Cursed Luck, Book 1 Read online

  From that, I thought I knew exactly what to expect from his place of business. It’d be old-school Boston. Dimly lit hallways linking a warren of tiny offices, the stink of age permeating the building. That fit with someone looking to redecorate with antiques and recreate the kind of office his great-grandfather might have had. Massive carved-oak pedestal desk. Swivel desk chair with buttoned red leather. An antique globe for the corner. Maybe a few mismatched Tiffany lamps. Bookcases full of first editions that will languish, unopened, for the rest of their lives. Aiden Connolly will sit in that leather chair, his loafers perched on a desk worth more than I make in a good year, as he sips single-malt whiskey from a cut-glass tumbler.

  That is what I expect. Instead, his offices are in a modern skyscraper, the rooms all steel and marble and glass. I have no idea where I could even put an antique without it seeming as out of place as a wet dog in a formal parlor.

  I’m in the reception area, perched on a glass chair that, with each fidget, threatens to send me sliding to the floor like a penguin on a ski slope. Speaking of penguins, I wish I’d worn the black pencil skirt and white Oxford shirt I’d contemplated when I slipped home to change. So far, I’ve seen three people, all of them dressed in shades of black and white. The Nordic blonde behind the desk wears a pearl-gray dress that I keep expecting to tinkle like crackling ice when she moves.

  Forget antiques. What this place needs is a splash of color. Technically, my red dress provides it, but I feel like an open wound ready to ooze onto the white marble tiles.

  “Ms. Bennett?”

  I jump and see Connolly waiting at an open door. His fingers tap the doorframe, impatient at this two-second delay. I leap up . . . and my heels promptly slide across the marble. Connolly’s PA shakes her head. Her boss, fortunately, has already retreated into his office. I find my footing and follow him with as much dignity as I can muster.

  When I step into Connolly’s office, he’s at his desk, leaning over it to rustle through papers. Earlier, I’d squashed Connolly into the narrative I created for this job—and into the wood-paneled office I imagined—but seeing him here, I realize I’d been deluding myself. I cannot actually imagine him lounging with his shoes on a big antique desk. His surroundings here suit him perfectly. Chilly, austere, stylish and haughty. His personal office is no different. I’m sure it’s gorgeous, in a Scandinavian way. It just makes me long for a warm, woolly sweater and a crackling fire.

  “Mr. Connolly?” I say as he rustles through papers.

  Green eyes lift to mine as one sandy brow arches. He does not say “Call me Aiden, please.” He could be talking to someone ten years his senior, and he’d still insist on the formality. Old money, old ways.

  “I . . . think there might be a misunderstanding,” I say. “This doesn’t seem like the . . . environment for antiques.”

  “No, it’s not, is it?” he says. “Which is precisely the problem.”

  He opens a side door and strides through. The door half shuts behind him before he grabs it and gives me a sharp wave, lips tightening in annoyance that I didn’t follow.

  I walk in and—

  “Oh,” I say, my breath catching.

  We’re on the fourteenth floor, and until now, I haven’t glanced out a window. I can’t avoid that here—one entire wall is glass, jutting out to form the curving nook of a solarium. Sunlight streams through, bedazzling a view that overlooks the Common.

  “This is the room I want to redecorate,” he says. “The sunlight made it too warm most of the year, but thankfully, the air conditioning has been upgraded.”

  Upgraded is definitely the word. The room is about sixty-five degrees, AC pumping an arctic jet stream. I inch closer to the sunny windows.

  “I wish to repurpose it as a staff area,” Connolly says.

  “A lounge?”

  That lip press again, as if the word is too informal, conjuring images of employees actually relaxing, possibly in real chairs.

  “A staff area,” he repeats. “I understand that my choice of decor may invoke . . .”

  “Antarctica without the penguins?”

  The faintest narrowing of his eyes. “I was going to say it invokes a sense of asceticism that some find off-putting.”

  “Asceticism is great,” I murmur. “If you’re a monk.”

  He continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “Personally, I like clean lines and simplicity. Clutter in one’s environment produces clutter in one’s mind. However, I am aware that employee productivity may suffer in a setting that is not comfortable. So I wish to remodel this room in a more traditional style.”

  He walks to a built-in bookcase of glass shelves. That’s when I notice the antiques. Three pieces small enough to fit on those shelves: a snuffbox, a cigarette case and a mahogany triptych mirror.

  I’m drawn to the cigarette case first. It’s art deco, the silver lid inlaid with jade showing a twenties-style flapper smoking oh-so-elegantly.

  “This is beautiful,” I say, curling my fingers against the urge to touch it.

  “I won it in a card game.”

  My glance must be sharper than I intended, thinking he’s joking, though I’m not sure which is harder to picture—Connolly playing cards or Connolly telling a joke.

  “I have an excellent poker face,” he says.

  He points at the snuffbox. “I won that on the same night. I have a bit of luck now and then.” His lips twitch, as if this is indeed a joke, albeit a personal one I am neither supposed to understand nor pursue.

  “And this—” I stop short, fingers extended toward the mirror. I wasn’t going to touch it. I know better. I was just gesturing. Still, the moment I do, I yank back.

  Curse.

  I hesitate and then give myself a mental shake. Obviously, my brain is misfiring, because the irony there would just be too rich. This morning, Connolly dismissed the guy with the cursed tea caddy . . . only to have a cursed object himself.

  I glance at the mirror again and those tendrils of magic snake out, whispering . . .

  Nope, definitely cursed.

  Damn.

  I inch closer and let the first notes of that hex wash over me. A lover’s lament. Better known as an ex-hex. Hell hath no fury like a lover scorned. And from the vibes rising from this mirror, someone felt very scorned.

  “Did you win this one?” I ask hopefully.

  “No, that was a gift from a woman I was seeing. Quite surprising, actually. I’d long admired the mirror, and when we had a falling out, she gave it to me. A peace offering to show there were no hard feelings.”

  He waves away his words. “Which is more than you care—or need—to know. But of the three, it’s my personal favorite, and whatever you suggest for this room, that one piece must stay.”

  Of course it must. He couldn’t just say, Oh, I don’t really care for that particular piece, perhaps you’d like to buy it from me?

  Connolly clearly doesn’t realize it’s cursed—it takes a psychically attuned person to pick up even just “bad vibes.”

  I can see why he likes the mirror. Of the three, it’s the simplest piece. Edwardian. Gleaming red mahogany. Original mirror glass, only faintly warped. The center piece is oval with brass fittings that allow it to tilt.

  I will admit I have a predilection for more ornate items—gaudy, Ani would say—and the cigarette box is more my style, but I must appreciate the sheer artistry and elegance of the mirror. A truly perfect piece . . . flawed by a nasty little curse.

  Two hexed items in one day?

  It’s been a year since I last stumbled over a cursed object “in the wild.” And yet, technically, I’ve only stumbled over one today. The tea caddy was brought to me after my sisters sent the owner, which they do with irritating regularity.

  Also, let’s be blunt, I am not the least bit surprised that Aiden Connolly has earned himself an ex-hex. Something tells me his romantic history is a Christmas-light string blinking red with angry exes. He’s young, attractive, successful and sing
le. He’ll have no problem finding companionship, and I suspect he’d have no problem moving on a month later, probably via breakup text. He’s also exactly the sort of guy who’d see nothing suspicious about an ex offering a lovely parting gift.

  “Ideally, I’d want a dual-purpose area,” Connolly says, and I tear my gaze from the mirror to find him across the room. “A place for staff to decompress, but also a place to entertain clientele. A more traditional meeting room.”

  “Got it. Now, I must admit I wasn’t able to find a lot about your company online. What, uh, exactly do you do?”

  “Insurance.”

  My soul drops. I’ll admit, I’d held out hope for something a little more interesting, a little sexier. But no, this fits. Sadly, this fits.

  “What sort of insurance?” I ask, struggling to sound intrigued.

  A wave of his hand. “This and that. Now, I only have a few more minutes before my next appointment. Do you have any questions, Ms. Bennett?”

  Any chance you’ll let me take that mirror home? Fix it up for you?

  That is a problem to consider later. I ask to take photographs of the room, hoping to get a little more face time with the mirror. Connolly stays right where he is, watching. I snap my shots and leave with a promise to call later this week.

  Chapter Three

  I’m home, my mind still churning through my dilemma. As I’d been leaving Connolly’s building, I’d texted and called my sisters. I’d tried again, walking home from my showroom. They aren’t answering, which could mean they’re annoyed at me, but it more likely indicates cell service is down in Unstable. That’s the problem with living in a place where the average resident is still on dial-up internet. The psychics of Unstable have a direct line to God, Fate and the future. To Boston? Not so much.

  I push open the door to my apartment to see a black cat on the kitchen counter and my favorite bone china mug resting precariously on the edge. One small kitty paw rests against the mug. Green eyes meet mine . . . and the mug creeps toward the edge.

  “Don’t you dare, Ellie.”

  Another nudge.

  “Yes, we ran out of wet food, and you hate kibble.” I reach into my shopping bag and hold up a can. “Better?”

  She considers. Then another nudge sets the mug teetering.

  I snatch out a can of tuna and wave it. “There. Happy? I felt bad, so I bought you a treat.”

  She sniffs and hops down to wait by her dish. As I push the mug back, she’s purring as loud as a buzz saw. I shake my head and open the can.

  I’ve had Ellie nearly four years, ever since someone dropped her off at our Unstable home, claiming she was cursed. Ellie was the thirteenth cat in her litter, and she’s completely black except for a white spot that bears an uncanny resemblance to the evil eye. She isn’t cursed, though. She’s just an asshole. In other words, as Ani would say, she’s a cat. True, but Ellie inherited the asshole gene more than most of her species. Hence her full name of Elohssa.

  Once Ellie is fed, I start pacing the apartment, which takes about ten strides. With each revolution, I check my phone. Nothing from Ani or Hope. My texts are delivered but unread. Damn it.

  I plunk onto my sofa. Ellie takes her spot on the armrest. She isn’t the world’s cuddliest cat. Oh, she acts like it, rubbing up against your legs with that buzz-saw purr. It’s a trap, one that has left scars on both my sisters. I’ve learned the pattern. Two pats are acceptable. A third will draw blood. Mostly, she just sits nearby. And she listens. Say what you will about Ellie, but she is an excellent listener.

  “So I have a problem,” I begin, and she stretches out, getting comfortable.

  I tell her about the ex-hex.

  “I want the job,” I say. “Connolly’s paying well. It would look good on my resume, and it might lead to more work. The guy is about as warm and cuddly as you, but I can work with that.”

  She rumbles in sage agreement.

  “The thing is, a poorly woven curse can fray and infect those in the vicinity. My love life already sucks. What if I catch the curse, and I’m doomed to a life of lonely celibacy?”

  Her look tells me I’m overreacting. Or, possibly, that I’m already on that path, so don’t go blaming it on a curse.

  “Yes, I suppose the chances of me catching the hex are slight. The problem . . .” I thump my head back into the sofa. “Arghh! The problem is that I’m a nice person who wants to do the right thing.”

  Ellie gives a disdainful sniff.

  “Hey,” I say. “Be thankful for that, or you’d be living in a barn. Or with a houseful of small children with grubby hands that love to pull kitty-cat tails. While I can complain about catching Connolly’s curse, the truth is that I should fix it. Like seeing a loose floorboard nail when I have a hammer in my bag. I want to fix it before anyone gets hurt. If that makes me a sucker, so be it.”

  Ellie cleans one paw.

  “Fine. Yes. That settles it. I need to uncurse Connolly’s mirror. The next problem is how. I need time alone with it. Time when no one’s going to walk in and ask what I’m doing.”

  I pull my legs up under me and consider the matter. “Clearly, the answer is that I need to break in tonight. I’ll take my lock picks and disarm his security system . . .”

  Ellie’s eyes narrow.

  “That was a joke,” I say. “I can barely open the bathroom door when the lock sticks. This is going to require finesse.”

  I don’t fail to catch the cat’s look then, the one that says, if finesse is what’s required, this mission is doomed from the start. I stick out my tongue and push up from the sofa. Time to grab my kit. I have a curse to unweave.

  It’s seven p.m., and I’m outside Connolly’s office building, wearing the best disguise for the job: no disguise at all. While I’d only seen a few employees flitting about earlier, they were all under forty. That means at least a few will be ambitious enough to work later than the boss.

  Most I saw earlier were also male, and I’d caught a few admiring glances as I walked through. I’m not the prettiest Bennett sister—that would be Hope. I’ve been told my skin is my best feature, which always feels like groping for something nice to say. I am blessed with clear light olive skin, though. Straight black hair swings past my shoulders. Guys have called my eyes everything from mahogany to chestnut to rich oak. In other words, brown. And apparently wooden. I have an average figure, unblessed by Ani’s curves, but if women compliment my skin, for guys, it’s all about my legs, and tonight I’m showing them off in my shortest skirt and highest heels.

  My first stop is the building’s parking garage, where I find the numbered spots for Connolly’s business. I presume he gets the first, but one through five are all empty, and the two cars remaining in his section are a pickup and an old smart car. Neither strikes me as his style.

  An elevator ride takes me to Connolly’s office suites. The main door isn’t locked, and I walk in to find a janitor mopping the floor. A female janitor. Not ideal but . . .

  “Oh my God,” I say, breathlessly, as if I’ve run up thirteen flights of stairs. “Thank God someone’s still here. I need access to the solarium.”

  “The what?” she says, leaning on her mop.

  I wave my free hand. “The—the atrium. The solarium. The room with all the windows. I’m redecorating it, and I got home to find my cell phone pictures aren’t enough. I need this.” I gesture to the camera around my neck.

  Her wrinkled face pinches. I raise my voice a little, letting it echo through the empty halls.

  “Cell phones just aren’t good enough. They don’t have the right f-stop and lens aperture and exposure rate.” I throw out random camera terms and pray she isn’t an amateur photographer. “I need proper photos and— Oh!” I bounce on my toes and wave at an employee leaning from his office. “Hello! Can you help me, please?”

  Now this guy is exactly what I was hoping to find here. Late thirties. Average appearance. Slightly harried. Staying late at the office because no one is waiting
at home. Hopefully, not gay, but if so, I can appeal to any big-brother sense of responsibility toward a young career woman.

  I wave frantically, and he comes out, hesitantly at first. Then his gaze sweeps over me, and he straightens and runs a hand through his hair before he strides out.

  “May I help you?” he says, his voice lowering an octave with each word.

  I explain the situation so far.

  “Also measurements.” I hold up a tape measure. “I need the width of the doorway, to know what size of furniture I can get through, plus the distance between outlets and immovable obstacles and . . .”

  I exhale, drooping. “I know I should have gotten all this earlier. Or made an appointment. But this . . . It’s not my usual gig. I’m an antiques dealer. A job like this is huge, and I got frazzled, and Mr. Connolly . . .” I lower my voice, as if the man himself might be watching through a security cam. “He’s kind of intimidating.”

  The employee chuckles. “Kind of? I’ve been here a year, and I’m still afraid to ask for a key to the washroom.”

  “Well, then I don’t feel so bad. I just . . . I got nervous, and I snapped a few cell phone shots, and then at home, I realized that wasn’t nearly enough. I just need, like, thirty minutes in there. Or even twenty. I know the room attaches to his office, but I’m presuming that door is locked.”

  “I don’t think his PA even has a key to his office.”

  “Then there’s no security issue just letting me into the solarium.” I turn to the janitor. “Do you have the key for that?”

  She shrugs. “No need. Just a few pieces of old junk on a shelf. Mr. Connolly’s office is the only room he wants locked.” She turns to the employee. “Including the washroom.”

  “Er, right. I . . . knew that.” He gives a strained chuckle. “Well, no more running downstairs to the coffee shop for me.” He sweeps an arm along the hall. “Come along, Ms. . . .”