The Dragon’s Mark Read Free

contained a certain type of weapon that she had grown rather attached to lately.
    Swords.
    The collection contained both working blades and a few museum-quality relics, but nothing that was overly valuable and certainly not much that could be moved easily on the open market. The thieves, if that was indeed what they were, were in for a rude surprise if they thought differently.
    And they still had to contend with her.
    She raced to the door and flattened herself against the wall beside it. She put her head against the wall, listening, but Roux’s mansion had been built in the days when they had used quality building materials rather than the cheap substitutes that had become so common today. She couldn’t hear anything but her own breathing.
    She was going to have to do this the hard way.
    Gripping her sword in one hand, Annja grabbed the doorknob with the other, took a deep breath and then pulled it open, slipping inside with barely a sound.
    She’d been right; it was one of the display rooms. Swords lined the walls by the hundreds—long swords, short swords, broadswords, cutlasses, épées, scimitars—every make, model and size, it seemed. The carefully polished blades shone in the spotlights that had been artfully arranged to draw attention to the weapons, and here and there the wink of precious gems gleamed back at her from scabbards or hilts.
    But Annja barely noticed the swords on the walls, for her attention was captured by those held in the hands of the intruders facing her.
    One week earlier

    A NNJA WAS CARRYING SEVERAL bags of groceries up the stairs to her Brooklyn loft when her cell phone rang.
    “Hang on, hang on…” she said to it as she juggled the bags, managed to get the key in the lock and kicked the door open with her foot.
    Her phone continued to ring.
    “I’m coming, just hang on!” she told it again, as if the inanimate hunk of metal and plastic could actually hear her. She rushed to the island in the kitchen, dumped the bags on the counter and grabbed for her phone.
    Just as she managed to pull it from the front pocket of her jeans it stopped ringing.
    “You have got to be kidding!” She scowled at it, ready to fling it across the room in a pique of anger, only to have it ring again.
    “Hello?” She practically shouted it into the tiny device.
    A deep, rich voice answered her back. “Annja, did I catch you at a bad time?”
    There was no mistaking the voice. That teasing tone, that undercurrent of danger—only one man in her life sounded like that.
    “What do you want, Garin?”
    All that rushing? For him? It said something about her social life, that was for sure, she thought.
    “Now is that any way to treat an old friend?”
    “Old, yes. Friend, that remains to be seen.”
    “You wound me, Annja, you really do.”
    She kicked off her shoes, wandered into the living room and dropped onto the couch.
    Garin Braden. Empire builder, artifact hunter, rogue—he had a thousand different faces. The problem was, you never really knew which one you were dealing with, and by the time you did, it was often too late to save yourself. Annja had seen him ruthlessly kill more than one individual and yet had also known him to be charming and tender. She still wasn’t sure just what she felt about him; he was larger than life, with his rakish good looks, thick black hair and piercing gaze, but at the same time he had the heart of a devil.
    “So be wounded,” she said. “Then when you’ve finished feeling sorry for yourself maybe you could tell me what you want.”
    Garin swore under his breath and the sound of his frustration made Annja smile. She wasn’t the only one with mixed feelings, she realized.
    “I am calling,” he said, “to invite you to Paris.”
    Paris? That was a surprise.
    “What for?” she asked.
    “Can’t I just invite you to Paris?”
    “You could, but you know I wouldn’t come, so what’s the real reason?”
    Garin was silent for a moment, and then grudgingly