City of Lust Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  City of Lust

  Half-breed Series book 5

  Debra Dunbar

  Copyright © 2017 by Debra Dunbar

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Debra Dunbar

  Chapter 1

  I yanked the huge purple suitcase off the conveyer belt and dragged it over to where Irix stood, reading a paper. It was in Italian, which meant I didn’t understand any of it. Well, except for a few words in the caption under a large picture of an intense-looking, middle-aged man. His dark eyes seemed to stab into me, tearing through every one of my secrets, judging me and finding me lacking. If my non-existent Italian were to be trusted, I think the paper said that this man was dead. Although the caption could have just as easily said he liked the color magenta, or had found the image of Mary Magdalene in his breakfast oatmeal.

  “Little help here?”

  Irix reached out and pulled the bag over toward him. “Sorry. I didn’t see the conveyor belt start up.” He folded the paper and stuffed it into the handle of the suitcase, looking over my shoulder at the other bags going round-and-round as travelers watched with bleary eyes. “Guido Montenegro died.”

  I had no idea who that was. Assuming that was part of his excuse for leaving me with the luggage collection duties, I guessed it was the guy in the paper.

  “Him?” I pointed to the picture.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you know him?” I wasn’t sure whether to express condolences or curiosity. Was this guy a political figure, or someone with a closer connection?

  “No. The Montenegros are a wealthy family from Bergamo. Guido Montenegro had purchased a historic villa in the Lake Como area a few years back and just completed restoration on it.”

  Bergamo was where the enology seminars and the apprenticeship contest were being held. Irix and I were staying in Lake Como—in Menaggio to be exact. It did seem an odd coincidence. I looked more closely at the picture. The man had dark hair that, in the grainy black-and-white photo, seemed to have the barest touch of gray. His nose was straight and long, with a beak-like hook, the lines of his face conveyed a sort of timeless quality. Maybe he was in his late thirties. Maybe he was in his forties. Maybe he was in his early fifties. It was one of those faces that blurred aging.

  And those eyes.

  “Kinda young to die,” I observed. “Car accident?”

  Irix shrugged. “It says natural causes.”

  Maybe this was an old photograph, before cancer had wasted him away, or heart disease had taken hold. As horrible as it sounded, I was actually kind of glad we wouldn’t be running into him as we jaunted around the lake playing tourist. Something about him seemed…intimidating.

  Irix pulled the handle up on the bag, shouldering both the carry-ons while I pulled a smaller suitcase behind me. He tossed the paper into the bin as we headed out the sliding glass doors into the waiting area and into the land of sharks.

  Sharks, as in people desperately trying to interest us in a car service to get to our destination. Luckily I’d taken hold of this part of our adventure and had, in the face of Irix’s casual insistence that he’d just steal a car, booked a rental. In record time I had the keys in hand and we were standing in front of our ride for the next two weeks.

  “What is that?” Irix blinked at the car, one of the carry-on bags sliding off his shoulder to thunk onto the ground.

  “It’s a Panda. How could I resist renting a car named ‘Panda’?” It was so stinking cute—tiny and bright blue with four doors and a rounded, zippy design. I loved it.

  “I can’t be seen driving that,” he complained.

  Oh the drama. Although I got the feeling he was serious. “Good thing you’re not driving then.” I waved the keys at him. They weren’t in my hand for long.

  “You’re not driving.”

  “I rented the car. I’m the one who has her license on the line. You’re not an authorized driver for this vehicle.” I hopped up and down, trying to reach the keys that he was holding far above my head.

  The incubus’s eyes left the Panda, drawn to my boobs that were bouncing as I jumped. Even my bra didn’t do much to hold these puppies in place when I was hopping around a parking lot.

  “Steal something for yourself when we get to Menaggio,” I told him. “There’s nothing in this lot but Smart Cars, Minis, and Fiats. And I am driving the Panda.”

  Irix forced his eyes away from my boobs so he could look around the lot. Then he sighed.

  “All right.” He dropped the keys into my palm. “We’re both going to die. I’m too young to die. For an incubus to meet his end in an auto accident involving a tiny European car and a tourist bus is embarrassing. It’s so undignified.”

  “We’re not going to die,” I assured him. “I’m not Nyalla.”

  My changeling stepsister was legendary for her lack of driving skill. It probably didn’t help that the first time she’d ever seen a car was at the age of nineteen. Although in a few short years she’d managed to master computer usage, so perhaps that wasn’t a valid excuse for her poor driving ability.

  Irix was right. We did almost die. Less than ten miles out of Milan I pulled over, rubbed my shaking and sweating hands on my jeans, and let Irix take the wheel. He was a natural, squeezing between buildings and oncoming cars with inches to spare, shouting at other motorists in a flood of Italian, and occasionally Demon. I navigated using my phone, and within a few hours we were pulling up to an iron gate that led to a stone-paved courtyard.

  A woman waved, pushed a button, and the gate slid open with a whisper. I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the house I’d rented online.

  Correction, villa.

  From the road, all I could see was a tall, gray stone wall that butted up against a narrow sidewalk, the stone house behind it covered in ivy and tall, thin, black-shuttered windows. The courtyard was barely big enough for
two cars, even tiny ones like the Panda. The house was to the left, more stone and ivy and shutters, to the right, another tall stone wall. A small path led from the courtyard, I assumed toward the lake.

  And the landscaping was gorgeous, a gardener’s dream of chestnuts and platanos, jasmine, gardenias, and magnolias. There was a careless order to the trees and bushes, as if God himself had been their gardener and He’d exercised carefree abandon in their placement. Wild, a perfect complement to the old stone and ivy.

  The woman stood by the black iron-banded doors of the house, her short bob a stylish platinum on top, dark on the underneath. Her bright green eyes sparkled with a warm welcome as she approached us. She grabbed Irix first, shooting out a stream of Italian as she kissed his one cheek, then the other. As she walked around the car to do the same to me, I caught Irix eyeing her ass.

  Men. Sex demons. They always had a one-track mind, although she was totally hot in a cosmopolitan kind of way.

  “Amber! I’m Gianna,” she announced in English with a faint Italian accent. “Welcome to Menaggio, to Lake Como. Let me show you around the villa and help you get settled in.”

  I’d expected a lock box combination and a three-ring binder with a list of rental instructions, but this personal welcome made me glad I’d instinctively selected this rental out of the hundreds listed.

  Gianna took us down the little pathway that led to a small promontory with a low stone fence that overlooked the lake, a wooden bench strategically placed on the lush grass. From there, the path opened into a huge lawn that separated the villa from the lake. There was a long wooden table with four chairs for al fresco dining, on a mosaic of brick and stone that created a beautiful patio area.

  “Those all open up.” Gianna pointed to the row of six shutters behind the table. On either side of the patio were two narrow shuttered entrances, brick steps leading up to the doors. Accenting it all was neatly manicured ivy. “And the balcony there is off the main bedroom, so you have many ways to enjoy the view of the lake and mountains.”

  I’d barely had time to take it in before she led us around to the side and I found myself transfixed. There was a small step down to another lawn with an herb garden, more ivy-accented stone and shuttered windows, and the most beautiful covered breezeway I’d ever seen.

  “Oh!” That was about the extent of my verbal skills as I walked forward to the vines, climbing roses that bloomed bright red as they twined up the stone pillars. The back of the breezeway was the other side of the tall stone wall we’d seen from the street, covered with ivy and vines. There were little café tables, cushioned chairs, and an adorable wooden swing. A door at one end of the breezeway clearly lead out to the street side. At the other end of the breezeway was the side of the villa, with four stone steps leading up to one iron-banded door, right next to them a ground-level door that had row upon row of metal studs in the wood. Above that door was a marble carving of St. George, slaying a dragon.

  “Never forget,” Gianna whispered, touching the carving as if the scene depicted were of particular importance. Was she a religious woman? I’d heard the St. George story as a metaphor for good overcoming evil, for the defeat of Satan by those of a pure and holy heart.

  Either way, I snapped a picture and texted it to Sam, thinking the actual Ha-Satan, the Iblis, might get a laugh out of the carving. Sure enough, my phone beeped seconds later.

  Bite me. I’d kick that George guy’s ass.

  I chuckled, sticking the phone back into my pocket.

  Once inside, she gave us a fast tour around the lower floor, then took us up to the three bedrooms upstairs. Irix put our bags in the biggest, then went over to open the shutters to a breathtaking view of the lake. He pushed the mullioned windows open, letting in the gentle, cool breeze and the sounds of the lake slapping against the stone caissons. Then we headed back downstairs where Gianna showed us a binder with her contact information as well as suggestions on boat rentals and activities in the area.

  “What are your plans while here on vacation?” Gianna’s green eyes danced over Irix, then me, then back to Irix. “Shopping? Festivals? Boating on the lake?”

  “All of the above,” I told her. “I’ve got some seminars I need to attend, some study, and an exam to complete for an apprenticeship, but I hope to get in as much sightseeing as possible.”

  “Amber is a botanist.” There was such pride in Irix’s voice that I felt myself blush. “We might tour some of the villas so she can wax poetic about all the flowers and trees.”

  “Oh, you must come see Villa Sommariva!” Gianna clapped her hands together. “It’s been in my family for hundreds of years. We have sixteen acres of gardens.”

  That did sound intriguing, although sixteen acres of begonias were what was running through my mind right now. How could I politely decline to see what was probably an amateur attempt at recreating Versailles?

  “My cousin, Eduardo, has a dozen gardeners to maintain the grounds. The Himalayan rhododendrons are over a hundred and fifty years old and some of them are nearly ten feet tall.”

  That was a whole lot more impressive than sixteen acres of weeds and begonias. “Oh wow, that’s amazing.”

  She smiled. “I’ll have Daniela come by to see you. My cousin Eduardo is elderly and deep in his Melancholy, so he seldom leaves his lair. As his heir, Daniela manages the family affairs.”

  Clearly there was something lost in translation there. What the heck was a Melancholy? Was that depression? A mental illness so severe that he couldn’t leave his room? And lair? I vowed that from now on I was going to call my bedroom a lair. As in, once Gianna left, I intended on dragging Irix up to my lair.

  “I’d love that. Thank you.” The idea of eyeballing century-old rhododendrons was almost as appealing as the whole Irix-in-my-lair one.

  “I’m not guaranteeing she’ll allow you a tour.” Gianna waved a finger at me in warning. “This is our private home, our family’s treasure. We do not usually allow outsiders to see behind our gates.”

  I nodded. I’d need to convince this cousin of hers that I was worthy of viewing their house and gardens, of experiencing something that had been a private part of their family for generations.

  We walked Gianna out where she showed us how to activate the big gates to the courtyard and set the security system for the house, then waved as she backed her tiny red car out and drove off down the street.

  When the tall iron gates shut with a clang, I realized that I’d never asked Gianna her cousin’s contact information. I guess she’d call me, or stop by if she was open to the idea of a tour.

  “Shall we go in?” Irix dangled the villa keys in front of my face.

  I took them and unlocked the narrow doors off the parking area. They were heavy and thick, swinging on huge iron hinges. We’d rushed through so Gianna could show us the basics, but now I got to truly take in the beauty of what would be our home for the next week.

  The décor was an eclectic mix of new and old. Oriental rugs covered terracotta floors. The modern sofas were a distressed leather with plump cream and gold throw pillows. The fireplace against one wall had a patterned tile inset and brass andirons. The chandeliers were old with heavy, rounded glass ornamentation so different from the faceted ones on the chandeliers back home. And the walls…they were covered with wallpaper—fabric wallpaper. It was burgundy in a damask pattern. I felt like I should be sprawled across the sofa, my feet on the coffee table, a lit cigar in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other, watching the flames dance in the fireplace.

  Arms encircled my waist. “We so need to fuck in here,” Irix whispered in my ear. And suddenly my cigar-and-brandy fantasy took a very different turn.

  “Leather couch,” I murmured in reply. “Easier clean-up than the one at the winery trailer.”

  That poor couch. It wasn’t in great shape when I’d arrived, and I’d done my best to try to clean all the bodily fluids off of it before I left, but I’m pretty sure they’d ended up burning it.
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  “I was thinking over there. I could bend you over the staircase banister and take you from behind.”

  “Behind, or behind?” I asked, because Irix was a bit of an ass-man. Or ass-demon as it might be.

  “Hmm, can I keep my options open on that one?”

  “Of course.” I turned to give him a quick kiss, then went over to open the shutters. The windows looked out over the little patio area and lawn with Lake Como in the background. A haze had settled over the mountains, rain likely moving in. Oh, if it rained I was so having a fire in this fireplace. And I was definitely sending Irix out for brandy and cigars.

  “Amber! Check out this kitchen.”

  I followed Irix’s voice past a small dining room that seemed to double as a study. The kitchen was huge, nearly the size of the living room, with a fireplace big enough to roast an ox, complete with an iron spit and a huge fire-blackened kettle on a hook. There was a modern stove, a refrigerator, and a big farm-style copper sink, but clearly this fireplace was still in use.

  “Could be fun,” Irix teased, pointing at the fireplace.

  No, it wouldn’t be fun. Irix was a better cook than I was. I specialized in suburban staples such as seven-bean dip, crab dip, those little hot dogs rolled up in crescent dough. If I was cooking over an open fire, it was marshmallows on a stick. Besides, anything we cooked in this ginormous fireplace would probably feed half the town of Menaggio, not just the two of us.

  “Uh, maybe we can nix that idea and just eat out most of the time?”

  “What, and miss cooking in this incredible fireplace?”

  “There’s no dishwasher,” I countered. “You cook it, then you’re hand washing every spoon, plate, and that hundred-pound cast-iron witch’s cauldron.”