New York City is full of ghosts.
The first time Veronique, once known as Alaïs Dègas Lionheart, came to the City That Never Sleeps, she was just five years old. She dreams of it, sometimes: Times Square in winter, ice skates and hot chocolate, her mother dripping with rubies and diamonds, a sheik’s ransom. The Nutcracker Ballet, sugar plums and chocolate mice, her father carrying her on his shoulders to the castle in Central Park, a fairy tale of turrets and stained glass windows.
And there are other memories too, darker ones, the kind a child doesn’t understand, the kind an adult pushes away. Suitcases of gold bouillon, walking in on her father throwing handfuls of cash in the air as her mother lies on the bed, her mother’s bruised eyes and bloody mouth. I walked into a door, ma petit. It was very silly of me.
Yes, the city is full of ghosts tonight.
Veronique walks down the city streets without really looking around, yet somehow her feet seem to know where they are going. She passes Times Square in a blur of color and light, Chinatown, with joss paper in the shop windows, botanicas in the Bronx full of colored saint’s candles and Santa Muerte, until she is somewhere near Central Park, standing on the path to the castle.
The leaves whisper in the night, their music borne by the wind. Shhh, shhh. She can hear the song in her head that her father used to whistle as he counted stacks of cash, his blazing head bent in concentration.
“Oh, all the money that in my whole life I did spend / Be it mine right or wrongfully / I let it slip gladly to friends / To tie up the time most forcefully…”
“Daddy?” Veronique whispers, and only the leaves whisper back. Shhh, shhhh.
She forgets she is a criminal mastermind, she forgets she is a thief. She forgets about heists in Monaco, and men with cold, flat eyes who stare at you as they kiss the mouths of their guns. She forgets about Rye, the man she loves like a brother, sleeping like a blameless man back at the hotel before their flight in the morning. There is only Alaïs, the Little Robber Princess, and a man’s scratchy voice, singing a poet’s song.
“But the bottles are done / We’ve killed each one / And the table’s full and overflowed / And the corner sign / Says it’s closing time / So I’ll bid farewell and be down the road… “
In the lamplight, the hair is fox-red, and Veronique runs. The man continues down the path, still singing softly. Her hand skims his shoulder, and he turns around. “Daddy?” But it is a stranger’s face, craggy and rough and wrong, one eye sewn shut, the other blue as river glass. There is something cunning and strangely hungry in the man’s eyes, under the lamplight they flicker for a moment, and Veronique realizes how far she is from the crowds, unable to disappear in plain sight.
Veronique spins on her heel, and runs. Down the path, into the dark forest ramble, branches scraping her arms. She comes out on a well-lit path of cobblestones, with no sign of the man behind her. Despite her sigh of relief, she stills. She can feel someone, watching her from the dark. Waiting. A beat, and Veronique spins around, whipping her fists up, but the inky shadows remain still, seething with the secrets of the night.
•••
Three city blocks later, she hasn’t lost her tail. She wonders, for a moment, if it’s one of the Rooks following her, but brushes the thought away almost as instantly as it comes. They wouldn’t be so amateur.
“Lionheart.” That name, the name no one living should know.
Veronique bolts down the nearest alleyway, and bursts out the other side, her lungs burning, just in time to see a black Lincoln with its lights turned off pull up to the curb. The window rolls down, and the long muzzle of a Berretta points straight at her.
Time stills, and her mind goes blank. Lionheart. The last time she saw the two of them, it was snowing in the mountains, the sky a dusky purple from the ambient glow of the city. Her father had promised her a golden nightingale that would sing down the moon, and when her mother’s lips brushed across her forehead, the little robber princess pretended to be fast asleep.
“Get back!” Someone yanks Veronique by the wrist right back into the alleyway, hands braced on the brick wall over her head, body pressed up against hers, shielding her from harm. She is afraid to breathe, and all she can feel is his heart thundering against hers, under the cover of darkness. The Barretta aims, and fires, and Veronique bites back a scream as the bullet’s impact rains down red brick dust on the pair of them. He grabs her hand, and whispers hoarsely, “Now!”
Veronique doesn’t look back, or up at the man pulling her through the shadows, until they are back in the well-lit streets of Times Square. She is shivering, she cannot seem to stop. Lionheart. That name. How could someone know it, after all these long lonely years?
“Alright, luv?” The man turns around, looking down at her, and drops her hand in surprise. “Bloody hell, you’re not who — ” he corrects himself “– you’re not what I was expecting.”
But who did you expect? Veronique finds herself staring up into the face of a handsome, distinguished older man with dark brown hair gone nearly gray and a trim beard, wearing a brown trench coat and a long dark red scarf. He whips off his glasses, rubbing them with his sleeve, and shoots her a charming smile. His eyes are malachite green behind his glasses, like the pendant she wears around her neck.
There is something dangerous about this man, she thinks — Something that could make or break an ordinary woman. He holds out his hand to shake.
“The name’s Eddie.”
She pushes a swath of golden hair behind one ear, and smiles. “Hey.”
•••
“You look as though you could use a proper drink. I know I could.” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief. “You almost gave me a heart attack back there. Christ! I thought –” but he bites back whatever it is he was about to say.
She’s still shaking from adrenaline, her skin buzzing, and she realizes they are so close that they could touch, if they wanted. She wants him to touch her, she realizes. To just feel like an ordinary woman for one night, instead of one who can make or break a man. But she doesn’t move away. “A drink sounds fantastic. I’m –” Alaïs. It’s on the tip of her tongue, and she wonders, for a brief, unguarded moment, what it would be like to be herself with a stranger, just for one night. “Alaïs.”
He raises his brows, giving her an obvious once-over, eyes lingering in appreciation on her legs and breasts. “That’s a lovely name — Alaïs. She was the mistress of Henry the Second.” He clears his throat, the distance between them fixed, neither making any move to go off and search for the promised drinks. And then his lips are on hers, the sound of the city falling away in his searing kiss. Her heart rate speeds up, adrenaline pumping through her veins as the kiss deepens, his tongue hot in her mouth as his hands encircle her hips, pulling her flush up against his broad chest.
When they pull apart, Eddie smiles down at her, so softly that Veronique feels her insides fall apart. “How about that drink, then? I know a place…”
•••
The hotel bar is well-appointed, with dark, heavy pre-war furnishings, a relic of a time gone by. They sit at the bar, their knees not quite touching, the air between them heady, thick with desire. Eddie levels a wink at her, and catches the eye of the bartender.
“What’ll you have?” Carter, his name tag reads, gold leaf on black plastic. He’s blonde, good looking in that slick, clean cut way, and his smile is practiced, white and fake.
“I’ll take an Old Fashioned. And for the lady, a gin and tonic, I think. Make sure it’s top shelf, proper gin, none of that shoddy Bombay.” Eddie pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, dark green gaze locked on hers for a moment. “Did I get it right, then?”
Veronique drops her eyes, then looks up at him from under her lashes. “Make it a gin fizzy.”
Eddie hums in approval. “A bird of refined tastes, you are.”
“Citrus Pay, sir, if you’d like to open a tab?” Carter returns with the drinks, bringing out a tablet, and Eddie recoils, a look of disgust crossing his features.
“I don’t go in for none of that bloody newfangled garbage. Cold hard cash, that’s what we paid with back in my –”
Carter rolls his eyes. “Very well, sir. Some of our older guests prefer to pay the old fashioned way, if that’s what you prefer.” He slides the Old Fashioned towards Eddie, mouth trembling as he tries to hide his amusement. “And for the lady, a Tanqueray gin fizzy, garnished with a fair-trade organic lime wedge, raw unrefined pink turbindo sugar on the rim, hand ground and imported from –”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “You’re not on the pull, mate, you’re just serving the lady a drink. No need to slather it on.”
Carter rolls his eyes. “Very well, sir. Signal me if you need another, Old Fashioned.”
Veronique plucks at Eddie’s sleeve before he can give the bartender a piece of his mind. She nods to a low-lit booth with a chessboard. “Care to place a wager?”
Eddie’s eyes light up in appreciation at the swing in her hips as she brushes past him, his eyes raking her up and down. “As long as it doesn’t involve any of that bloody modern claptrap, I’m all in, luv.”
•••
“Lady’s choice.” Eddie sets up the board so fast that her head spins. His knees brush hers under the table, and her pulse speeds up erratically, craving each seemingly innocuous touch. “Black or white?”
His hand lifts the hem of her skirt, caressing her just above the knee. Not so innocent after all. “Black.”
He raises a brow, sipping his drink thoughtfully. “A lady who likes to live dangerously, I see.” Surveying the chess board, he moves a white pawn two spaces. “And I suppose this wager of yours is dangerous too?”
Veronique takes a slow sip of her gin fizzy, seductively licking the foam off her lips, and watches as his pupils enlarge. “You’ll have to play the game to find out.”
Eddie inhales sharply as she scoots to the very edge of the seat, parting her legs and moving his hand further up her thigh. “Oh, I intend to.” His eyes are locked on hers as she mirrors his move, pawn before the king going two spaces forward. He moves another pawn two spaces forward. “So what brings you to New York, Alaïs — business or pleasure?” His hand slides up her thigh.
Alaïs. The name gives her heart a funny little twist, and she realizes she hasn’t heard it spoken aloud by another person for almost thirty years. “I could ask you the same thing.” Veronique plays with the malachite pendant around her neck, drawing his eyes to her cleavage. “But tonight… It’s pleasure.”
Eddie is fighting back a smile. “Are all American birds these days as cheeky as you?”
Veronique leans forward, long blonde hair brushing the chessboard, and asks in a husky whisper, “And just how long has it been since you’ve been in New York City?”
He leans forward, their faces mere inches apart, his lips brushing against her ear, the sound of his English accent making her throb between the legs, like the beat of her heart, aching, wanting. “Too goddamned long enough.”
She turns her cheek, and his lips ghost across hers, the sensation of his stubble on her flesh causing her to inhale sharply, a tiny, yearning moan escaping her. “Eddie.”
He leans back, but his gaze never leaves hers. “You’re not bloody cheeky, luv, you’re downright dangerous.”
That I am. She thinks of the malachite pendant around her neck, sharpened to a point.
All thieves live by a code of honor, my little robber princess, her father’s voice whispers down the years. Never kill a man just to kill him, for it will always come back to haunt you. But if you need a friend, this stone is your best bet. Lick it and stick it, it’ll work like a charm. Keep it close, and it may save your life. But I hope to hell that day never comes.
Instead of answering, Veronique pulls Eddie’s hand right to the apex of her thighs, hot and slick, craving his touch; and with her other hand, makes a move on the board, leaving her queen open.
His fingers brush the thin strip of fabric, feeling how wet she is. He growls, his voice dark and rough. “What’s the wager? We never said.”
“That we both win tonight.” She slides backwards in the booth, away from his hand, her heart hammering like mad. She must be crazy, she must be foolish, but she doesn’t care, she wants — “Eddie.”
“Right, then.” He drains his drink and then throws some cash on the table, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”
•••
They’ve barely stepped into the elevator when Eddie spins her around, pressing her up against the wall in a hard kiss. His hands glide up her thighs, cupping her ass, and she rocks against him, moaning as his fingers skim over the damp fabric of her underwear with the lightest pressure, teasing her clit.
Eddie grunts as Veronique bites his shoulder, and all of a sudden the elevator dings. They break apart, disheveled and erect in all the wrong places. Eddie adjusts his trousers as a dark-haired man with an arrogant look steps into the elevator, followed by a pixie-haired blonde girl who looks as though she’s smelled something bad.
“The ground floor, bellhop,” the dark haired man says to Eddie with a peevish air, and turns to the girl. “I didn’t know the Waldorf-Astoria was hiring riff-raff these days. I’ll have to have a talk with the owner.”
“Oh, Uncle Antoine, don’t be such a snob,” the girl says. “Like… Oh. Em. Gee!”
“This is your stop, mate,” Eddie says with a grimace, slamming the emergency stop button. “‘Fraid the elevator’s closed for maintenance.” He shoulder checks Antoine on his way out, and pushes him and his niece from the elevator into the hall, the pair of them spluttering with indignation. “Stairs are that way, guv.”
“I’m leaving a one star review on Yel–” Antoine is cut off as the elevator door slides shut, and Eddie turns back to Veronique, a smug grin on his face. “Now, where were we?”
She can’t be sure, but when she’s sure, she’s sure. Eddie has just picked both their pockets. A dangerous man, indeed.
“Right… here.” She tugs on his hand, and notices that there’s a slight indent on one of his fingers, where a ring used to be. He can’t be married, she frets in her head. But she can’t be bothered to worry about it for long, because when Eddie kisses her, firmer than the first time, it feels more meaningful, more right. Like calls to like. It only makes sense that it would take a thief to make her come tonight.
Eddie’s mouth on hers is hot, her nipples are aching for his touch and as he begins rolling one nipple between his fingers, her brain short-circuits and goes blank. There is only this — his slow, measured kiss, stretching out the pleasurable sensations happening elsewhere in her body. There’s the way he tastes, like brandy and citron, and the sound of his deep growl as his hand slides between her legs again.
It takes her nearly a full minute to realize she’s no longer wearing underwear. He must have stolen them. A rush of heat throbs between her thighs, and the sound of his fingers slipping in and out of her slick, wet folds causes the coil of heat to tighten inside of her, harder and harder, biting her bottom lip as his mouth moves down her neck, sucking and nibbling a path to her nipples. The door starts to open, and Eddie slams on the floor button with his free hand.
“I can’t tell you how goddamned beautiful you are,” he whispers into her ear. “Because words can’t express it.”
Veronique is panting now, unable to catch her breath, and when he swirls his fingers rapidly over her clit, she comes hard and fierce, right then and there.
“Eddie! Oh, fuck!” Veronique’s hips buck uncontrollably, riding the intense wave of her orgasm. He sucks one nipple into his mouth and she screams his name, her legs nearly giving way as she collapses against him, his mouth claiming hers in a hard, possessive kiss.
“Let’s get you to bed, luv.” Eddie strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “Because I plan to shag you until you can’t walk for a week.”
“Hurry,” she moans.
She’s never seen a man slam the elevator buttons so fast in her life.