Heartless (Starcrossed Lovers Trilogy 1)

Twenty-four thousand dollars!

Mom was scowling, even through her false whoops of cheer.

Twenty-seven thousand dollars!

Zelda Hart. The wrestler’s daughter was Zelda Hart. I’d heard of her attempting some celebrity singing contest and failing.

Twenty-eight thousand dollars!

“Seriously,” Harriet whispered. “Please, Elaine, what are you doing? I didn’t think you had the . . .”

Her voice trailed off. My hand stayed high in the air.

Twenty-nine thousand dollars!

I felt sick. Hungry for cocaine. Fit to throw myself from the chair and give up on everything. But it was about the applause. It was about drowning out my own inner demons, just for that one short minute. It was about drowning out the demons of Uncle Lionel and his shadowy friends with their shadowy secrets in the corners of mine.

And drowning out the demon that was Lucian Morelli.

Holy fuck, Lucian Morelli was a demon. A demon I wanted to possess me and my worthless soul.

THIRTY! Thirty thousand dollars!

I had to stop thinking about Lucian Morelli. Somehow, I had to stop thinking about Lucian Morelli.

It knocked me back when Zelda’s hand dropped at the other table. She clapped her hands and let out a cheer for me across the room, and it was on me. Every iota of attention in that whole ballroom was all on me.

I’d done it. I’d won some shitty penguin when I didn’t have enough cash to buy my soul an escape from hell.

My eyes felt glassy and dead in my skull, and the applause meant nothing when it came. Mom’s disgust still rang loud through my veins, even though she was grinning along with the rest of the crowd.

But then a voice sounded out. A voice that made no sense to me. A British accent so clear and true, it took my breath.

“Fifty-thousand dollars,” the man said.

No.

It couldn’t be.

I saw his darkness. I saw the solidity of his stance. I saw the frame of his glasses as he held his hand up to the auctioneer like he was the calmest guy on the planet.

I saw the clothes he was wearing that looked nothing like Morelli attire, and the voice recorder and camera he had positioned so visibly on the table next to him.

Surely not. Surely people knew this was him. Surely, they could see it.

But no.

It seems they didn’t.

I expected Mom and Lionel to be beside themselves, and the rest of our table along with them, but they didn’t move, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the evil god Morelli heir was standing up in our event, plain as day.

I couldn’t stop staring.

My hand was trembling as I dropped it back to the table top, because I had to be wrong. I had to be losing my mind.

“And the penguin goes to the amazing gentleman on table five!” the guy on stage called out, and the applause struck up even louder, all for the monster in our midst.

“What is your name, sir?” the guy asked as soon as the noise calmed enough to get his words across.

I guess it’s the thing with such boldness. People wouldn’t ever suspect anyone could be so brave, or so crazy. Nobody would believe Lucian Morelli would walk into one of the Constantine social events, like he was any other guy on the street seeking a show. I mean we did it sometimes, crossed Morelli paths when we really had to, at the social functions our prides couldn’t escape from. But not often. Not at events like this one.

Nobody knew it was him. Truly, nobody knew it was him.

Nobody but me.

“Your name?” the guy on stage prompted again, and the monster shot me a shiver of a glance before he answered, his British accent still faultless as he uttered his words.

“Terence Kingsley,” he said. “Journalist for the National Telegraph, London. I’m bidding on behalf of one of our senior shareholders. He wishes it to be an anonymous donation.”

It was Harriet who leaned in to my side when the applause started up again, her giggle a surprise enough to jar my senses.

“There you go,” she whispered, right into my ear. “You can stop thinking about Lucian Morelli now. You can lust after that guy instead, he looks just like him. Shame about the glasses.”

I should have told her that Terence Kingsley was a mask on a magician. A magician out to cast my heart under his spell and then destroy me.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t tell a soul.

Once again, I didn’t dare.15LucianSo many fools in this place, cheering and clapping. So many fools believing I was some paltry journalist from across the Atlantic. I raised my glass to the stage and took a pitiful little bow.

Fuck knows how my insanity had sunk low enough that I’d paid fifty thousand dollars just to enjoy the look on that bitch’s face when she saw me stealing her applause. That’s what it was, of course. It was stealing her applause and seeing the shock and fear on her face when she realized it was me. It definitely wasn’t me saving her from her own goddamn craziness of bidding thousands for a penguin when she had the fucking Power brothers on her back for her debts.