Stolen Heart Read online

  …I would like to be your guide. I could show you places that your board of directors would never understand, that are just as valid and real as your glittering high rises. I have lived on these streets my entire life; could walk them in my sleep and never miss a turning. Where we would go, you would not have to shade your eyes…

  …What do you do? What is your job? What could you possibly have done to make society so disapproving of you? Are you just a demon come to lead me astray, to prey upon someone hurting and unsure in the wake of her father's death?

  …I dared to rise above my humble beginnings. I dared to seek—and obtain—power and wealth. I refused to let my circumstances dictate who I was to be, the life I was to lead. I am ambitious where there should be only meek servitude. I meet eyes without hesitation. I know how to use a weapon in defense of what is mine and will never lie calmly back when a threat marches into my home. I fight, I take, I love regardless of propriety and in accordance to my needs and desires. In sum: I live life on my own terms and no one else's. I know what it is to be truly free. And I will not tell you that I am an angel. It is true that I have something of a devil in me, and hardly noble intentions. But you captivate me. Intrigue me. And I pity you as well…

  …I don't want pity…

  …Forgive me. I could have phrased that better. More, I can see how the life you are currently living could become a cage. A shackling collar. And I would fit a key to those locks now, before your spirit is truly broken...

  …I love my work. My father's empire. It is no cage…

  …It is also the only life you have ever known—and does the caged bird understand its captivity if it has never flown in an open sky? I know how lonely it can be at the top. Paranoia becomes a constant companion, fear a bedmate. With everyone watching the smallest mistake can feel monstrous. So much rests on your shoulders—not only your legacy, your livelihood, but the lives of hundreds, even thousands, of strangers and friends. A heavy burden to bear, without enough support...

  …I have support. My sister is my touchstone. Her love gives me strength. And the Seven have learned to treat me with the respect I am due; they no longer argue with me, or talk down to me as if I were a child. I have proven myself to be a thinking, mature adult, fully capable of making hard choices for the good of the business. I have friends at my back...

  …I am glad to hear it. You deserve to be listened to, trusted, respected. But are you happy, too? Do you find satisfaction in your work? Contentment in your days? You live in a gilded palace, with everything money can buy—but is that enough?

  …I confess that I do sometimes long for something sharper. Excitement. Adventure. My world is almost too ordered and perfect. Every day planned to the last minute. I tire of being chaperoned and nursemaided from place to place. Always under a helpful—but invasive—eye. They say it is for my safety, and I understand that. I know that my father's refusal to keep a regular bodyguard is what brought about his death. And I do not want to follow so closely in his footsteps. But…

  …Don't feel guilty for wanting more—for wanting different from what you have. You are a smart, passionate woman. Beautiful. Young. These are the days when you should be discovering yourself as you discover the world. Learning what it is you truly desire and need in life. It is not a sin…

  …You speak of sin so lightly. But then the poetry you sent me—if ever there was a sinful book…

  …There is no need to be coy, especially not with me. I know that you enjoyed the poetry. I wager you've read it cover to cover, and more than once by now. Studied the pictures. Let the words seep into your dreams until you woke in the darkness, disappointed to find yourself alone, sweat on your skin and on the sheets…

  …You shouldn't write to me in such a way. If anyone were to read these…

  …If you truly wished me to stop, you would not reply again. I know my messenger is trustworthy, and that the letters are given directly to your hand. Only your eyes see my words—and my words are meant only for you. Do you wear my locket? Often?

  …I think you are a libertine. That there are a dozen women—all wealthy, no doubt—that you write to in this fashion. You seduce us to make off with our money. Confess…

  …I won't deny that your wealth is appealing. If you wished to, you could truly rule this city as a queen. But I have wealth enough of my own—a kingdom of my own. And if I must, I will be content with it. No, Snow White, I write to you because I desire you. Not simply what you represent, but what you are. A beautiful woman sharp enough to understand what the world expects and demands from her—and with fire enough to challenge it, and strength enough to shape it to fit her demands. Do you remember what I said about loneliness at the top? That was true: I am lonely. In you, I see the potential for a partner. An equal helpmate. Someone I could share a life with. I have always believed in heeding my desires…

  …You make it sound as if you are proposing marriage. Which is ludicrous—I do not know your face, your voice. You are a stranger to me…

  …I am merely offering a partnership. Companionship. And I am hardly a full stranger, after all this time. In many ways, you know me better now than most of the people I spend every day with…

  …Now who is being coy? Be straightforward with me. Don't use vague words like 'companionship'. You call me beautiful and send me scandalous poetry: you merely want sex…

  …Not merely. Hardly merely. But yes. The book was a promise. A preview of future attractions…

  …And what would make you believe that I would be available for such an 'arrangement'? I am not…

  …I do not know—no, of course not—but I suspect you are not as ignorant as the rumors say. You went to a school, not a convent. And even a virgin knows how lust can scorch. You are an educated woman: do you truly believe sex is a depraved act? No. I know you don't believe that. What harm is there in pleasure, and a means of escaping the pressures of the world; of simply being with another? This is not (just) about sex; this is about confidence. I have confided in you, Snow. Far more than I have with anyone else. Because I know that you understand the value of silence, and how precious privacy can be in this society of prying eyes. I have been fiercely independent for most of my life—but at the cost of personal connections. And you, who have so many ties, have hardly any freedom. Neither life is a full one. Together, perhaps, we could…

  …I want to meet. Face-to-face. No more hiding, no more games. I want full honesty. To see your eyes when you speak, so I know if you are being truthful…

  …Come to this address tomorrow night. 7 PM. Room 308. Tell your sister and anyone else who asks that you have arranged a meeting with the owner of a small company you are interested in buying out, and that you wish to handle this deal personally. Tell your driver to park on the street and stay with the car—that you will only be an hour or so…

  DERRINGER ON HER THIGH, HEART IN HER THROAT

  It was a typical office building in a part of town that wasn't obviously grand but hardly shabby, either. Square, blocky, and built of brown brick and heavy gray cinder blocks, there was a doorman in a long black coat edged in red satin to bow her into the building. She stepped quickly across the yellow tiled floor, her heels clacking loud as gunshots and her skin goosebumping in the cool air, trying to maintain a calm, collected mask and a steady pace.

  Behind that mask she was almost screaming. She was doing a stupid, dangerous thing. She should turn straight around and march back out through the door, duck into her car, and tell the driver to take her straight back home. This admirer could be a lunatic—she knew they were licentious, shameless.

  But her curiosity had been roused to a fever pitch. There would be no silencing it now; she could only hope to tame it with this meeting. Her driver had been told to wait exactly forty-five minutes—any longer, and he was to come up after her. A lot could happen in forty-five minutes, of course. But then she also had her insurance policy: a loaded derringer tucked into her garter belt. She knew how to use it; her father had
insisted. By the time she was twelve she knew how to shoot a gun. How to clean it, reload it. Her instructor had been impressed with her exacting eye for the targets.

  As the elevator made a slow ascent to the third floor, she dug her red nails into the meat of her palm and clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. And realized that it wasn't just fear that had her stiffening until she was nearly vibrating with tension—it was excitement, too. Anticipation. She hadn't felt this eager, this alive in months. This felt like a new beginning, a new opportunity.

  The elevator doors slid open and she started down the hall, her eyes immediately drawn to the brass 308 affixed to the door at the end. Something in her bones whispered that this was a turning point. When she opened that door, nothing would ever be quite the same again…

  Her fingers tightened around the cold knob. She twisted sharply and pushed the door open before she could have a chance to second guess.

  Snow stood in the doorway, framed in silhouette, and stared at the figure sitting at ease at the end of a long conference table. Her legs were crossed, one shapely knee over the other, and she sat with her arms draped over the arms of the chair, red-nailed fingers dangling. A single lamp behind the chair was lit—the only other illumination came from the streetlamps outside, glowing in the window and fractured into narrow lines by the half-drawn slatted shades.

  "You," Snow said softly. "The funeral."

  "Yes. I hope this doesn't come as too much of a disappointment."

  "Your name is Regine."

  The dark glossy lips curved into a pleased smile, parting to flash pearl-white teeth. "You remembered."

  "I… I don't think I understand."

  Regine stood, slowly unfolding and straightening, pausing to brush out the creases in her red skirt. Her thick black hair fell in loose curls over her bare shoulders, framing a glittering diamond necklace and her smooth, angular face. She started forward at a leisurely, even pace, bridging the distance between them. "Everything I wrote to you was true. Everything still stands as I said. I will answer whatever questions you have to put to me tonight... and then it will be up to you to decide."

  "Decide?"

  "Whether we ever speak to one another again, be it through pens or in the flesh." Regina stopped just shy of arm's reach, the rich scent of her perfume curling around them.

  Standing with her back to the open hall made her feel too exposed; so Snow gently pushed the door shut behind her, leaning back to press her shoulder blades against the wood. So braced, she took a deep breath and tried to marshal her thoughts.

  "Who exactly are you?"

  "A queen in my own right. But my kingdom is not so grand as yours, built as it is on bones and blood and bullets. I rule the shadows, the midnight docks, the smoky bars and street corners. Men with scars and hungry muscles. Women with razors in their hair and someone else's money in their purses. The Underworld, some call it. The land of crime and vice and violence. The only land I've ever truly known. And I love it and hate it equally, as a mother loves and hates a mad child that bites. Does this frighten you?"

  Her eyes glittered as brilliantly as the diamonds on her neck and the glossy lipstick on her full mouth. Looking at her made her shiver, yes, but it was not entirely unpleasant. Some unusual truths were coming to light in this half-lit office, leaving her confused but not disbelieving. "I knew you wouldn't be a respectable businessman."

  "Or businesswoman," Regine said with an uneven smile. "I know I cannot be what you expected—"

  "I don't know what I expected," Snow said, front teeth dimpling her lip. "I... I suppose I had pictured a dark suit. Gloved hands. A wolf's smile."

  "That poem is my favorite, as well." Regine leaned closer. "You want to see a world beyond the one you've always known... I can show it to you. At my side, no one would dare harm you. You could walk wherever your feet would carry you. Secure. Confident. Without question or constant guards. I have that power, and I could give it to you."

  "You ask me to step willingly into the lion's den. Into pits of vice and depravity."

  "There is beauty even in the night, Snow. And how can you appreciate the light without the darkness? Maturity is seeing all, understanding all—and then making your choices. To limit or deny would keep you stunted. Childlike. And we both know you are no child."

  It was difficult to breathe evenly. The scent of Regine, the aura she carried, was like a drug. Enticing, intoxicating. The fabric of Snow's dress felt too rough, too tight, against skin that had become hyper aware, and she was possessed of a wild urge to rip it all away, cast it off. The poetry, the letters, had started a strange chemical reaction within her that was only intensifying in the presence of their source. Snow tried to meet Regine's eyes steadily, without fear, to prove her strength to herself as much as to her. But in those amber eyes was a promise that made her shiver, an offer she knew she should never consider but had already half-agreed to.

  "Why me?" she whispered.

  "Because I see potential. I see a woman who could become something impossible. This has been a man's world since the beginning... when it should be ours. We are the ones with the true power, Snow. The power of life and of death. And it all lies before you, just within grasp. You only have to reach out and take it. I want to help you become what you should be. Not just a queen, but a king. Take that title from the inferior gender. Reclaim it for yourself. Your empire and my power. Together we could become an undeniable force of change. We could reshape this city, this world, into something better. Not just for us, but for all women."

  Her hand rose, red gleaming nails brushing against Snow's neck, hooking the fine silver chain. She drew up the locket until it dangled pendulum-like between them.

  "And because you have not left my mind since I first saw you. You have bewitched me, Snow White. In every way. Do you fault me for following my heart, for wanting to lay claim to yours?"

  She watched the ripple across Snow's pale throat as she swallowed, the telltale quiver of her shoulders, the uneven rise and fall of her rounded chest, modestly covered in green satin, as she sucked in a hasty breath. Sweet enough she could almost taste her, smooth as warm marble that begged to be touched. Perhaps not entirely innocent—not with that knowing spark in her blue-gray eyes—but still curious and open. The things she could teach her…

  This could be nothing but a devil's bargain. Would no doubt lead to bloodshed and tears and betrayal. Her father would have locked her away in a windowless room rather than let her accept such an arrangement. A woman with the world of high society laid before her like a banquet would be mad to take this dark witch's hand. This was a spell being woven like the ropes of a trap, like the threads of a noose. When she leaped in blind faith, her neck would snap.

  But she had never felt this sort of excitement, a greater high than any drug could have given her. Electricity crackled in her veins, made every second sharper and clearer and more real. And she wanted to be alive, God damn it. She wanted the rush and buzz that came with flying unfettered, wanted to taste the spice of the forbidden. Wanted to know if Regine's touch could make her burn the way her words did…

  "You have all the keys," Snow White whispered. "Free me from the cages."

  Regine's lips brushed hers with a feather's lightness, the soft touch more potent than the fiercest of kisses. She parted before her, dizzy and flushed, as tongue slid over tongue and the edge of teeth tugged her bottom lip.

  A tilting chin for a more perfect pressure. Aligning the angles of jaw and cheek. Pale skin brushing dusky. Curl tangling with curl. All else faded away, becoming indistinct white noise. The short hitching of breath was loud in her ears.

  Then came the rustling of fabric. Through the haze she felt Regine's hands clench around her skirt, balling fistfuls of the material and drawing it up with languid slowness. Her hand closed around her wrist, halting her.

  "I would unlock every door," Regine murmured against her mouth, voice thick and sweet. "No need for fear, my lady."

  Another m
oment's hesitation and Snow nodded, the smallest of movements, before catching her lips again, more forceful than before. Need was blazing fully, demanding and insisting in a voice that could not be smothered. She knew now that the line of no return had been crossed the second she stepped over the threshold of this office. Benediction or malediction: she no longer cared what the judgment would be.

  Her back was flush against the door as Regine's fingers slipped past her silk chemise. A soft, strangled sound escaped her as they slid between her legs, between the folds and into the slickness at the crux. Snow gripped the dark woman's shoulders for support as she began to rub and glide, varying from the softest touch to the firmest pressure, always purposefully and with consummate skill. She didn't know it could feel like this, how mere touching could turn the pit beneath her stomach hard and hot. The clumsy fumblings before with hasty men had never been this delicious. Abandoned to the sensation, she was deaf to the sounds she made, the frantic whimpers and stifled gasps.

  Regine's fingertips lingered over the small nub, pinching and rolling until Snow was panting, hips shaking with uncontrolled spasms. Her smile was triumphant as she kissed her, swallowing each gasp and moan like the purest ambrosia. Regine could sense it—she was almost at the peak, inches away from falling utterly, losing the last shred of her control. She rubbed gently, then slid fast and firm, reveling in the breathless cry and the shiver that coursed through Snow as the wave overtook her.

  She had almost recovered her senses when a sharp knock at the door made her heart stutter to a sharp stop. "Miss White? It's been forty-five minutes. Are you done with your business?"

  Regine's eyes were bright and smiling, more demonic than angelic. Snow's hands were tight around her shoulders, her nails pressing dark dimples in the brown skin. Her legs shook and she knew that she would not be able to stand firmly—not yet—and did not loosen her hold. "I'll be out shortly. Please give me a few more minutes."

  When the shaking had eased, Regine helped her straighten her skirt. Pulled out a white silk kerchief and wiped away the smears of lipstick on face and neck. Brushed hair back into a semblance of propriety with her deft fingers.