Page 1 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
CHAPTER 1
ALLISON
The car rolls smoothly up the paved drive of Saltmoor House, its iron gates standing open like the maw of some gothic beast waiting to swallow me whole. The place is less mansion and more looming fortress, its stone façade draped in creeping ivy that looks dark against the late afternoon sky. The humid Florida air clings to me, thick with salt and the faint cry of seabirds circling over the coastline. I tug my jacket tighter and remind myself this is just a job. One extended weekend, one priceless artifact that apparently needs guarding because Ryan Murphy can't throw a party without attracting trouble.
Something felt different about this assignment from the moment my boss, Cerberus Founder Robert Fitzwallace, briefed me—not just the unusual nature of babysitting art, but an odd prickling at the base of my skull that I've learnt never to ignore. Twelve years of operations have taught me to trust that instinct. It's kept me breathing when logic said I should be dead.
And then there's the fact that Fitz insisted.
On the flight over from London, I replay our last conversation in his office. His voice, thick with that rolling Scottish burr, still rings in my ears. "Ye've been pushin' too hard, lass. One more op an' they'll carry ye home in a box. The assignment to Saltmoor House isn't up for debate. Ryan Murphy's an old friend, and I want one of my best security people there."
I'd bristled, telling him I didn't need babysitting duty. He'd only leant back in his chair, arms folded. "Chicago's crew is busy. Monte Carlo's stretched thin. That leaves you. Ye'll take it or be looking for new employment." This wasn't a request—it was an order, which made me question why it was so important to him. Granted Ryan Murphy is an old friend, but Fitz is rarely so bloody-minded. My protest about being fine after the last op, about not needing light duty, hadn't swayed him one bit.
The graze along my ribs is already healing, but Fitz doesn't see it that way. I'd blacked out for thirty seconds when the blast went off—one heartbeat I was moving through the breach on a warehouse in Marseille, the next I was flat on my back with dust choking the air and my ears ringing so loud it drowned out the comms. The charge had been miscalculated and far greater than needed. It was meant to peel the door out of the way but instead blew off half the wall. That rattled Fitz more than the graze along my ribs. He knows too many operators who walked away from a firefight with nothing but scratches, only to collapse days later from damage no one caught.
According to him, I'm lucky to be walking upright, and he'll take luck as a sign to keep me breathing a bit longer. Which, in his words, means packing me off to Florida to guard a mask instead of leading tactical entry in support of other ops.
His voice stays with me the entire flight over, threading through every thought, and it's still echoing as I reach Saltmoor's front doors. They swing open before I even touch them. Ryan Murphy himself appears—billionaire entrepreneur turned eccentric art collector, dressed down in rolled-sleeve denim and easy jeans, the casual look undercut by the vintage Rolex on his wrist. He can afford something more expensive, but to men like Fitzwallace and Murphy, the Rolex is their brand of choice. Murphy is broad, confident, and far too cheerful for a man who's received multiple death threats in the past month.
"Allison Bennett," he greets warmly. "Fitz said you were the best."
"At least he got something right," I reply with a laugh, giving him my hand. "Though I'm not usually relegated to minding costume jewelry."
His grin falters just a touch, but he recovers. "Not jewelry. The Reina de Oro mask is very real and very dangerous. You'll see."
"Dangerous is my specialty." I look around at the thoughtful landscape that fits into the beachside setting. "Where's the threat coming from? Pelicans? Giant lizards?"
Instead of being insulted, he chuckles. "You'd be surprised at the level of danger in Pelican Point, but I digress. Let me show you the house, or at the very least, the ballroom."
I let my eyes flick past him, scanning the entry hall. Crystal chandeliers, polished marble, and art that probably costs more than the GDP of a small country. My instincts kick in immediately. I catalogue angles, exits, and blind spots that could prove problematic whilst Ryan escorts me deeper into the house. The faint hum of the ocean beyond the windows reminds me that we're steps away from open water.
A draft slips through the corridor, colder than it should be for Florida. I note it on my tablet; small things matter. A servant’s door stands closed, but air sighs through its frame. If Saltmoor has hidden arteries, someone who knows them can vanish through them. I need those arteries mapped before someone else finds them.
"Candace is finalizing the seating charts," he explains. "She's very excited about the masquerade. We've kept the collection under wraps, of course. Only a handful know the mask is here."
"Let me guess," I say dryly. "Those are the same handful sending the threats."
Ryan chuckles. "Possibly. Probably. But with you here, I feel safer already. Fitz wouldn't send me anyone less than his best."
We stop in front of a glass case positioned beneath an arched window. Inside rests the mask—a gleaming creation of gold filigree, studded with jewels that seem to pulse in the low light. Its design is intricate, almost hypnotic. I feel my gut twist, though I'm not the type to be unnerved by old artifacts. Still, there's something about it. Something that whispers, the way waves whisper secrets against a midnight shoreline.
The whispers aren't metaphorical. As I stand here, I swear I hear actual voices—faint, rhythmic, speaking in a language I don't recognize. The hair on my arms rises, and for just a moment, the mask's jeweled eyes seem to track my movement. I blink, and it's just carved gold again, but the chill lingering in the air suggests otherwise.
Ryan lowers his voice. "Recovered from the wreck of the Reina de Oro. Legend has it the mask was used in Calusa rituals. Human sacrifices, if the stories are true."
"Nothing says party centerpiece like an artifact that comes with its own climate control issues."
"That's why you're here. Fitz said you don't scare easily."
"Fitz says a lot of things."
A new voice slides into the conversation, deep and smooth, with the kind of timbre that makes the fine hairs along my neck rise. "He also said you're stubborn, reckless, and have an uncanny ability to sense trouble before it arrives."
I turn. And there he is. Nolan Porter. An art historian whose name has floated through Cerberus chatter long before tonight, usually with a warning not to underestimate him. A man whispered about for breaking as many hearts as rules. He’s tall, shoulders filling his suit jacket with casual power that looks more suited to a battlefield than a ballroom floor. His dark eyes lock on mine, steady and unyielding. And bloody hell, he’s gorgeous in the kind of way that makes you want to slap him just so he’ll touch you back.
But there's something else about him, something that makes my instincts prickle in a way that has nothing to do with attraction. He carries himself like a man with secrets, and when he looks at the mask, I see recognition in his eyes—not academic interest, but personal knowledge. As if he's encountered something like this before.
"I see Fitz is gossiping again," I say coolly. "I'll have to remind him my personnel file is classified."
