Chapter One

Moreen McGee glanced at the apartment windows across the street as she walked by. This was her fourth pass in front of the building this evening. She’d been by six times the night before, but the witch had never left.

There was no doorman, so that was a plus. Getting inside shouldn’t be too hard. All she needed to do was buzz a few of the apartments until somebody, out of frustration at being bothered by the noise, hit the button to unlock the main door. Then, it was upstairs to Aliya’s apartment, and the deed would be done.

In and out. Simple and quick. Painless.

This was all Aliya’s fault anyway. As far as Moreen was concerned, she’d had it coming. No matter what sort of “new leaf” she’d turned over, Aliya was still a witch, and she always would be.

Just as the thought ran through her mind, the front door to the building opened and Aliya walked out, dressed in jeans and a sweater, laughing and hugging the gorgeous blond Moreen had seen her with at the teen center just two short days ago.

The door closed behind the couple as they turned and kissed, the contact lingering. Moreen sneered as she watched them, so obviously in love it was disgusting. The man walked to the street and hailed a taxi.

Perfect.

If they were taking a taxi they would be gone for a while. She’d have plenty of time.

When Aliya and her man climbed into the taxi and sped away, Moreen stepped into the shadows of the building, then pulled gloves from her pocket and tugged them on.

Always best not to leave any fingerprints.

She’d learned that the hard way.

Other than the gloves, she’d already prepared for this night. The hood of her sweatshirt was already pulled up and her dark red hair, piled on top of her head, was hidden underneath. She had also padded herself to hide her curves, so that if people were asked about anyone hanging around, they could say, “Well, I think it was a heavy-set young man. He had no curves.”

Moreen crossed the street and started pressing buttons on the building’s intercom system. It didn’t take long before the door buzzed and she was in. She took the stairs to the second floor, and upon rriving at Aliya’s apartment door, she knocked and waited, just to make sure there was no one inside. The knock went unanswered. Satisfied, she pulled a lock pick set from her pocket, making quick work of the doorknob, and of the deadbolt.

She was inside in less than two minutes.

There was no buzzing of an alarm or telltale beeps of a system waiting for the homeowner to put in a code—no security protection whatsoever.

“Idiot.” She jumped at the sound of her own voice. Taking a deep breath, she cautiously stepped down the hallway and into the main room.

It was spacious and beautifully decorated. The sight of the furnishings made Moreen want to puke. Compared to her one bedroom fifth-floor walkup in Queens, this place was Buckingham Palace.

Her fingers itched to touch things, to examine all of Aliya’s fine belongings. Hell, she wanted to take half of them with her. She was sure a lot of the items would fetch a pretty penny from a fence. The extra money would keep her in food and rent for a few months.

But, as tempting as the idea was, it wasn’t why she was there. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the wallet. Aliya’s wallet.

For the past two days, Moreen had sweated bullets every time someone came into the youth center. Every knock on her door at home sent her into a panic. She just knew they were there to accuse her of theft.

Again.

All because some snot-nosed, teenaged pickpocket had seen an opportunity to make a few bucks, and took it.

She had seen the kid at work, sliding the wallet from Aliya’s purse with such expertise that the woman hadn’t felt a thing. And then he had run off. By the time Moreen had caught up to him and retrieved the wallet, Aliya and her two friends were gone.

Moreen had berated the kid halfheartedly, reminding him that she herself was doing community service at the Parker Center for Teens for making stupid decisions—like he’d just made. And yet, she’d been secretly thrilled at his choice of targets. Aliya Baban had been a thorn in her side for years, and Moreen considered Aliya the starting point of her own downhill slide. Meanwhile, the bitch was thriving, with a beautiful apartment and a gorgeous boyfriend. Where was the fairness in that?

Still, she wouldn’t let the theft set yet another teen on a path to destruction. She planned on returning the wallet, and all would be well. Over the past two days, she’d expected Aliya to show up asking if anyone had seen the wallet, or turned it in. Moreen had planned to pull it out and act innocent.

“Oh, you mean this? Well, I didn’t open it, so I didn’t know it was yours. I’m sure everything’s in there, cash, credit cards. Go ahead and check.”

The kid, Justin, had promised that he hadn’t taken any money out. Just to make sure, Moreen had made him turn out his pockets, and then checked inside the wallet herself. Sure enough, there was eighty-two dollars in cash and four credit cards.

Now she just had to figure out a place to leave the wallet. She needed to find a place where Aliya would stumble across it and think she had misplaced the item herself.

Putting it in the kitchen seemed too easy; the same went for the living room, dining room, and the bathroom. It would seem too obviously planted in those places. The best place for it, she was sure, was in the bedroom, lying next to a dresser on the floor. Aliya would just think it had dropped out of her purse. It may take her a few days to discover it, but it would be there, fully intact, despite Moreen’s desire to take some of the money and keep it for herself.

She hurried across the living room to a hallway she was sure led to a bedroom. She passed what appeared to be an office, a bathroom and a bedroom that looked to be for guests before coming to room that looked used. Very used. The smell of sex was heavy in the air.

Moreen sneered. Aliya and her blond hunk must have enjoyed a quick fuck before going out for the evening. The bed took up much of the room, and there was a master bathroom off to the side. Against one wall, though, was a dresser with drawers hanging open.

Bingo.

She crossed to it, debating on whether to leave the wallet in one of the drawers or lying on the ground, finally opting for the floor. She dropped it like it was hot, watching it land, then kicked it so that it was half-under the dresser.

Now, the theft couldn’t be traced back to the center, and the teen who’d stolen it would stay out of trouble. She looked at the dresser top, studying the bottles of perfume and necklaces that littered the surface.

She reached out and picked up one of the bottles of perfume, squirting it into the air and sniffing appreciatively. The smell of roses filled the room, competing with the smell of sex. She hadn’t owned a bottle of perfume in about seven years. Perfume was a luxury that Moreen couldn’t afford. Money spent on trivial things like that would be better saved for food or utilities.

Setting the bottle back down, she stared at the object next to it. It was a lamp, just like those found in the Aladdin tales. Something that would grant wishes, give the person who owned it power, and the ability to make things better for themselves.

She picked the lamp up and studied it. The golden surface seemed dull and lifeless, and she shook her head in disgust. Leave it to Aliya to have something like this, something that could inspire people to dream, and just ignore it.

Moreen thought of her mother, whom she hadn’t talked to in years. She remembered her mother tucking her in at night and reading her fairy tales when she was a child, especially the tales of Aladdin and his lamp. Because of the lamp, Aladdin had a better life. She’d always dreamed of that, of finding her own lamp, complete with a genie that could bring her riches and clothes and a huge house. It was a time when she believed in fairy tales.

“Right. I’ve lost that time, haven’t I?” She put the lamp down and quickly headed for the living room. She’d done what she came there to do; she shouldn’t be dallying.

Moreen walked briskly to the front door and reached for the bronze-colored knob, but her hand stopped in mid-air. An image of the lamp’s dull surface swam before her eyes, quickly followed by a vision of Aliya in high school, her clothes perfect, not a hair out of place, telling everyone that Moreen had slept with the entire baseball team.

And the bitch had done it just to win a student council election.

Deep-seeded anger took hold of her stomach, spreading through her chest and into her hands, which she clenched into fists. “She doesn’t deserve it,” Moreen whispered. “If she did, she’d take better care of it.”

She turned and strode back into the bedroom, picking up the lamp again. She wasn’t a thief anymore, but for Aliya, she would make an exception. The lamp was too big to fit in her pocket so she unzipped her hoodie, shoved it inside, then zipped her jacket up. She headed back to the front door.

Given the condition of the lamp, Aliya would probably never miss it. And Moreen would have the wonderful feeling of pulling something over on the woman who had set her on the path to ruin. It was a small trade-off, but seeing the lamp everyday would bring a smile to her face.

She was sure of that.

* * * *

It was more than an hour and several subway stops later when Moreen climbed the last flight of stairs to her apartment. She let herself in and leaned against the door. She hadn’t broken into an apartment in more than eight years. And even though she’d done this to help one of her charges, she’d still ended up letting her thieving nature take over in the end.

She unzipped her jacket and took out the lamp, then placed it on the table and stepped back. The poor thing needed to be cleaned. Badly.

After removing her jacket and padding, she crossed the hall to Mrs. Weinstein’s apartment. The older woman answered on the first knock.

“Why Moreen, how are you this evening?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Weinstein, thanks. You don’t happen to have any brass cleaner, do you?” Moreen figured the woman did, since she had a fantastic collection of knickknacks she was always polishing.

“Why yes, I do. Did you buy something new?” Her eyes brightened with interest and Moreen winced.

“No, it’s for the center. They have some things there that need cleaning, some… lamps.”

“Well, of course, dear. Anything to help your volunteer work. How much do you need?”

Moreen groaned silently. Her sweet neighbor had no idea of Moreen’s past, of her criminal tendencies, or the fact that her so-called volunteer work at the center had been ordered by the courts.

“Just a little bit would be good.”

Moreen waited just inside the door while the woman went to the kitchen and rummaged around.

Mrs. Weinstein came out moments later carrying a small, round tin. “This is about half-full. Will that work?”

“Yes, thank you. What we don’t use I’ll bring back. Thanks so much.”

“No problem, dear. Just remember to wear gloves. This can cause abrasions on your beautiful skin.”

“I will. Thank you again.” Moreen left, touched by her neighbor’s concern. Mrs. Weinstein had lived a hard life, but she was always smiling, always quick to have a kind word for everyone and anyone. Moreen wished she still felt that way about people.

Inside her apartment, Moreen went in search of an old T-shirt. Once she’d found one, she cut it into strips, then sat down at the kitchen table, pulling her gloves back on. She dipped a strip into the cleaner, then rubbed the lamp. The grime came off easily.

A half an hour later, the lamp shone like it was new.

She took off her gloves and picked it up, staring at it in wonder. She felt not a lick of guilt about taking it from Aliya. The bitch deserved it. She ran her fingers over the surface, then gasped as the floor seemed to move.

Her eyes widened as a man appeared. He reclined in the chair across from her, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands clasped together on his washboard stomach. He wore loose linen pants and nothing else. Long, black hair cascaded over his shoulders, and there was a scowl on handsome face.

“Bad little girl.” His dark eyes were piercing, and Moreen swallowed hard. “You really should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Paran, and you stole my lamp. For the next thirty days, I can be your most wicked fantasy come true or I can be your worst nightmare. It is entirely up to you… Moreen.”