Pixie the Lion Tamer by Georgette St. Clair

Author:Georgette St. Clair [Clair, Georgette St.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Georgette St. Clair
Published: 2014-04-08T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Pixie checked her reflection in the full length mirror. She wore a body hugging blue silk gown with a plunging neckline, with a skirt that flared out like the bell of a flower. She had a matching silk purse, and a blue shawl completed the outfit. Dominick was straightening the red bowtie on his tux. He looked shockingly handsome; he was made to wear a tux.

They’d spent the day locked in their room, with the guards bringing them breakfast and then lunch.

Then that afternoon, they’d been led into a bigger bedroom, with apricot glazed walls, a hand painted wooden chest of drawers, and an iron four poster bed with a gown and a tux laid out on it. They were told to get dressed, and the guards had left them alone.

Ion had even provided shoes, in the right size, and makeup and jewelry for Pixie. He’d given Pixie her blonde wig back, without the lock picks in it, unfortunately. Dominick still wore the copper ring on his ankle; he was just waiting for the right moment to tear it off.

Once they’d finished dressing, the door swung open, and Ion strolled in, with a sheaf of papers in his hand. Today his suit was tweed herringbone, again perfectly tailored, with his pocket square coordinated to the color of his tie. He still wore the glasses.

He looked them up and down with a cool, appraising glance.

“Very nice,” he said. He handed Dominick a paper envelope, and slapped a copy of a blueprint down on the chest of drawers in front of them.

“The envelope contains your invitation,” he told them. “You will be attending a party thrown by a man named Craig Biltmore, at the Freemore House.” Pixie recognized the name. It was a 19th century mansion that was frequently rented out for posh parties. She’d been there before, back in her full time thieving days. She’d gone on a dare, and come back with a designer purse full of stolen swag. She’d even stolen the purse.

She knew the name of Craig Biltmore, too; she’d seen it in the local papers. He was very mysterious. She didn’t recall ever seeing a picture of him. He’d come into town a year ago, nobody knew anything about his past, and he donated massive amounts of money to charity, in the name of something called the Rose Foundation. Battered women’s shelters, a new wing for a children’s hospital, renovations for the city’s museum, massive grants to the local university, a string of no kill animal shelters, afterschool programs for underprivileged kids…he’d donated hundreds of millions of dollars.

And yet nobody could find out anything about his past, or where his money came from.

“The party is a fundraiser for a local museum,” Ion continued. “Craig doesn’t usually attend his own parties, but he is making a rare public appearance, which is why I must make my move now. There will be hundreds of wealthy art patrons there, and plenty of distractions. An orchestra, jugglers, fire eaters, and the like.

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