Mistress of the Runes Read online

  Synopsis

  Passion ignites between two women with ties to ancient secrets, contemporary mysteries, and a shared quest for the meaning of life.

  Brice Chandler, a powerful corporate entertainment executive, is haunted by the feeling that her outwardly glamorous and productive life is completely without meaning—until she meets Liz Chase, an attractive TV anchor, at a fund-raiser. Together they embark on a journey filled with past-life dreams and present-day visions, spirited Icelandic horses that mirror the soul, and ancient runic symbols foretelling a love that transcends all time.

  Mistress of the Runes

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

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  By the Authors

  Romances

  Mistress of the Runes

  Uncross My Heart

  Summer Winds

  Richfield and Rivers Mystery Series

  Combust the Sun

  Stellium in Scorpio

  Venus Besieged

  Mistress of the Runes

  © 2007 By Andrews & Austin. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-388-4

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: September 2007

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Shelley Thrasher and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Bold Strokes Books and its award-winning publisher and author, Radclyffe, who continues to break ground in lesbian fiction. Thank you to the witty and brilliant Jennifer Knight for her leadership, and a huge thank you to our personal and extraordinary editor Dr. Shelley Thrasher, who wrapped her arms around this book and nurtured and encouraged and improved our work over many months. Also thanks to our talented line editor Stacia Seaman and to Sheri for great cover art. Special thanks to consulting publicist Connie Ward for her dedication and friendship.

  Dedication

  To Ellen DeGeneres

  who in 1997 told 42 million people that it’s okay to be gay

  Take a chance—dance

  Prologue

  Corporate turf wars are ancient battlefields reincarnated—warfare waged on laptops, cell phones, and PDAs by warriors whose armor is Armani and who fight to the death for promises made on paper held in brokerage houses they’ll never visit, backed by government gold in vaults they’ll never see. Like all fighting, it’s essential or senseless depending on how long one has been at war.

  Born to corporate combat, and adept at outthinking the enemy, I pick my crusades carefully and, once committed, never give ground. My staff is loyal. They know with certainty I may lose a battle but I will always win the war.

  “I’m not hiring her, Jack,” I said. A laser beam of sunlight broke through the tall glass windows, ricocheted off the stainless steel banding of my angular glass desk, bounced off the gold entertainment trophies behind me, and pointed like a radiant celestial finger at my crystal desk clock. 11:11 a.m.

  Jack fiddled with the button on his vest and slouched against one of my pale green leather chairs, looking battle weary. “She’s bright, eager, talented, and a Harvard grad.”

  “She’s sleeping with our CEO. Why don’t you hire her for your sales division?”

  We both knew why. CEO Anselm Radar didn’t trust Jack when it came to women.

  “She’s summa cum laude, Brice.”

  “In what?”

  He paused, obviously trying to spin it, and finally gave up, muttering, “Microbiology.”

  “Sounds perfect for network programming or talent management. In fact, she’s precisely what I lie awake nights wishing I had—a microbiologist!”

  Jack looked down at the rug. “Well, I’m glad, because she’s right outside. Anselm told me to bring her over. She’s your new vice president of strategic development.”

  He glanced up, perhaps to see if he was in any immediate danger of being run through with a letter opener. I glared at him in silence until he dashed out of my office and, seconds later, ushered in a tall, thin, dark-haired, young woman with alabaster skin and overly bright lips. She was wearing a tight, black V-neck shirt that hugged her body like a leotard and a matching black skirt that stopped mid-thigh to embrace her legs.

  “Brice Chandler, Megan Stanford,” Jack said, and bolted out of the room.

  “Ms. Chandler, I’m so glad to meet you. Anselm has said nice things about you.”

  I sat down, crossed my legs, propped my chin up on my hand, and stared across the desk into her eyes. “How is it that a microbiologist gets a job in an entertainment conglomerate as vice president of strategic development?”

  “Anselm just feels I have something to offer,” she said, quite composed, turning her head away as she spoke, in the bored and idle fashion of someone who doesn’t have to make an impression.

  “I am an extremely frank woman, Megan. Since you have been added to my senior staff, without my permission, let me clarify how I work. You will do what is right for the company at all times. You will become a cooperative member of the senior team. You will not become Anselm’s spy in my camp. And if I learn that you are violating company policy by sleeping with the CEO, as rumored, I will fire you without hesitation. Are we clear?”

  She batted her fawn eyes, giving me her full attention.

  “Good. Because, Ms. Stanford,” I smiled coldly, “you will not be under me, if you are under him. Now, get out of my office and go find something to…strategically develop.”

  Chapter One

  It was the fourth year—that time in my relationships when everything always exploded like fireworks at a Chinese New Year. I had lived the four years so many times I could trend them. Year One, the Year of Finding—locating the love of my life. Year Two, the Year of Fooling—pretending this was the love of my life despite obvious signs to the contrary. Year Three, the Year of Fucking—albeit diminished and periodic, banging the love of my life who I subconsciously knew was actually not. And finally, Year Four, the Year of Forgetting—obliterating from my memory everything that had taken place over the last three years so I could merrily return full circle to the Year of Finding—the love of my life. Clare and I were in the fourth year.

  I knew I should leave Clare, but I couldn’t handle one more breakup in which a woman screamed, cried, and carved her name in my furniture, my partners always seeming to exhibit far more emotion upon my leaving than upon my staying.

  I glanced in Clare’s direction as I tossed my Birkin briefcase onto the couch and headed for the bedroom to change clothes for that evening’s fund-raiser. She was seated on the edge of a straight-backed wooden chair, staring intently at her sheet music propped up on the metal stand in front of her, her body bent over the beautifully polished cello, her arm sawing out melodramatic moans. I waved hello.

  Clare lifted her head and smiled in my direction as if I was only a slightly annoying distraction. Her long, thin arms enveloped the body of the cello as she caressed the notes from its strings with the grace and dignity befitting a symphony perf
ormer. I paused to watch her push her body into the backside of the instrument with a rhythmic pulsing, moving with the soft melodic sounds erupting from its burnished soul, gripping the instrument with her knees, an urgency overtaking her as her strokes became more fervent, controlling the instrument’s every mood and melody, and soon she was forcing it into an intense and richer longing. It dawned on me, as the music reached its climax, that the cello was the only thing Clare had tightened her thighs around since I’d known her.

  *

  “Be back late,” I said as I whisked across the room, this time dressed in a black Armani pantsuit and heels.

  “Have a good time,” she replied in our detached but friendly style of exchange.

  “I can’t have a good time at these events. Why don’t you go, and I’ll stay here and play the cello.” But I knew she couldn’t hear me over the instrument’s renewed moans.

  As I maneuvered through the maze of one-way streets to get downtown to the Montemart, one of Dallas’s older hotels, I dodged cars and checked my makeup in the rearview mirror and noted that at forty-four my eyes were still bright and focused, my hair thick and, while not totally wild, at least parochially punk. Giving myself a smile in the mirror, I looked for lipstick that had gone awry while cognizant that my smile was one of my greatest assets. I used it even when I didn’t feel smiley. Perhaps later in life, when all the other parts had worn out, I’d simply arrange to meet people at drive-thrus.

  Minutes later, I valet-parked my car and took the elevator along with other people in ridiculous ruffles and rhinestones up to the massive ballroom on the seventeenth floor and the St. Albert Children’s Medical Center Fund-raiser. I dutifully smiled at total strangers, spoke warmly to people I purportedly knew, slogged through the buffet line, and found a seat at one of the larger tables where I settled in, nodding at guests on the opposite side of the table who could not have heard me even if I’d introduced myself, thanks to an orchestra that was miked up so loudly we were in danger of otologic collapse. The roast beef shimmered under the chandelier with a greenish-purple iridescence, and I decided against eating it. I was bored, but not suicidal. I settled on a piece of chicken that looked like it had been prepared by the Smithsonian.

  Surreptitiously checking my watch under the table, I didn’t see a woman in her early forties join me. I glanced up as her plate slid onto the table next to mine, and I recognized her from her television show. She was wearing a tight, electric blue satin dress that enhanced her ample breasts and showed just enough cleavage to make me forget the time. Her short hair was so golden it almost looked eighteen karat, boyish in cut, but just curly enough to be feminine. She had with her a handsome, prosperous-looking man in expensive dress pants and black leather suspenders who was drunk right down to his socks.

  “Enjoying the evening? I’m Liz Chase and this is Harry,” she said as Harry collapsed into the chair next to me.

  “I’m Brice Chandler. Hello.” I nodded at Harry, who obviously had no idea where he was.

  “I was just wondering if I had to eat this prehistoric fowl before leaving,” I remarked as Harry let out a large, dangerous belch that turned into gagging sounds, then escalated to near vomiting. The man adjacent to him snatched him up and hoisted him from the chair, propelling him toward the men’s room.

  Liz watched the retreating Harry slobbering down his own suit front and pushed her plate away, rolling her eyes in humorous dismay. “I don’t think I’ll be eating now at all. In fact, I’d like to leave.”

  “Do you need a ride?” I tried not to make too big a deal out of what had happened, certain Liz Chase would be fine with Harry finding his own way home.

  “That would be wonderful.”

  We both slid discreetly out of our chairs as if headed for the powder room, but instead we dashed through the lobby, wanting to get out before anyone noticed we were in full retreat. I glanced at Liz, assessing her frame of mind, and caught her suppressing a giggle, I assumed over the ridiculous situation she’d found herself in and the near–projectile vomiting of her date. I grinned at her, liking her ability to find humor in embarrassing situations and to roll with the punches—but then that’s probably what TV people did.

  At valet parking, I handed the young boy my ticket stub, and he dashed for my car. The wind caught Liz’s perfume and washed it over me, making me light-headed. Women always smelled so good. It was one of their immediately irresistible qualities. That’s what I told myself because my heart was racing in an uncharacteristic pattern as I tipped the sprinter and a second man, who held the car doors open for us.

  The moment we settled in, Liz said, “I was watching you tonight. I’ve heard about you forever and never had a chance to meet you. Tonight, I…thought you looked very handsome, powerful, unlike other women.”

  That could have been a come-on, but since moving back to Dallas from L.A., I’d found that perfectly straight women often made astonishingly intimate remarks to other women without being at all concerned that they’d compromised their heterosexuality. I thanked her and confessed that while I’d only watched her show occasionally, due to my work schedule, I thought she was very good at what she did.

  As we headed north, chatting amicably, she suggested we cut through Turtle Creek. Why we would take the scenic route when it was too dark to see any of the park’s creeks and flowers was a bit mystifying, but I obliged her, thinking it a shortcut. She continued to talk nervously, telling me that the man she was with at the party worked at the television station and his wife had just left him. When I asked why, Liz replied, “Puking in public.” She paused, then we both burst out laughing.

  “That’s not true.” I continued to chuckle.

  “No, I made that up,” she said, getting control of herself as my heart happily skipped around in my chest. Liz Chase was, in addition to being attractive, a great deal of fun.

  I turned left off the main thoroughfare, up the winding hill that in daylight was home to a myriad of flowers.

  “Stop here for a minute,” she requested.

  I pulled off into a parking indention and looked at her, wondering if something was wrong.

  “It’s taken me a while to even meet you, and with our schedules, who knows if I’ll see you again anytime soon.” She paused and I frowned. “I’m a TV anchor, so I have a lot to lose with what I’m about to say, but I’ve vowed recently that I’m going to trust my instincts and take chances when the outcome matters.” As she stared into my eyes, I felt my heart lurch and a tingling sensation break out somewhere in my lower abdomen.

  “I’d like to see you,” she said, then let her breath out in a there-it’s-done kind of way.

  It was as if she knew I’d never been good at nuance. So there she was, looking me directly in the eye and asking—What, to date me? Liz Chase is gay? That was my first thought, followed immediately by the ingrained corporate suspicion that for all I knew, maybe she wasn’t! Maybe she’s setting me up. Maybe her station is doing an expose on closet execs.

  I found myself physically stiffening, becoming internally tense, my voice rising in cold alarm. “Could you be more explicit?” It was a supercilious response, but I was suddenly nervous in a city with so many closeted executives the skeletons were having to sleep double.

  After a beat she answered with a wry smile. “Probably not.” She slowly reached toward me, her wrist extending beyond the tight blue satin sleeve of her dress, her fingers long and beautiful stretching out across me for what seemed like eons until they caught the loop of the seat belt by the driver’s side door and slowly dragged the strap across my chest, the tips of her fingers brushing my breast. I stopped breathing entirely and thought I might faint.

  My reaction wasn’t lost on her. She gazed up into my eyes, and I could have taken her in that instant; she was that lovely, and her look was that erotic. The metallic click of the belt into its lock snapped my heart back into my chest and punctuated all that she hadn’t said.

  “Better buckle up.” Her smile c
arried a warning that went beyond this particular ride. I certainly didn’t want her out of my car, but I needed to get her out of my car. I didn’t want to be on the front page of the city’s paper under a headline that read TWO PROMINENT WOMEN ARRESTED IN LOCAL PARK.

  We drove on in silence. A few blocks later I let Liz off in front of a small but stately two-story brick home in the older part of town. Getting out of the car, she thanked me, her eyes lingering for just an instant on mine, then turned and walked up the steps to her house, and I noticed Liz Chase had a perfectly engineered derriere. Perfectly.

  *

  I drove directly across town to a small but neatly kept duplex not far from SMU, my heart pumping out of my chest, my breathing short as I jumped out of the car. Taking the wooden steps two at a time and the porch in two more, I knocked on the paint-peeling white door in search of Madge Mahoney, my university drama coach and longtime confidante, the person I always turned to when I needed guidance.

  Madge, approaching a rather liberated seventy, her flaming red hair in wild disarray and wearing a silk Japanese kimono flared at the bottom and belted at the waist, flung open the door. She spread her arms wide in welcome, as if taking in the entire second-floor balcony instead of just me.

  “You shouldn’t open your door to strangers in the middle of the night,” I admonished.

  “You should show up occasionally and you wouldn’t be a stranger! Come! Sit! Drink! What can I get you?” She jutted her head forward like an inquisitive turtle and stared, most likely trying to decide what was going on with me at this hour. “You’re too well dressed to be running away from home—”