The beach was a bust. All I’d achieved by going was a case of sunburn and new heights in humiliation. Bea, Fortescue and Mrs Paget disappeared after our meeting in the kitchen and it seemed pointless to fret on my own about their illness. I’d snuck as far as the garage, congratulating myself on my stealthiness. The celebration was premature.
Hugo waited by my moped, arms crossed over his gargantuan chest, wearing wraparound sunglasses, a baseball cap and his standard uniform of black tee and black army cargos, fitting the intimidating stereotype. For the time being, the arsenal was absent or well hidden.
He stoically held open the door of Fortescue’s Mini, ushering me inside. His presence atomised the last of my guilt over abandoning my sick guardians. I got meagre giggles watching him cram himself behind the wheel – a grizzly bear shoehorned into a lunchbox. A tank seemed better suited to his vehicle of choice.
“It’s not a great idea to laugh at a commando with a knife,” he grumped.
It was all downhill from there – and that was from someone who’d had the misfortune of trooping to the beach with three geriatric minders glowing head to toe in zinc, balancing sombreros large enough to shield a soccer team and stadium of fans. A foray into the Australian sunshine was generally regarded the same as exposure to plutonium. If I dared peek from the shade tent an alert sounded and lockdown occurred.
We didn’t venture far, only to Bondi. Everest perched pole-rigid behind me as I lay on the sand, blocking the rays and glowering at anyone who breached the ten-metre perimeter. I really put effort into enjoying the glorious day, Children Collide blasting though headphones, while I read Divergence. But I looked like some VIP with a security detail, and the attention I drew from other beachgoers had me self-conscious and cranky. Hugo actually pursued me to the edge of the surf when I went for a swim, waves lapping at his boot-clad ankles.
“You could at least have taken off your boots. They’re all wet.” I stomped back to my towel, the man-mountain in close pursuit. Having a bodyguard was even more tiresome than I’d envisaged.
“I lived in the Kalahari for a year, where scorpions are as common as cockroaches and sandstorms blister the flesh from your bones.”
“How scenic. I thought I detected an African accent.”
My sarcasm deepened his scowl. Fortescue too, would not be pleased by this return to the lowest denominator. Hugo absolutely refused to rub sunscreen on the places I couldn’t reach. We arrived home two hours later, me wretchedly grouchy and sulking for the interim in my room. I was too furious to read or listen to music, lying on my bed, throwing daggers at the ceiling. He let me complete this task in peace, probably lingering outside the slammed door. I began to pine for Shabby and the Academy’s sub-zero temperatures, before thankfully nodding off.
Raphaela compulsively smoothed damp strands of hair that clung to her brow, the rest straight and glossy down her back. Her rapidly rising and falling chest revealed someone battling anxiety. Or fear. She paused at the open doorway of a single-engine Cessna powering up on a weed-strewn runway that was hardly an improvement on a dirt track, the concrete surface crumbling and pock-marked.
The airstrip cut a valley through dense tropical palms, its length short enough to reveal a drop-off into a shallow lagoon that shone an impossible, brilliant turquoise in the bright glare. The sun had barely crept from the horizon, lighting tiny scattered islands at various distances out to sea.
In a simple cream A-line dress and gold sandals, she variously fidgeted with the strap of her matching satchel and adjusted large dark sunglasses in the style of Jacki O. Unencumbered as she was by additional hand-luggage, this trip would be short. Despite the early hour, perspiration moistened her tanned skin, which shone golden in post-dawn light. The delay evidently bought her time to change her mind and cancel a flight she seemed reluctant to take.
Clutching the wing strut, she gazed into the jungle for so long it appeared she’d never move. Raphaela startled when the pilot leaned to yell above the whine of the motor through the open door.
“Welcome to New Caledonia, Mary.” His accent was French, a treacle complexion sheened with sweat in dark contrast to his white uniform and pilot’s cap. “We make Lifou in under half hour … After you get in!” A good natured smile dimpled his chubby cheeks.
“Of course, sorry.” She boarded the plane. Taking the chair next to his, Raphaela buckled the seatbelt across her chest. Theirs were the only seats, the remainder of the cabin laden with mail bags, boxes of tinned food, dry goods and other cargo dedicated to daily living.
“I am Jacques.” He winked flirtatiously and busied himself getting the plane underway, alternating between speaking over his headset and conversing with Raphaela. They bounced the length of the landing field, gathering speed. Jacques glanced over at her, not bothering to watch where he steered. “Have you journeyed long?”
Raphaela stared ahead at the looming ocean, bolstering herself with arms outstretched on the dashboard. “Too long and too far.”
After that, she refused to speak another word in response to his rapid-fire, non-stop chatter in jumbled French and English. Jacques didn’t need encouragement or give the impression he was offended by her silence.
He set them down ten minutes later on another small, dazzlingly beautiful island, its airstrip even worse than the one they’d taken off from. A faded red, rust-bucket of a Jeep awaited its driver by a margin of tall grassland that abutted more jungle. The car lacked a roof and the doors were missing. Raphaela disembarked the instant the plane skidded to a halt.
“Look me up if you want some fun.” Jacques eyed her retreating back from his open cabin window, as she strode to the car.
“I am not here for fun.” She leapt behind the wheel and twisted the key waiting in the ignition. The Jeep chugged several times and finally roared to life with a puff of grey smoke. “And you’ll forget me before the dust clears from my trail.”
Now that she’d arrived, Raphaela’s determination to complete the task was obvious. She sped along a rutted road skirting the island’s shoreline, tan dirt billowing in her wake. Twenty minutes later, long after the trail had been eaten by sand, she reached a rickety wooden jetty. The land curved to form a small, well-protected bay. Not a soul had crossed her path since leaving the plane, the sorry state of the road a likely deterrent. Nor had she encountered any signs of habitation in the rainforest opposite the coastline rimmed by postcard perfect beaches.
A silver tinny was tethered to the crumbling pier, its metallic reflection a blinding array of sparkles on the water. She clambered in and motored quietly out towards a huge yacht riding the gentle swell several hundred metres away. Clumps of coral were visible on the blazing white sands beneath crystal-clear azure water.
Switching off the outboard engine before she reached her target, Raphaela allowed the boat to glide its way to a soft bump against the stern of the vessel, next to an inflatable orange dinghy. The main craft was unnamed and unmarked with the usual nautical identifiers, and it was of a large sleek ocean-going design. She tied on and took a deep jittery breath, reaching for the salt-crusted rail to haul onto a platform leading up to the rear deck.
The compact square area, lined either side by stained white leather bench seats, was open to the elements, and vacant of people. Yet, signs of dissolute occupancy were strewn about: empty bottles of overproof rum rolling idly on the floor with the motion of lapped waves, a hash pipe discarded on a sideboard along with drug bags of powder and rotting food scraps, fetid in the stinging heat. The mixing odours of putrid rubbish and stale alcohol crinkled her nose. There was also a large amount of fresh blood, garish against white moulding.
“No,” Raphaela gasped, dropping to one knee to inspect the crimson splatter.
She frowned and squinted into the interior. Removing her sunglasses, she secreted them in her bag and crept further inside, nudging bottles with her sandalled foot. Poised on the threshold of the plush, covered salon, she cocked her head and listened carefully, while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Raphaela eventually braved several cautious steps within.
“It was you?” A man’s hoarse voice sneered in disbelief. “Setting those run now declarations all over town?”
Raphaela faltered, swallowing hard. “I hoped you’d understand.”
Seth sprawled on a high-backed leather chair, swivelling around to face her fully. The armrests were smeared with his own blood that had trickled down his fingers to form two spreading puddles on a zebra-hide rug. Jagged gashes travelled the length of his inner forearms, but the wounds had already begun to scab. A large bowie knife dangled from between two fingers, the blade gleaming wetly. He wore only grubby blue-checked boxers, his bronzed torso rippling with muscles.
“The Keeper, I presume.” He barked laughter, slurring to himself, “To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show, that passion is the paradise below. Satan, at last take pity on our pain. You must be truly desperate to dare come here.”
“You are the great Seth?” Raphaela took three stilted steps towards him. “Usurper of Lucifer’s contract, earthbound lover of Finesse, the man who wrested the Stone from the Crone’s grip?”
“Technically, all I did was to try and destroy the ring, once she’d neglected to put it back on. Someone else stole the damn Stone.” One hand casually twirled the knifepoint down in the palm of his other. “The term ‘lover,’” he said, digging savagely at this hand, “implies affection. I have none for the demon-witch. She can rot in the deepest chasm of hell for all I care. Any vile deed I am responsible for was coerced.”
“Excuses and self-pity? Clearly, I am on the wrong boat.”
“You forgot self-loathing. And now we find ourselves together in this delightful, never-ending, fucked-up mess. What do you want, Keeper?” he snarled.
Raphaela strode forward, knocking the knife from his grasp. It clattered across the floor. “I did not deceive the Watcher and shirk my duty passed down across millennia to rehabilitate a drug-abusing, suicidal alcoholic. We have no time for your piteous regrets if we wish to bring the Crone down, once and for all.”
“We?” he drawled, eyes panning up her lithe body with a predatory hunger.
Fragile, easily broken bones were visible beneath Raphaela’s exotic honey complexion. Standing close to him, the slight woman didn’t quail under his crude stare. She reached for one of Seth’s injured arms. He shied from her touch and dropped his gaze briefly. She clasped his wrist, unconcerned by the blood smearing her skin. Once his resistance broke, Raphaela continued to raise his arm and closely inspect the mangled tract. Her copper hair swung with the movement. Seth seemed unaccustomed to such gentleness, shifting awkwardly in his chair. His focus drifted back to her, where it didn’t stray from her large russet eyes.
“You cannot die?” She peered down at him with undisguised sympathy.
He seemed dazed, the intake of his breath sharp. “Not while she lives. Finding ingenious ways to murder myself does make for a vigorous hobby though.”
Raphaela smiled shyly. “You help me and I will help you gain release.”
“You offer me death?” His cheeks flushed and he sat forward, bringing the two even closer together. “That is not possible. The Crone is invincible while her Stone exists. Her Stone cannot be destroyed. So, you see, your kind offer is void.”
“I think I have found a way. Only one Keeper remains once my time is spent. She will fail without help.”
“You punish me worse than the stinking hag, making promises you cannot keep.” The hope in Seth’s countenance drained and he sat back. He pulled his arm free of her grasp, scrubbing his hand through lank locks.
“If death is what you wish, I shall grant it. I hope to change your mind, however.” She spoke briskly. “Come. We must move quickly, before she perceives where you are.”
“Wait!” Seth lunged to seize her slim wrist in an odd reversal of moments ago. “Tell me first why you are doing this. What’s in it for you?”
She turned back to him. “Must there be something in it for me, aside from ridding the world once and for all of the Crone?”
“If my association with her cult of Anathema has taught me anything, it is that motives are seldom selfless. It is the oldest and the best cliché: everyone has a price.”
“Anathema.” Raphaela shuddered in disgust. “Their downfall shall be my greatest pleasure. One amongst many, if we succeed.” She noticed that he still held her arm, coiling her fingers about his forearm and fixing him with an intense gaze. “My price is a child of my own.”
Seth lurched to his feet, scant millimetres between them. He towered over her, his fist tightening to crush her flesh. “That cannot be the price. You cannot ask that of me! The cost is too high.”
“Once she claims the Stone, a Keeper is barren. You are the only one with the gift to prevail against the curse,” Raphaela persisted, covering her earlier fear well.
“I will not see another child dead because of my actions. I refuse. It is no bargain to bring an infant into a world devoid of loving parents, who are incapable of opposing the all-powerful Crone. And the child could never survive her jealous rage. Nowhere on earth would offer safety.”
“I believe, together, we shall provide our child security beyond the reach of the Crone. And given time, maybe even loving parents.”
“What?” he whispered. He stared down at her with deep suspicion. She stared back, her demeanour adamant. A look of yearning gradually replaced his fierce expression. “How?”
“Come with me. Trust me, Seth. And I will show you. What do you have to lose?” She swept her available arm to encompass his trashed lounge. “This?”
Seth realised he still grasped her hard, letting go but remaining close. Pale fingerprints marred her skin in a ring about her forearm. He touched her cheek tenderly with bloodied fingertips. “If you can do even part of what you say, I promise not to kill you.”
“Good. Time is of the essence. Anathema are closing in on you and we need to reach Louisiana before the Crone comprehends you are truly missing from her mind’s eye.”
“You can make me vanish that completely?” Seth still appeared doubtful.
Raphaela smiled, confidently this time. “I am the Keeper. I can conceal anything from anyone.” She offered him her hand once more and he took it gladly.
“Up, thank you, Winnie. We need to get ready for the judge’s exhibition.”
By the time I roused to Bea fussing in my room, evening had fallen. I rolled over and gave her my back, stalling in the hopes of understanding what I’d just seen. My great-aunt’s creepy story had contaminated my brain, which wildly embroidered details in my sleep.
But I had to admit these were like no dreams I’d ever experienced. They resembled a movie piecing together a complete narrative in flashback, rather than the disjointed scraps typical of slumber. Or maybe it was the repressed memory of an event I’d observed happening to someone else in the past, which had finally seeped into consciousness. Of course, that was a stupid theory. Why any of this occurred or how it was relevant to me, I could not guess.
This latest episode gave me the start of Seth and Raphaela’s story, their first meeting. The middle – shown to me on the limousine ride from the airport to the warehouse – explained how he’d broken cover to save the drowning boy and in so doing, had exposed them both to their enemy. But what of the ending? I knew it would not be a happy one and was beginning to dread to sleep.
Bea rattled purposefully around in the ensuite. “Winnie, please. We do not want to be late.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I mumbled, pleased at the idea my dawdling would make the night shorter. I dragged myself up and perched on the edge of my bed, rubbing tired eyes.
The witch demon was clearly someone to be avoided at all costs. And I knew the true biblical meaning of the word Raphaela and Seth kept mentioning. It was from Corinthians – anathema: a thing devoted to evil. I’d studied a copy of Papyrus 46 from the New Testament in Bea’s collection. The pair used it in a weird context though, as if referring to a group or sect.
And apparently Raphaela was the famed Keeper from my reading this morning. Was I really this open to suggestion? The whole thing made me very nervous. I decided not to devote more of my mental processes to a silly fable. There were other problems to manage, like how to get through the torture of an evening at Judge Smith’s. I stood with a resigned sigh, heading for the bathroom before Aunt Bea exercised her newly discovered shouting voice.
“Please, Aunt Bea,” I begged a short while later, trying to moderate the whine and failing. She fastened a choker of diamonds around my stinging neck in preparation for our evening out, too gracious to comment on my sunburn. “I’ll be as tame as a drugged rabbit. Can we just leave Hugo behind?”
“I’ve requested subtlety. You won’t even know he’s there, Winnie.”
My scepticism was evident in the ensuite mirrors. “Why is a bodyguard necessary at all? You’ve not received a kidnap threat, or something, have you?”
“As I’ve said—”
“Yeah, yeah! Visiting dignitary and so forth.”
“Mrs Paget will straighten your hair while I dress.”
I didn’t even earn a rebuke for my rudeness. It was all too weird and if I thought about it for too long, a grinding headache resulted. I was already sufficiently uncomfortable: teetering on stilettos, sheathed in a pale-pink pencil skirt made of satin and split up the back to offer limited movement, topped off with a delicate lace and silk spaghetti-strapped camisole in the same shade. Chiffon frills drifted like feathers with the slightest breeze. The way the outfit clung to my curves, highlighting naked flesh through gauze, did not impress. I wasn’t a prude. I simply didn’t like to be overly noticed. Bea appraised my front with a satisfied nod and left.
Twisting to catch a view from behind in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I grimaced at material hugging my rear like clingwrap over mangoes. I would have preferred plums. In my opinion, designers of formalwear were the modern equivalent of the Marquis de Sade, shoemakers of anything but thongs, especially brutal. Not that Bea approved entirely of thongs or of most things rubber for that matter. Apparently, this particular colour complimented my skin tone and green eyes, such a consensus too rare to fight.
“You look simply radiant, Winsome.” Fortescue surprised me by departing from his standard reserve, as I tottered for the warehouse front door.
There was something different about my guardians this evening; their emotions were showing. Mrs Paget and Fortescue occupied the landing with the cats, smiling like proud parents farewelling me to the graduation ball. Their behaviour was so over-enthused, a pinned corsage and teary speech would not seem out of the question.
We made it across the laneway, regardless of my walking impediment. Bea looked classy in a pewter metallic shift and pumps. She offered the stability of her arm and for a moment, her health seemed improved. But then I realised the glowing charade was the deft use of cosmetics. Hugo’s combo consisted of the usual army fashion, gussied-up with a black jacket the size of the circus Big Top.
After a hostile scan of the judge’s plants hedging the walkway, as though they could attack at any second, Hugo swiped a keycard through the scanner at the glassed-in entrance to the Smiths’ residence. He jabbed the code into the digit pad. Like Aunt Bea, the judge also had many valuable collectables. Other guests had temporary access to his place, but ours was unlimited. The entire bottom floor of the building was devoted to an Olympic-sized swimming pool and I frequently swam laps there.
The judge’s son, Vegas, had taught me how to swim – under the watchful gaze of Fortescue, naturally – when we first moved here. I was eleven, he was twelve. Smithy also taught me to fight, stopping the torture by the bullies infesting expensive schools. I’d been expelled on many occasions for defending myself a little too vigorously. And he’d trained me in the urban gymnastics of parkour. It was hilarious leading Fortescue on a race across the streets of Sydney, as he attempted to track us by GPS and follow in his Mini.
“Winsome?”
We’d disembarked from the lift and faced the open penthouse door. The sound of jazz, played on the judge’s grand piano, filled the lobby. Bea had been asking me something and I’d failed to reply. I silently chastised myself for thinking about Smithy, forgetting we were no longer friends.
“Sorry, Aunt Bea?”
She forgave my distraction with a wave of her hand as we entered. Hugo tramped off, muttering things like “Nightmare for security” and “Recon.”
“Winnie.” She peered intently at me. “Promise me something?”
Her sincerity was unsettling. “Anything.”
“Stay in the group tonight?”
My stomach growled. What if the group moved away from the buffet? There could be cake, and it may be my last chance for a while to eat something other than bran, prunes and soy curd. There was a reason it rhymed with ‘turd’.
“Sure.” It was going to be a very, very long night.
“Please keep this on you.” She dropped my orphaned mobile (I never used the dumb thing – who would I call?) into my tiny sparkly bag with an expression that forfeited debate. “Ring me at the slightest provocation.”
“Aunt Bea, I’ve been to a trillion of these things and the only real threat is terminal boredom. What’s really going on?”
“I must go. I’ve missed the start of the tour.” She adjusted her perfectly aligned dress and assumed a friendly mask. “I don’t expect you to follow me around. I know you are not a fan of Nash’s pieces.”
Some of the judge’s paintings originated from the early serial killer period. The photos of detached body parts on silver platters were particularly unsettling. I clenched my jaw against another of Bea’s non-answers.
“Just remember, stay close to the crowd near the dance floor where I can find you.”
With that exasperating caveat, Bea hurried away to join the well-heeled throng oohing and aahing their way around the exhibition. As I dallied in the foyer I could see about thirty adults, champagne glasses in hand, trickling into the recesses of the spacious suite for the art gallery at the end of a glass-walled corridor to my left. A sizeable patio was visible through the adjacent glass wall in front of me.
To my right stretched an expanse of white marble floor with a pale wooden inset for dancing. The square remained free of dancers, none drunk enough yet to brave it. Tucked in the far corner, an ancient fellow in black tie and tails enthusiastically churned out pieces on the grand piano, despite the fact no one was listening.
Next to me, a sweeping staircase curved to the top level where Smithy’s bedroom was located. But I refused to think about that. Muted lighting, water features and refined taste added to the feel of a contemporary five-star hotel.
Several sulky teens meandered from the bar area extending out of sight in an L-shape from the dance floor. The food was located around that bend. I needed a place to avoid trouble and started to cross the lobby. The generosity of a few hassle-free seconds should have put me on guard.
“Back five minutes, Lose-some, and can’t wait to stick your snout in the trough?”
Wicked ice-princess, Tiffany, peeled chameleon-esque from behind a column she’d propped against. She was all tall, blonde and synthetically stunning. As beauty was the modern currency, she and her minions, twins Prudence and Priscilla, ruled the world. Her banker father and Judge Smith were long-standing friends. There was no accounting for taste and I’d been forced to tolerate her on several occasions growing up. I attempted to sidestep her, having promised Bea ‘forbearance instead of fists’.
Tiffany swanned around to reposition herself between me and the food. She wore a tight little black number showing ample cleavage “You do realise everything you eat goes straight to your thighs. You must pack it away overseas.”
Restraining myself was harder than I’d predicted. I didn’t want to waste a minute away from the judge’s famously generous buffet, given my imminent weaning from the cream, icing and custard of my nightly raids at the Academy. And I was really far too frazzled to take her crap tonight.
“Your dermatologist would insist you stop talking immediately, Tiffany. It gives you wrinkles.”
“Neigh-on, Winless. I’d give you his card, but he’s not a miracle-worker.” Consistent with her typical approach, she took a threatening step closer.
“So I see.” Time to outmanoeuvre her. I pretended to trip, grabbed the delicate strap of her bag and jerked. It made a satisfying snap, spilling its innards across expensive Italian marble. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Here, let me help.” I bent down and took the opportunity to rummage amongst her make-up and keys.
“You did that on purpose! Clumsy sped.”
“You give me far too much credit, Tiffany.”
“Whatever. Stop pawing my stuff and get the hell away from me.”
I raised open palms in surrender and left her cursing. I’d taken her phone hostage during the encounter and would ransom it later if she tried anything else. One had to get inventive when denied the use of force.
After a speedy departure, I slanted straight by the permanent bar lining one wall. Crisply attired staff were struggling to rebuff the onslaught of adolescents demanding exotic cocktails while their parents were otherwise engaged. A snooker table usually occupied the space parallel, but now held two rowed tables laden with an assortment of goodies. Round tables and chairs were intimately arranged nearby.
I headed for the squishy divan tucked at the very end of the buffet, somewhat shielded by towering carved ice flowers decorating the food tables. Hugo magically appeared and stuck to me like one of those grass burrs that wormed into your jumper and were difficult to pick off. Once I’d gathered a selection of delicacies onto a piece of the judge’s good porcelain and sat, he positioned himself directly at my rear.
“Further,” I said firmly. He shuffled back a couple of steps. “Further. Remember, subtlety?”
With a grunt of disapproval, Hugo moved until the wall stopped him, where he stood with legs apart and hands clasped in front, ready to sabotage any boy who had the nerve to ask for a life-threatening dance. I toyed with demanding he step out onto the patio. It was all too depressing; yet another evening where the odds of romance vanished to a speck on the horizon. Although, given my abysmal history in that department, this was probably a benefit.
One boy’s kissing method had involved dislocating his jaw wide enough to drive a humvee through. I compared the encounter to face-planting a watermelon. Another had viewed my mere presence as a last minute tack-on for an acquaintance at the cinema as an access-all-areas pass. He could’ve had a career giving medical exams if he wasn’t so sleazy. I’d crippled his porn act by fracturing his hand (unless he was ambidextrous), and decided to embrace my inner puritan after that.
Still, the lack of courage on the part of the opposite sex was fairly woeful. Not a single boy ventured into Hugo’s glare radius. I eased the disappointment by steadily mowing through three heaped servings of excellent canapés. They put out so much food no one ever ate! I was the only one who dared snub a celery-stick-and-Moet diet. As forecast, the party dragged. Tiffany and her friends circulated the judge’s apartment like a pack of dingos picking off campers.
A chubbier girl ran crying for the exit, but I couldn’t see a way to step in without breaking my pacifist pledge to Aunt Bea. I got token payback by downloading Dennis Leary’s Asshole to Tiffany’s mobile and setting it as her only ringtone.
“I’d steer clear of the blinis. Heard a rumour about dodgy salmon.” A melodious baritone sounded abruptly in my ear from a cloud of delicious aftershave, his breath tickling my neck from behind. “I see you have the good sense to spend time with the only company worth keeping tonight.”
“Huh?” Myself?
Before I could crane for a glimpse, the voice’s owner came around and scrunched beside me on the inadequate seat. About my age, he was an absolute dish in a chic grey silk suit and black shirt. I blinked stupidly and wondered what miracle had occurred to gift me this magnificent vision. His hair settled in untouched disarray about his face in a style others paid a fortune for; a lovely sandy brown, tipped blond by the sun. I discerned the brilliance of gold-green eyes and smooth summer-tanned skin. My heart drummed and belly squirmed uncomfortably.
“Move it, bud,” Hugo said, encroaching the dreamy boy’s personal space.
“You might want to lose the distasteful handbag,” he leaned close to murmur. In one swift smooth motion he stood and swivelled. “Back off, Bargeass! This lady’s spoken for.”
“Do you want me to shoot him, Winsome?” Hugo thundered.
“Make that first shot count. You won’t get a second.”
The familiar surly tone and the lack of fear twigged. “Smithy?”
“Hey, Bear,” he winked down at me, his eyes sparkling. He turned back to Hugo. “You’re overcompensating, mate. You know what they say about guys with big guns.” He wiggled his little finger.
“It’s alright, Hugo. I know him.” I waved my bodyguard away.
“The safety’s off. Just say the word.” Threat radiated from Hugo in waves. Vegas commonly had this effect on people.
“It’s okay, really. I’ll let you know if I need you.” He begrudgingly resituated several paces away. I grabbed Smith’s coat and dragged him back down next to me. “Sit, before we draw a crowd.”
“Wow, Bear. You have grown up in two years. You look …” Smithy appraised me admiringly. “Mind-blowing. Welcome home.” He’d christened me ‘Little Bear’ when we’d first met, after Winnie the Pooh, and over the years it had been shortened to ‘Bear’.
He wrapped me in a close hug with a second wave of shampoo and manly scent. It was a challenge to breathe. Gently releasing me after a prolonged clinch, he sat back. Every female in the room stared at me with unbridled resentment, including the judge’s new trophy wife. Brianna had sidled over earlier on the pretext of introductions, but finding me no challenge to her model-like proportions had lost interest quickly.
I shifted uneasily. It wasn’t my fault Smithy was beautiful. He got less scrutiny when he was actively trying to stand out with parrot-hued hair, tattoos and piercings. But all that was gone or discreetly hidden. And I couldn’t shake how invitingly solid he’d felt when we hugged. I loathed the extra attention his presence drew. My hands fidgeted in my lap. Vegas placed one of his over mine to still them, increasing the venomous female stares.
“How are you, Bear? Words don’t cover how unbelievable it is to see you home. Finally.” He beamed and perfect teeth amped the wattage, causing a collective sigh in the nearby girls gravitating with a purpose towards us.
“I was fine until the news on potential gastritis. Go away, Smith. I’m not talking to you.”
“I believe you’re managing so far. And I would have rescued you earlier, but I came in from a run and had to get respectable for your homecoming.”
“Who says I need to be rescued? You and respectable do not belong in the same sentence. Besides, you’re a magnet for unwanted interest. Here comes Iffy Tiffy and her leeches, no doubt to rope you into ditching decency on the dance floor. Head her off at the pass, and I may be grateful enough to say goodbye when I leave.”
“You can’t leave. I’ve got something to show you.”
“I wasn’t too keen on the last thing you showed me.” Adjusting to this new version of a boy I’d known longer than any other person outside my funny little family was also entirely unsettling.
“I’m not the same as I was then. I want to make it up to you, Bear. Please, let’s start over?”
