It was that time of year again, for the April O’Donnell Group annual meeting held in London. Brenna and her closest friends flew in a week early. Four years earlier, at her first annual meeting, Brenna hadn’t known what to expect. She arrived in London expecting a week of excruciating boredom, interminable presentations of reports, and having to act like an adult and a lady the entire time.
Since then, Brenna always planned her stay in London to include some holiday time. She, Collin, Rebecca and Irina were looking forward to a week of sightseeing, dining and partying.
After stowing their luggage in their suite at the O’Donnell-owned hotel next to their London regional headquarters, the group went back down to the lounge where Nigel Richardson was awaiting them.
Savoring a good British porter poured from the tap, Brenna looked up and saw her Aunt Morrighan. Her aunt was often confused with being Brenna’s older sister. Morrighan walked over to their table, gave Nigel a quick kiss, and then hugged each of the Americans in turn.
“I arrived last night,” she said, a slight grin quirking the corners of her mouth. Her eyes went to Collin and then to Nigel. “I was wondering if you have plans tonight,” she said hesitantly.
Collin chuckled. “If you’re curious as to whether I’ll get upset if you take my lady out hunting, then you aren’t very familiar with the kind of man who falls in love with a succubus. Do you know the term ‘pussy whipped’?”
Morrighan and Nigel laughed. “Yes, we know the term,” Nigel said.
Brenna and Irina, sitting on either side of Collin, both punched him in the shoulder.
“See what I mean?” he laughed.
“Normally, I might decline just to be nice, but after a remark like that? Sure. Where are we going?” Brenna said with a wink. She gave Collin a look out of the corner of her eye. “Of course, he’s being so magnanimous because he thinks he may have a shot at an old girlfriend. Her husband’s out of town.”
To her surprise, Collin colored.
“Oh, my God,” Irina exclaimed. “You dog. Does Pia’s husband know he’s going to get cuckolded?”
“He knows we’re going to see each other, yes,” said Collin.
“Wear your bulletproof vest, boyo,” Rebecca smirked.
“Well, on that note, where and when?” Brenna asked Morrighan. “I’d like to take a quick shower, but it won’t take us long to change.”
“Where’s the baby?” Irina asked.
“Lady O’Byrne is taking care of her,” Morrighan answered. “And although I love her to death, I need some time away. She’s just starting to walk, and I’m going crazy trying to keep up with her.”
The women excused themselves to go change.
After donning a black bra and panties, Brenna wriggled into her black lace dress and pulled on the knee-high stiletto-heeled boots. To complete the outfit, she put on a black and white cameo that Collin had given her for Christmas one year.
Rebecca wore a shining silver sleeveless micro dress with a V-neck down to her naval, an enameled collar necklace and strappy stilettos. Her legs looked about six feet long.
Irina put on a white, low-cut halter sheath that hit her about mid-thigh. She added a choker of small freshwater pearls and six-inch platform heels. Brenna shook her head, not understanding how the tiny blonde could walk in those shoes.
Collin and Nigel were still sitting in the bar when the women came downstairs. They sat down and ordered drinks, smiling and preening at the compliments they received. The bar was about half full, and although it wasn’t very noisy, Brenna noticed when the background conversations quieted and then died completely. She and everyone else at the table turned to see what was going on.
Striding toward them was a tall woman with copper-colored hair that reflected the lights as she moved. She wore a skin-tight green one-shoulder minidress, and the only thing more spectacular than her beauty was her bust. Her only jewelry was a short strand of large red beads with matching earrings, almost the same shade as her lipstick.
“Goddess,” Irina breathed. She shot a look at Brenna. “Is that the Goddess?”
“Huh?” Brenna said. “Oh, no. Of course not. The Goddess’s hair is more of a strawberry blonde.”
The men turned and gaped at her, as well as at Rebecca, who was nodding.
“The Goddess also isn’t as well endowed,” Morrighan said, with a mischievous grin.
“Rhiannon!” Rebecca squealed, jumping up and dashing toward the woman. Morrighan rose as well with a huge smile on her face.
Rhiannon hugged both women, then walked to the bar and the barman pulled her a pint. She came to their table and scooted into the booth next to Nigel, giving him a hip bump to move him over.
Rhiannon Bronwyn Kendrick, or RB as she preferred professionally, was a private investigator with fifteen Gifts, including the Rare Gift of Telekinesis and the Gift of Distance Communication, which enhanced and strengthened a telepath’s other Gifts. As a result, she was one of the most powerful telepaths in the world.
Her family included her great-aunt, Lady O’Byrne, and she was the unacknowledged daughter of Hugh O’Neill and granddaughter of Lord Corwin of Clan O’Neill. On her mother’s side, she was descended from ancient Welsh Clan Chiefs. Growing up in Wales, outside of any Clan, she nonetheless had been trained at Clan O’Byrne as a teenager, and Lord O’Byrne had paid for her education at Oxford.
Morrighan and Rebecca had first met Rhiannon three years before when she helped them break a human trafficking operation that was selling telepathic women. Brenna had met her briefly a few times, and found her to be impressive. Highly intelligent, Rhiannon had a facility with languages, and was totally down to earth. She acknowledged her beauty, but wasn’t impressed or obsessed with it. Normally, she tended toward wearing jeans and formless sweaters, not the devastatingly sexy outfit she wore that night.
Nigel shook his head. “Collin, with this crew I could have stormed Normandy Beach and captured it without a shot fired.”
Rhiannon leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re sweet. Are you staying in tonight?”
“Oh, hell yes. I don’t even want to be out with your lot on the prowl. If I were a patriot, I’d call out the Home Guard to prepare for casualties.”
“Do you want me to come back?” she asked, her voice dropping into a seductive purr.
He handed her the key to his flat.
She kissed his cheek again and then turned to the women. “What are you hungry for? Fish and chips like all the rest of the tourists?”
“How about that Russian restaurant we went to one time?” Brenna asked Irina. “I liked it.”
Irina perked up immediately. “That’s a great idea.”
So off to the Russian restaurant they went.
The patrons included a number of spectacular Russian beauties, most with older wealthy men. At least three were succubi. But the O’Donnell party attracted every eye in the place as they were led to their table, even though, with the exception of Brenna’s outfit, their dresses weren’t unusually revealing by the standards of the other women. In fact, Brenna was avidly observing some of their outfits, evaluating how they might look on her, and in some cases thinking how she might adapt them to her physique.
“Down, girl,” Rebecca smirked. “If you stare at that blonde any harder, you’ll bore holes through her.”
Looking sheepish, Brenna tried to explain, “I was just trying to imagine how that would look on me.”
“I know what you were doing, but try being more discreet or she’ll think you’re hot for her.”
Brenna felt her face flame.
“Is anyone averse to a real Russian dinner?” Irina asked. Seeing no objections, she said, “You need to pay attention to the alcohol. I’m going to order a carafe of vodka. Speak now or forever hold yourselves. Does anyone have foods you find objectionable or have an allergy to? Okay, put your menus away.”
The waiter came and Irina spent some time ordering in Russian. A couple of times, Rhiannon interjected a comment, also in Russian. The waiter returned with a large bottle of mineral water, a carafe of vodka with five tiny crystal glasses, and a platter of cold meats, salted fish, pickled vegetables, pickled mushrooms and black caviar. Another waiter poured wine and placed a second bottle on ice.
Irina poured vodka into the small glasses, put a small amount of several appetizer items on her plate, then took a bite of salted fish, raised her glass, and toasted, “Good hunting.”
Laughing at her toast, everyone followed her lead and tossed back the vodka.
After they had done serious damage to the appetizer plate, they were served soup and five entrées that they shared. At various times, one or the other of the participants would propose a toast, usually after a particularly good story or a pithy comment. Dessert consisted of pastries with sweet farmer’s cheese and a hot apple tart served with strong hot tea.
“Irina, there’s only one problem with this dinner,” Rebecca said, leaning back in her chair and surveying the wreckage. “All I want to do now is take a nap, not go out hunting.”
The others greeted this assertion with jeering laughter.
