onto her anger.

          “Collin, how lovely to see you, dear. You do realize it's Valentines?” Aunt Tina said brightly. “I’m afraid we've had to pair you with another single.”

A slight curve touched his lips as  he stared at Angelique. Her flesh pricked and flames rushed her cheeks. Great. No mystery in where her aunt and uncle most likely stashed her ex-boyfriend.

“I suppose it’s fortunate that I’m a big strapping male and not trapped in some dark corner. What is it you need arranged?”

****

Angelique stood gazing out the plate glass windows from the second level lobby near the elevators of the SweetHart. The picturesque view did nothing to soothe her taut nerves. All was in place for the Newlywed Game, renamed Nearlywed for their purposes, set for later that night, finding her at a sudden loss with no more tasks to complete. She had no desire to hide in her room where, Val and Tina had, indeed, deposited Collin. She should have been honest with her aunt the minute she’d walked in the door the two days ago, though she supposed it didn't matter, and let out a disgruntled sigh. None of the rooms had two beds. Everyone knew that! It was the SweetHart Lodge.

The stairwell door swung wide, startling her. “Collin.” She meant to say it sharply, but to her dismay it came out that breathless huff she abhorred.

“Angel.” His tone, of course, was cool and controlled.

          She pressed her lips together, tightly, and stepped aside.

          “I got your note.”

          “Excellent,” she said, and started to brush by but he caught her arm.

          “We need to talk.”

          “I have nothing to say.”

          “How fortunate. I, however, do.”

          “Take it up with the occupant in 3B.”

          “What the hell does she have to do with us?”

          “Are you going to deny you went to New York?” she demanded.

          He grimaced. “What are you talking about?” he grated. “I ran into her in the laundry room the other day. I never said a word about my travel plans.”

          He leaned in close enough for her to breathe in the faint scent of his soap. He didn't go in for the big name colognes; just stuff that made her feel as if he’d spent the day chopping wood. “A-and I-I suppose she just accidentally found your shirt?”

 “Angelique,” he said softly, sweetly, almost a warning.
  She steeled herself against that tone, that heat that teased the tendrils of loosed hair. The one he used to melt her into a muddled mess at his whim.
“You must know that there is no one for me but you.”

          Luckily, a thread of common sense burst through. She stiffened. “So what?” she hissed. But the doubts edged their way into her brain-turned-mush. She tried to snatch her arm from his grip, but he pulled her in close. The warm breath that touched the side of her neck threatened the stability of her knees. His teeth nipped at her shoulder, followed by his nose nuzzling the assaulted area.

          “Collin?” she whimpered.

          “Angel, when are you going to learn to trust your feelings where I’m concerned?” he growled, just before he covered her mouth with his.

****

          Angelique’s husky laughter filled the ballroom through the microphone clipped at the vee of her cleavage-baring bodice, sending a rush of desire exploding through Collin. He could swear he detected the shadow of one of his more ardent attempts where the base of her neck met her shoulder. Her vitality captivated him. Yet her lack of trust left his heart feeling as if it had been shredded with a board of nails.

          Collin had finally reasoned out the events that must have poisoned Angelique’s mind. The apartment’s laundry facilities were located in the basement of their building. That little witch in 3B must have taken his shirt just waiting for the opportunity to present it to Angelique when he was gone. He shuddered to think of all that heavy make-up she wore smearing it, wallowing in it.

Regardless, Angelique needed to get past this self-imposed inadequacy. Hope for a lasting relationship was lost if they were doomed to live a lifetime without trust. Trust was the foundation in which love prospered. He was at his wit’s end in how to get Angelique to see they were on the same side. That he loved her. That he would never betray her. He huffed out a stilted breath, and ran a hand through his hair. Still, he refused to let her go. He would just have to show her through example. Love, in their case, would conquer her insecurities, he vowed. Her voice, as melodic as a well-tuned instrument, interrupted his brooding thoughts.

          “Aileen, what would Spencer’s last request on earth be?” Angelique asked.

          Aileen Kramer dropped her gaze before leaning into the mic centered on the table between them and announced softly, “another child.”

          A soft quiet filled the room as everyone waited. Angelique was looking at the cards she held, blinking quickly. “For. . .uh. . .ten points, Spencer, please show us your answer.”

          Collin waited, curiosity teasing him. Spencer was a young man, still in his twenties. His thick black hair, having fallen over his brow, hid an expression that turned his wife’s, thin face, pink. He lifted the card he held, slowly. It read ‘Aileen: the love of my life.’ The audience let out a unanimous “awww.” Collin was certain he heard a sniffle or two as well. Aileen Kramer threw her arms around her husband’s neck, her cries muffled. A boisterous applause that would echo through the mountainous terrain beyond the enclosure of the lodge erupted.

Clearing her throat, Angelique bolstered on. “Now for our bonus round. This should equal the lovely...um...cake balls you are enjoying by Holly Cavanaugh of Serendipity,” she announced. Cheeks pink after that announcement, Angelique's voice retained a slightly emotional inflection that squeezed something tight in his chest. She cleared her throat. “Complete the following phrase for twenty-five points. We’ll start with the couple with the lowest points.”

Collin’s eyes went to the NHL star center, Lance Hart. His sun streaked, blond hair was perfect. Of course, he’d graced the cover of both GQ and Sports Illustrated several times over, according to the gossip running rampant through the lodge. Lance tossed a crooked grin to the audience before glancing back at his partner. His unabashed appraisal no doubt wrung the hearts of some of the unattached women. Angela was grinning like a Cheshire cat. The woman had him wrapped around her little finger, and she hadn't even heard the question yet.

“Angela, how would Lance say you would complete the following phrase? Chocolate, flowers and. . .?”

“Home,” she said.

Angelique grinned. “Lance? Your answer, please.”

With a wide smile, he lifted the card.

“House!” Angelique read. “An answer along the Venus-versus-Mars lines of communications, but excellent, nonetheless. The judges, me, say it’s a match. Congratulations. That brings your total score to thirty-five. Let’s move on to Ben and Taffy. You have fifteen points. If you answer correctly, you’ll take the lead with forty. Chocolate, flowers and. . .”

The flush that moved up Taffy Sellers neck was interesting, Collin thought. Ben, however, shot Taffy a look that told the audience regardless of her answer, the outcome would end the same—in one bed where sleep would be scarce. “Uh. . .cake?” Taffy squeaked.

The shout of laughter Ben let out engaged the ensemble. He raised his card, but it read ‘Champagne.’ Even with the loud ‘ooh’, it didn't stop Ben Reece from planting a resounding smack on her lips, before Taffy hid her face in her hands.

Collin couldn't help but admire the guy.

Angelique tsk’d and moved to the last couple, Brian and Toddye. “Okay, this is for the win, you two. The Grand Prize, as you know, is an all expense week’s stay at the SweetHart Lodge for next year’s Valentine’s bash. That’s a working vacation for you, Brian.”

A rumble of laughter rippled through the spectators.

That same rumble felt like a rising storm in Collin’s blood. It took him a moment to recognize it as jealousy. Angelique’s easy rapport with Brian ate at him but he shoved it away. Her teasing manner and quick wit with others was one of the things he loved most about her. Brian’s nine-year-old son Jason sat front and center next to an older couple he'd heard referred to only as Glory and Andy.

“Let’s have it, Toddye. How would you complete the phrase ‘Chocolate, flowers and . . .’?”

Toddye’s pale complexion was not necessarily complementary to the sudden flaming of her cheeks, clashing violently with hair that was the shade of russet with streaks of fire. But Collin had to admit the brilliant blue of her eyes are what must have turned, not only Brian, but also Jason, into pools of mush at her feet.

“Well?” Angelique prompted.

Brian didn't appear so comfortable with the question either, and Collin found himself biting back a grin. The two hadn't known each other that long.

“Ahem. . .Chocolate, flowers and . . .” Toddye glanced at Angelique, then focused her attention on Jason with a slight smile. She took a deep breath. “Life, I suppose.”

The byplay Collin witnessed included Brian squeezing Toddye’s hand and Angelique blinking quickly. She swallowed before she spoke. “Uh, Brian?”

He lifted his card. It read—life.

          Letting out a held breath, Collin step forward from the corner he’d been holding up. “And you, Angelique?” The ballroom stilled, his voice carrying throughout the room even without the benefit of a microphone. “How would you complete Chocolate, flowers and . . . ?”  He skirted the round tables slowly, working his way toward her, ignored the lovers holding hands, their gaping mouths, their shocked whispers. “Love? Affection? Trust?”

****

          Angelique’s heart pounded so hard, she was certain it rasped through the mic to echo softly, stirring the balloons and their curled ribbons. She had sorely misjudged Collin. He deserved someone much more trusting, but she was too selfish to ever let him go. She was furious at herself. Why on earth would she trust that manipulative, overdeveloped she-devil over Collin. He was the one who’d earned her loyalty and regard. And it was time to let him know.

“You.” Angelique could not get her voice above a trembling whisper, and with the mic, her answer did reverberate against the walls.

          “Yes,” he said. He pulled her into his arms, fit his mouth over hers. She sank into his hold, his kiss. But just as quickly, he pulled away, glaring intently at her. “No more notes kicking me out?”

          She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling outright, and repeated, carefully keeping a demure tone. “No more notes kicking you out.”

          “No more accusations with the bimbo in 3B’s innuendos?” he demanded.

          She had to inhale deeply before repeating that promise. But repeat it, she did. “No more accusations with the bimbo in 3B’s innuendos.”

          Her stomach dropped when he reached into his pocket. He pulled out small concealed box. “No more doubts about my love?”

          Tears clogged her throat, and she found herself unable to speak. She shook her head. Hope filled her.

          “Say it, Angelique. I need to hear it,” he begged, softly.

“No more doubts about your love.”

          “You’ll trust me with your heart?”

          “I’ll trust you with my soul,” she whispered.

Collin dropped to one knee, before God and their onlookers, the couples on the makeshift stage and the crowd. He held out his palm. With a flick of his fingers the small velvet box popped open. “I shall always shower you with chocolate, flowers, love, affection, trust.” His voice dropped lower. “But, I believe I’d like to add diamonds to the list. Angelique Daugherty, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Angelique froze, shocked and touched, at the tremor in his voice. Her knees suddenly gave way, but Collin, hero that he was, caught her fall, his eyes never wavering from hers. The words lodged in her throat, her fingers shook.

          “Angelique?” His strained voice, boomed through the mic clipped to her bodice.

          “Yes. Yes. I’ll do you the honor of becoming your wife. I’ll trust you with my heart. Just don’t make me name our children Butterfly, Freedom, or—or anything with the word ‘Rain’ in it.”

          Collin pulled her into his arms. “John or Mary it is,” he whispered. And sealed his promise with a kiss.

Come back tomorrow for a wrap up of the OKRWA's Wildokies Valentine Anthology. Happy Valentine's Day!!! And may you have all the Chocolate, flowers and . . .your heart desires.