Though surely it didn’t matter if she wore the key or not as long as she locked her diary inside the box, right? Then again, maybe it did. What did she know? Cassie grinned. Decisions, decisions…
Not that she actually believed that the whoopee-making Gypsy charm would work, but it would be a shame if she actually could’ve gotten laid by a Calvin Klein underwear model look-alike, yet didn’t because she’d screwed up over such a minor point.
Then she decided, Aw, what the heck. This was supposed to be for laughs so she might as well go for the triple-X gold medal. Surprisingly having fun, she took the diminutive key out of the lock, then walked over to her dresser. She rummaged through her accessories until she found the tiny hoop of thin, fourteen-karat wire hiding among her earrings. She bunched her shirt up under her neck and after a few minutes of fiddling, turned to the mirror and caught sight of the erotic adornment.
Wowzers. Talk about sexy. She flicked the key with the tip of her finger while a delicious tingle spread through her nipple. The tiny weight was an exquisite presence, subtle yet hard to ignore. She smoothed down her shirt. With the fabric on her bra fairly thin, only the barest hint was visible. She felt almost risqué, like she had a fabulous secret. For a girl with nothing but TiVo and snack foods on the horizon for the rest of the weekend, this was not a bad place to be.
Cassie laughed and stepped over to the bed, picking up the lover’s box. It was made of wood and ornately carved, the outside intricately painted with gold-leaf swirls and a variety of hues that age couldn’t completely diminish. The gaudy thing somehow reminded her of a treasure chest turned inside out with all the jewel-like tones decorating its exterior. Gypsies were said to love bright colors and flashy ornamentation, and it appeared that King Rajko epitomized the stereotype. Not exactly the most tasteful curio or collectible she’d ever seen, but she liked it and thought it added character to her room.
Her mouth curved into a wide grin, and with a bounce in her stride, she set the lover’s box onto her bedside table, then put Stasi’s diary in one of the stackable, plastic cubbies inside her closet for safekeeping. Wow, she thought, suddenly aware of her considerably elevated mood. Journaling out her deepest sexual longings had been downright cathartic.
Yes, yes, obviously none of that nonsense about her fantasies was going to come true even if she was wearing the sexy key on her breast. Still, not to have a total Dr. Phil moment here, but…by going through the process of recording her secret desires she felt downright empowered. Free, somehow.
Cassie couldn’t stop smiling. She even beamed at Creature when he yowled his displeasure at having his nap disturbed. She’d have scratched the little booger’s ear if she didn’t think he’d take her hand off.
Laughing as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders, Cassie strolled into the bathroom and started looking through the powders and gels in the cabinet under the counter. She decided to pamper herself, and deserved the treat. Fifteen minutes later, however, she had a moment’s hesitation when she found herself generously waxing parts of her body that were only waxed when a girl planned on getting very, very lucky. For a second she feared that subconsciously she somehow believed that the lover’s box was going to work.
Then she shrugged this off, and decided that her aggressive, nudist-colony wax job was really just a sign of her positive, proactive thinking and she should be proud of herself for moving on as if there was truly a chance of anyone seeing her naked before the year was out. The touch-up job to her Honey Hotness toenail polish, and the liberal use of the deliciously scented bubble bath were also signs of her healthy mental state. Or so she assured herself as she lounged back in the warm bathwater, her eyes closed, her feet with their newly painted toes propped on the opposite rim, and the saucy little key to the lover’s box floating at her nipple.
Her mind, at the moment, seemed incapable of thinking about much besides sex and she indulged herself, playing out a variety of scenarios where an obscenely handsome man licked, fondled, then fabulously screwed her newly waxed and scrubbed body. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. Cassie groaned.
Creature had no doubt sneaked into the shop downstairs. She was not in the mood to deal with his vandalism when she felt this happy and relaxed. She heard another thump float up the stairs and cursed under her breath. Creature was a porker, on top of all his other attributes, but considering that he weighed only thirty pounds, any thump that made its way up to her apartment suggested the vexing animal was wreaking a path of pure destruction.
Water and bubbles dripping down her body, Cassie jumped from the tub, grabbed the closest towel, then padded off to strangle Creature.
MAX STONE HAD NEVER run across a lock he couldn’t pick, but when the damn thing was rusted shut there was only so much a man could do. He cast a quick glance around the moonlit backyard, then lifted his elbow and cracked the glass. That done, he took off his shirt, wrapped it around his hand, then pushed the bottom pane out of its frame. The glass chimed in little plinks as it broke against the floor, quieter than if he had just smashed his way through with a rock.
As he slid his arm inside the window, then broke open the latch, Max silently fumed. If he ever again saw that old battle-ax, Minerva Parker, he was going to throttle her. Just thinking about being ripped off by a woman who was eighty if she was a day made him want to knock out a few more windows. Anger, shock and plain old embarrassment made up a large portion of his present state of mind.
Seventy-two hours ago he’d been in St. Petersburg because that’s where treasure hunters went during the IAL conference, and because Victor Hofford had planned to attend. Good old Vic had been a boil on Max’s backside since Max had been a teenager dragged around the globe in his father’s wake and Victor had signed on as the old man’s assistant. Victor, of course, had been an amoral kiss-ass even back then, but Max’s dad had been unable to see past his appeased vanity and recognize that the grad student who assisted him was a glorified grave robber and smuggler.
Max didn’t necessarily have a problem with either of those job titles, but, at the time, he’d been young and hadn’t enjoyed being set up to take the fall when Victor inevitably got caught. He might have been only seventeen, and a hell-raising seventeen at that, but if he was going to rob graves, then smuggle what he stole out of the country, he sure as hell wouldn’t have left any tracks. A fact he’d proven a couple of years later when he’d taken up the profession himself.
His father had been dead more than a decade, and all that old crap with Victor, who was now a professor—one of those Ivy League, tenured thugs whose ethics were worse than most organized-crime bosses—should have become ancient history. However, Max had his reasons and it was usually in his best interest to keep an eye on the bastard.
Victor was all but a professional nemesis, and he’d thrown Max into the role of archenemy. The guy must have watched every James Bond marathon ever shown on the Spike TV channel. The only thing missing was the fuzzy white cat and the shifty accent. Although, staying current on whatever fresh hell Dr. Evil spent his time stoking wasn’t all for Max’s own protection. If he’d been the type of person to keep score, which he was, then he was well in the lead for screwing with Victor’s finds and generally robbing relics right out from underneath the idiot whenever the opportunity arose. Immature, yes, but fun as hell.
Three nights ago, though, at the Czar’s Club, Max had not been in the mood to deal with Victor’s crap and had gotten rid of him with a story in the right ear about a Hindu statue that had supposedly surfaced. Complete and utter bullshit, but Vic had fallen for it.
A smart move as it turned out. Because when the small-time Russian fence had kept shoving his wares in Max’s face, Max had caught a glimpse of something that had sent a queer rush of excitement spreading through his gut. One good look at the lover’s box and Max had known what he’d found. Ironically, his father had been one of the few people to believe in the Gypsy king’s treasure. Which meant that Victor, as dear old dad’s one-time right-hand man, would immediately understand its significance if he ever learned of what Max had stumbled across.
Of course, at the time of his discovery, it had been all Max could do to get his mind