CHAPTER 1 – ARTIFACT
The Moroccan wrist-cuff in the glass box was exquisite. Layla Price gazed down at the antique Berber artifact resting on its black velvet cushion, watching the gallery’s overhead spotlights reflect off the ornately-fashioned silver. Inset with red coral, amazonite, bone, and amethyst, not to mention exquisite turquoise and yellow cloisonné enamel, the cuff was part of a collection of North African artifacts being featured at Seattle’s Vermillion art gallery for August, up on Capitol Hill. Featuring a bone hamsa-hand with a fiery red coral teardrop in the palm, the antique silver cuff seemed to forbid any who might touch it – as if it was not to be owned, lest it claim the one who owned it.
Leaning over the display with a glass of chardonnay to hand, Layla tucked a loose curl of her sable hair back up into its twist. With almost no meandering room between the displays, the tiny gallery featured a bar in the back, though only Layla wandered the exhibit this evening. It was a shame; the pieces were exquisite and brought a feeling of desert spice winds to the muggy space. Sipping her crisp chardonnay, Layla forgot the inlaid vases and tables, the ornate Berber necklaces, and archways of colorful zellij mosaics all around her. The long, narrow space of the gallery seemed to fade away as she stared at the Moroccan cuff.
As if called up from the hamsa-cuff, a breeze suddenly lifted the stuffy air inside the gallery, stirring Layla’s curls. Dressed in a slinky black dress and heels from her job bartending earlier at Liberty Bar nine blocks north, Layla felt the breeze on her collarbones and bare legs. Glancing over, she saw the zephyr was just the glass door, propped open by a geek-chic gallery host to let in the evening breeze.
Just then, a man slipped in from the street, nodding to the host before gazing around the fantastic display. Dressed in a crisp white collared shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, narrow pinstriped charcoal trousers with a shiny black belt and Oxfords, he was obviously filthy rich. Men didn’t get that lean, mean physique without dedicated training, and those tall, cuttingly handsome looks weren’t fed pizza and beer.
Rifling a hand through his brush-cut black hair as he gazed around from the door, he showed an amazing red dragon tattoo coiled around his left forearm, the end of the serpentine tail spiraling down his wrist to the back of his hand. It was an arresting piece, flowing with energy and subtlety like a Japanese dragon but different, detailed in crimson, black, and gold. As the man’s piercing green-blue eyes perused every item in the gallery as if searching for something, he finally noted the hamsa-cuff in the center of the space.
And then he noted Layla – those arresting eyes traveling up Layla’s hourglass curves from long legs to hips, to v-neck cleavage, to her face. As the man’s eyes locked on hers, an electric current shivered Layla. She was suddenly unsure if those eyes were blue or green, or a drowning Mediterranean aquamarine as they devoured her, molten and vibrant. Flecks of gold in their depths caught the evening sun through the gallery’s windows, scattering it like a sea on fire as the man stared at her, his lips fallen open.
Like her nervous system had come alive at the sight of him, Layla’s breath was fast as she flicked her gaze away. Tingles and heat rushed through her. Her head reeled and she locked her eyes on the hamsa-cuff – as if it were the only thing that could save her from the man’s intense, almost carnal presence. Arrested by her as much as she was by him, from the corner of her eye she saw him inhale, then step forward as if drawn to the electric sensation Layla felt tingling now through her entire body. He stepped close, stirring the breeze from the door with a flush of heat that smelled of cinnamon and anise, even desert jasmine. But it was just his cologne wafting around her as he paused – then moved on by, giving Layla a wide berth as he walked back toward the bar with his hands thrust casually in his pockets.
Shaken by the man’s arrival, Layla breathed deep, one arm clutching her waist as she tried to hold her wine glass steady. She could still feel his heat surging across her skin with a palpable pressure – as if he had touched her as he walked by, even though he hadn’t. She couldn’t get enough of his inundating cologne; the scent was intoxicating on her tongue.
Alarm raced through her with her sudden attraction. The last time she’d experienced a heat so intense with anyone was with Gavin Abernathy, and what a train wreck that had turned out to be. Six months after they’d broken up, she could still feel the disaster of that relationship. Screaming and throwing Gavin’s priceless collection of porcelain art-vases at each other, Layla had stalked out of his downtown penthouse and never looked back. Gavin could keep his tech money and his Tesla Roadster – and the five women he’d been fucking on the side. Now, two months post-grad from the University of Washington with a PhD in International Studies but with no proper job, Layla was only good enough to serve assholes like Gavin their drinks.
Feeling a presence return to the gallery, Layla’s gaze lifted to see her mystery guy idling near a tiled arch. His gaze shifted to her as he sipped a blood-red wine, as if he felt her watching him. The sensation of a desert wind blew through Layla as she met that searing aquamarine gaze, watching her with a level intelligence and dark passion. It rocked her and she dropped her eyes to the floor, to the tiled mirrors – to anything but stare at Hot Guy Trouble.
Moving around the gallery, he took his wine and his tall self in the opposite direction; idling at the mirrors, gazing into spotlit cases of jewelry. Stepping to the near wall, Layla avoided him, admiring the breathtaking detail of an inlaid cobalt vase. But the only piece that truly arrested her, speaking of her Moroccan heritage, was the six-inch cuff in its spotlit box. Migrating back, Layla’s gaze sank into the shining silver and bleak bone – the red coral like a drop of blood in the center of the hamsa’s palm.
“Arresting, isn’t it?”
A smooth baritone voice beside her nearly made Layla drop her wineglass. Of course, her tall kryptonite had migrated to her side, admiring the wrist-cuff – his rakish good looks even more exquisite up close. Layla glanced over, trying not to stare and failing. His cheekbones were high, his jawline cuttingly defined, his short black hair thick and glossy. With lightly tanned skin, he looked Mediterranean, though his piercing aqua eyes with their flecks of gold were unreal. His short black stubble looked soft, and Layla fought an almost irresistible urge to lift her fingers to his jaw and touch him. The red dragon coiled around his left forearm and wrist with a snarl, its eyes a piercing aquamarine like his – the only part of it that wasn’t red, gold, or black.
“It’s lovely.” Layla made her voice firm even as his heady desert-spice musk flowed around her, his presence pressing upon her like a hand caressing things unseen. Sipping her wine to cover her blistering reaction, Layla tried to ignore the hard hammering of her pulse. Usually if she dismissed men long enough, her ardor got the hint. Working as a bartender in high-class establishments since undergrad had given her a lot of helpful tricks against sexy bad boys, and Layla set her determination firmly in place – knowing instinctually that this one was as sexy and bad as they came.
“As if it could take you by the hand and lead you into danger,” the man murmured, sidling nearer with his gaze riveted to the cuff. “Or out of it. Protection or devastation.The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”
“Rumi.” Layla’s eyebrows lifted; rich assholes didn’t speak poetry. She blinked as she turned to him, her determination to brush him off slipping. “The cure for pain is in the pain.”
His lovely lips quirked, his aqua eyes smiling with delight – transforming him from devastatingly handsome to absolutely annihilating. “Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.” His gaze pinned her, flooding Layla with his intense presence. “I feel a strange pull when I look at this thing. As if my only option is to surrender and be bound by it.”
Layla wasn’t entirely certain they were speaking of the artifact anymore. Flooded with heat, she flushed, unable to draw her gaze away from drowning in her unexpected companion. “As if there could be no other way,” she mused, feeling the strange pull of not only the Moroccan cuff, but also the man beside her.
A moment passed between them, shivering with heat. Currents of air stirred from the door, the lurid smell of the summer city blending with the man’s cinnamon spice scent. Layla could feel him; pulling her with an almost animal magnetism. As if their bodies already touched, Layla found them moving closer – trying not to fall into each other and failing. His gaze pierced her, drowning her; though she saw something equally riveted in his vivid stare.
Suddenly, her mystery guy cleared his throat, his beautiful black lashes blinking as if surfacing from a trance. He made a quick gesture to the gallery host, fanning herself by the door with a Japanese paper fan. Hustling over in her black T-shirt, black jeans, and combat boots, she beamed behind chunky square-rimmed glasses, her blonde hair shaven on one side.
“Questions?” She chirruped, adjusting her glasses.
“How much is this piece?” The man queried, his baritone smooth and rich like Turkish coffee. Layla suddenly realized he had a vaguely Mediterranean accent, though she couldn’t place it.
“Oh!” The gallery host blushed and adjusted her glasses again. “It’s not for sale; none of these pieces are. They’re being displayed from a private collection. I’m so sorry. But we are taking donations for the gallery, if you’d like to make a gesture of your appreciation for the show?”
With a sly, obliterating smile, the man produced a gilded pen from his pocket and a cream linen business card from a gold card-holder. Writing a number on the card, he held it out to the gallery host. “Please make a call to the owner. Here is my offer for this piece – I can pay it right away. I’ll wait.”
She took the card, a doubtful frown pinching her ash-blonde brows. But when she saw the sum written on the card, those blonde brows climbed her forehead. “Sir! I’ll be right back.”
Hustling away so fast she was practically running in her combat boots, she headed for the bar. Layla glanced over, watching her mystery man put the pen and card-holder back in his pants pocket, his smile rakishly delightful.
“Couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” Layla sassed, sipping her wine. “Just had to go flashing that money around to get anything you like.” Being brazen was her back-up against hot rich men, if her body’s dismissal failed.
Which it had. Spectacularly.
“I know someone this piece of jewelry would be perfect for.” His gaze pierced her, devouring her with carnal delight. “It would be a tragedy to leave it languishing in a glass case rather than gracing her perfect wrist.”
