Her Kind Of Trouble. Evelyn Vaughn

me. Like a poor imitation of something better. Other than to check for the bulge of a gun—or a ceremonial knife—under his tux, I barely glanced at him before noting the two suited gentlemen lurking by the ancient stone archway. Was he kidding?

      “Bodyguards, Phil?”

      “Right?” He leaned closer, into my personal space. “You’ve given up on those stupid goddess cups?”

      “Not your business.” I knew how to stand my ground, even in two-inch, ankle-flattering heels. “Back off.”

      “Or what?”

      He wasn’t an immediate danger to me. This may sound weird, but…ever since I’d drunk from the Chalice of Melusine—my family goddess, a goddess renowned for her prophetic scream—my intuition had sharpened to the point that my throat tightened whenever something threatened me. And my throat felt fine just now.

      Then again, Phil rarely did his own dirty work.

      He raised his voice. “Or what?”

      A smooth voice beyond him said, “Or you’ll make your date jealous.”

      Speaking of deception, cross-purposes, and old wounds…

      Lex, my sometimes lover and current escort, had returned from fetching champagne. Beside him stood a small, blond woman in an expensive gown. A black gown, naturally—this was a New York arts event. But Lex, healthy again and wearing a tuxedo with an ease GQ models would envy, was the one on whom my gaze lingered.

      Alexander Rothschild Stuart III wasn’t so tall he towered, nor so athletic that he bulged. His ginger-brown hair sported an expensive but conservative cut. His face revealed generations of upper-class ancestors, all pulling together in the sweep of his jaw, his cheeks, his nose, understated and yet, well…perfect.

      Maybe too perfect. But, good or bad, it was him. Lex was what Phil, his cousin, could never copy. When I wanted him, that was great. When I felt unsure of our relationship, it really complicated matters.

      Lately, things had been very complicated.

      “Maggi,” Lex said coolly, passing me a champagne flute, “have you met Phil’s new girlfriend, Tammy?”

      “Let’s go,” said Phil—but I was already taking Tammy’s manicured hand in my own.

      “Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’m Magdalene Sanger. Are you sure you know what you’re doing with this guy?”

      “Hey!” Phil protested.

      Tammy’s eyes widened. Her lips parted. “Why do you…?” Then, quickly, she looked down at our hands.

      I’m not psychic, sore throats aside. I just knew Phil.

      “Now,” Phil insisted. But this reception was for patron-circle members, on a Monday night when the museum was normally closed to the public. If he made a scene, he would do so in front of the crème de la crème of city society. I hadn’t pushed him that far. Yet.

      Then again, this was my first drink of the evening.

      Tammy slid an annoyed glance toward Phil, then said, “Pleased to meet you, Magdalene. That’s a fascinating necklace you’re wearing.”

      “Thank you. It’s called a chalice-well pendant. It—”

      “Enough!” At Phil’s exclamation, several patrons turned to see who had been so gauche. Even Lex’s lips twitched, which is about as close to a guffaw as my ex-lover is capable. “Stop talking to her, damn it!”

      Tammy blinked, as if seeing him for the first time, then laughed. “Why in the world should I not talk to her?”

      “Probably because his wife left him after talking to me,” I guessed. That had been shortly after Lex landed in the hospital. The woman had good reason to be concerned.

      Now my throat tightened in warning.

      I spun in my heels and nailed Phil with a glare that stopped him cold, before he’d surged forward an inch. Everything about his posture said he’d meant to strike out at me, public place or not. And so it began.

      Or continued.

      “Here, Phil?” I warned softly. “Now?”

      And since most bullies are cowards, he said nothing.

      This time when someone stepped up behind me, the sense of solidity and body heat belonged to Lex. So was he backing me up, or readying to help his cousin?

      Either way, my bare back welcomed his nearness.

      “You know,” murmured Tammy into the uncomfortable silence that followed, “perhaps I’ll catch a cab home. Thank you for the invitation, Phillip, but—”

      “You can’t leave,” protested Phil, and Tammy arched an eyebrow at him in challenge.

      “Thank you, Magdalene,” she said as she turned away. “It was a real pleasure to meet you.”

      “For three minutes?” Phil’s heavy head swung back to me for one last glare before he trailed his girlfriend from the gallery. “You met her for three freakin’ minutes. Tammy!”

      His bodyguards trailed after them.

      “I hope she’ll be all right,” I murmured in their absence. I’d felt jittery all evening. Not sore-throat jittery, but still…

      “Phil’s made mistakes.” Lex took a sip of his champagne. “But he’s a Stuart. There are lines even he won’t cross.”

      I did a double take. Did he honestly believe that? Did he mean it as assurance?

      Then he distracted me by sliding a hand across the small of my back and murmuring, “Why do you keep doing that?”

      So he’d noticed, too. Phil’s wife. A nurse who stood up to a condescending doctor. A waitress who suddenly found the strength to take down a rowdy customer.

      A little girl, whom I’d helped to her feet when Lex and I were jogging in the park, who finally hit her brother back. She never does that, exclaimed her surprised mother….

      “And don’t say, doing what,” Lex continued, his voice mild but his hazel, almost golden eyes demanding.

      “I’m not doing anything. Not deliberately.” That would mean I had some kind of…well…magic. I didn’t, sore throats aside. I wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility.

      He looked particularly inscrutable.

      “But maybe,” I admitted, mulling it over. “Maybe the Melusine Grail is.”

      In a nearby display case sat a small, ornate goblet of blue faience. It wasn’t a goddess cup, but I turned under Lex’s hand and escaped for a closer look anyway.

      My name’s Magdalene Sanger. I’m a professor of Comparative Mythology at Clemens College outside Stamford, Connecticut. And as it turns out, I’m descended from goddess worshippers. Long ago, when such beliefs became a burn-at-the-stake offense, women across the world hid their most sacred relics and taught their daughters and their daughters’ daughters where to find them.

      Grailkeepers. Like me.

      Until recently, guarding the knowledge of these lost chalices had been enough. But Phil Stuart and a secret society of powerful men had gone after my family’s cup. I’d rescued it—and learned the truth, which was this:

      After hundreds, maybe thousands of years, mere knowledge was no longer enough.

      Lex’s reflection appeared in the glass case, over my shoulder. “How’s an old cup that’s not even here making women more—” he frowned, at a loss “—more.”

      “Legend says the goddess grails will increase the power of women a hundredfold,” I reminded him. “And I do still have the Melusine Grail. Sure, it’s hidden away for now…”

      He didn’t