Praise for Tiffany Reisz

‘The Siren is one of those books which has the amazing ability to create the scene in full colour in your mind’s eye—this is no small skill on the author’s part.’

http://carasutra.co.uk/

‘A beautiful, lyrical story … The Siren is about love lost and found, the choices that make us who we are … I can only hope Ms Reisz pens a sequel!’

—Bestselling author Jo Davis

‘THE ORIGINAL SINNERS series certainly lives up to its name: it’s mind-bendingly original and crammed with more sin than you can shake a hot poker at. I haven’t read a book this dangerous and subversive since Chuck

Palahniuk’s Fight Club.’

—Andrew Shaffer, author of

Great Philosophers Who Failed at Love

‘Tiffany Reisz is a smart, artful and masterful new voice in erotic fiction. An erotica star on the rise!’

—Award-winning author Lacey Alexander

‘Daring, sophisticated and literary … exactly what good erotica should be.’

—Kitty Thomas, author of Tender Mercies

‘Dazzling, devastating and sinfully erotic, Reisz writes unforgettable characters you’ll either want to know or want to be. The Siren is an alluring book-within-a-book, a story that will leave you breathless and bruised, aching for another chapter with Nora Sutherlin and her men.’

—Miranda Baker, author of Bottoms Up and Soloplay

‘You will most definitely feel strongly for these characters … this was an amazing story and I’m so happy that it’s not over. I can’t wait to jump back into Nora’s world.’

http://ladysbookstuff.blogspot.co.uk

About the Author

TIFFANY REISZ lives in Lexington, Kentucky. She graduated with a BA in English from Centre College and is making her parents and her professors proud by writing erotica under her real name. She has five piercings, one tattoo and has been arrested twice. When not under arrest, Tiffany enjoys Latin dance, Latin men and Latin verbs. She dropped out of a conservative seminary in order to pursue her dream of becoming a smut peddler. If she couldn’t write, she would die.

Also by Tiffany Reisz:

The Original Sinners

THE PRINCE

THE ANGEL

THE SIREN

E-Book Novellas

THE MISTRESS FILES

THE GIFT

(previously published as SEVEN DAY LOAN)

IMMERSED IN PLEASURE

SUBMIT TO DESIRE

The story’s not over quite yet!

Watch for THE PRIEST

coming soon from Mills & Boon SPICE

The Mistress
Tiffany Reisz

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedicated to Mistress Jeanette, Mistress Amiko, Mistress Astria,

Mistress Sade Ami, Mistress Michelle Lacy and all the

Dominatrixes who make the world their footstool.

I kneel at your feet and kiss your boots.

Your Servant Always,

Tiffany

The story so far …

At the end of The Prince, the following statements were true:

1. Erotica writer Nora Sutherlin and her former intern Wes Railey are engaged.

2. Marie-Laure (the long-thought-dead sister of King of the Underground Kingsley Edge) is alive.

3. Nora Sutherlin, Søren’s lover for fourteen years, has been kidnapped but is unharmed.

4. Søren, who Kingsley wants to steal from Nora, is a Catholic priest.

At the end of The Mistress, only one of these statements will be true.

And we know that all things work

together for good to them that

love God.

to them who are the called

according to His purpose.

—Romans 8:28

The lady or the tiger?

—Frank Stockton

Part One

1 THE QUEEN

When Nora came to she was fifteen years old again.

She had to be. What else could explain the cold, industrial chair she sat in, the unforgiving metal of the handcuffs on her wrists and the terror in her heart?

Inside her aching and addled mind, Eleanor Schreiber opened her eyes and raised her head. Across from her in the interrogation room at the police station sat the new priest at Sacred Heart—3:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning and here he was before her, a mere twenty-nine years old in the face but with eyes ancient enough they’d probably seen Christ in the flesh. She kind of hoped he had. She’d always wondered how tall Jesus was.

The priest—Father Stearns to the church but Søren to her—said nothing. He merely stared at her with a little smile lurking on his lips. At least someone was enjoying her misery. Where was her father? Her dad should be here now. She needed her father, not her Father. Her dad was the reason she’d ended up arrested in Manhattan in the hours before dawn. But no, she only had her priest and the desire to wipe the smile off that perfect face of his.

“So I’ve been meaning to ask you …” She decided to take control of the moment and be the first to break the silence. “Are you one of those priests who fucks the kids in the congregation?”

Whatever reaction she’d hoped for from her priest, she didn’t get it.

“No.”

Eleanor took a deep breath and exhaled heavily through her nose.

“Too bad.”

“Eleanor, perhaps we should discuss the predicament you’re in at the moment.”

“I’m in a real pickle.” She nodded, hoping to annoy him. A useless plan. They’d met twice before tonight and she’d done her damnedest to get under his skin both times. No dice. He’d treated her with kindness and respect both times. She wasn’t used to that.

“You were arrested on suspicion of grand theft auto. Supposedly five luxury vehicles with a combined value of over a quarter of a million dollars have disappeared from Manhattan tonight. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I take the fifth. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?”

“To the court, yes. To me, you will tell the truth always.”

“I don’t think you want to know the truth about me, Søren,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper. She wasn’t stupid. She only had to look at him to know that he and she had nothing in common. He looked liked money, talked like money. He had the whitest fingernails she’d ever seen and hands that belonged on a statue or something. All of him looked like a work of art—his hands, his face and lips, his height and beauty…. And here she was, chipped black nail polish, wet from the rain she’d been arrested in, hair falling in lank waves into her face, her school uniform a sodden mess, no money, no hope, and her whole life a fucking train wreck.

“There is nothing I don’t want to know about you,” Søren said, and seemed to mean it. “And I assure you, nothing you tell me will shock or disgust me. Nothing will make me change my mind about you.”

“Change your mind? You’ve already made up your mind about me? What’s the verdict?”

“The verdict is simply this—I am willing and capable of helping you out of this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Can we call it a ‘pickle’? Pickle sounds less scary than mess.”

“It’s a disaster, young lady. You could easily spend years in juvenile detention for what you did tonight. One of the cars you stole belonged to someone important and influential, and he’s apparently determined that you don’t see sunlight until age twenty-one. Keeping you out of juvenile detention will take a great deal of doing on my part. Blessedly, I have some connections. Or, more accurately, I have someone who has connections. The time and expense will be considerable,” he said in a tone that seemed to imply he relished the time and expense, which made no sense. But nothing about the man or his interest in her made any sense at all.

“And you’ll go to all this trouble for me … why?” Eleanor lifted her head a little higher and stared straight into his eyes.

“Because there is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you, Eleanor. Nothing I wouldn’t do to help you. And nothing I wouldn’t do to save you. Nothing.”

A chill passed through Eleanor’s whole body. Someone walked over her grave, as her grandmother would say. She never understood that phrase, that feeling before. Now she did.

“But my assistance doesn’t come without a price.”

“Right.” Eleanor smirked at him. “So this is when we get back to my first question and the fucking of the kids at church. Oh, well, if you insist.”

“Do you value your worth as a child of God so little that you think the only thing I could possibly want from you is sex?”

The question hit Eleanor so hard she almost flinched. But she wouldn’t let him see he’d gotten to her. Her mom would disown her for this. Her dad was probably eight states away by now. Her grandparents were seven minutes from death. Her entire future was about six feet under. Still she wasn’t about to let anyone take away her pride. She at least had that. For now, anyway.

“So that’s a no?”

Søren raised his eyebrow at her and she almost giggled. She was beginning to like this guy. She’d fallen in love with him already—utterly, completely and until the end of the world or even after. Never guessed she’d end up liking him, too.

“That would be a no. I will require something of you, however, in exchange for my assistance.”

“Do you always talk like this?”

“You mean articulately?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Weird. So what price am I paying? Hope it’s not my firstborn child. Don’t want kids.”

“My price is simply this—in exchange for my assistance, I only ask that you do what I tell you to do from now on.”

“Do what you tell me to do?”

“Yes. I want you to obey me.”

“From now on? Like … how long?”

And he smiled then and she knew she should have been afraid but something in that smile … It was the first time that night she felt safe.

“Forever.”

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

She heard a voice tinged with a French accent and tried to ignore it as she always tried to ignore French-accented voices. The last thing Nora wanted to do was wake up. In her dream she was with Søren and he was twenty-nine and she fifteen and their story had only begun. And she knew if she opened her eyes, she could very well be facing the end of their story. She wanted to stay in her dream and would have stayed in it forever but for the cold, delicate fingers dancing across her face like spider legs.

Nora opened her eyes.

2 THE KING

Kingsley Edge stood in front of the mirror in his large walk-in closet studying his wounds as he changed from his torn shirt into another. The layers of marble-colored bruises Søren had left on him after their one night together had already turned from red to black. He could have hated the priest for the reminders upon his body of a night he feared would never be repeated. Still, he cherished the bruises now as much as he did when they were boys at school. Far more than the scars on his chest, gifts from enemies with guns, he wore them as badges of honor.

He raised his hand to the worst of his old wounds—a scar on the left side of his chest a few inches below his heart. A strange injury that looked more like he’d been stabbed than shot. Who knows? Maybe he had been.

The mission that had left him with that scar, with two of his four bullet wounds, he remembered almost nothing of. His mind had buried the memory, and he had no desire to dig it back up. Waking up in the hospital in Paris … That moment he would never forget. He would probably think of it on his deathbed. That hospital bed … it should have been his deathbed, could have been …

But for the visitor.

He had come to consciousness slowly, arduously, crawling through the deep dark on his way back into the light. He had dragged himself up through the trench of drugs and pain, bitter pain and the failure of the mission. Sensing white light in the room, he’d kept his eyes closed, unable yet to confront the sun.

From over his shoulder he’d heard low voices—one female, crisp and careful, and one male, authoritative and unyielding.

“He will live,” the man’s voice said in French. It wasn’t a question he asked the woman, but an order given.

“We’ll do what we can for him, of course.” Of course, she said. Bien sûr. But Kingsley had heard the lie in her voice.

“You will do everything for him. Everything. From this moment on he is your only patient. He is your only concern.”

“Oui, mon père. Mais …” Mais … but … Her voice betrayed her fear. Mon père? Kingsley’s muddled mind had tried to wrap itself around the words. His father had been dead for years. Who was the father she spoke to?

“Consider his life as precious as your own. Do you understand that?”

There it was. Kingsley would have smiled in his half sleep were it not for the tubes down his throat. He knew a death threat when he heard it. Consider his life as precious as your own…. That was French anyone could translate. He lives and you live. He dies and …

But who cared enough about him anymore to make even an idle threat? When joining le Légion he’d put one name down on his next-of-kin line. One name. The only family he had left. And yet, he wasn’t family, not at all. Why would he of all people come to him now?

“He will live,” the woman had promised, and this time she spoke no “mais.”

“Good. Spare no expense for his comfort and health. All will be accounted for.”

The nurse, or perhaps she was a doctor, had sworn again she would do everything. She’d pledged that the patient would walk out whole and healthy. She’d promised she would do all she could and then some. Smart woman.

Kingsley heard her high heels retreating on the tile, the sound of her shoes as crisp and efficient as her voice. The sound died and Kingsley knew he and the visitor were now alone in the room. He struggled to open his eyes but couldn’t find the strength.

“Rest, Kingsley,” came the voice again. And he felt a hand on his forehead, gentle as a lover’s, tender as a father’s.

“My Kingsley …” The voice sighed and Kingsley heard frustration mixed with amusement. Amusement or something like it. “Forgive me for saying this, but I think it’s time you find a new hobby.”

And even with the tubes in his throat, Kingsley had managed a smile.

The hand left his face and he felt something against his fingers. The dark came upon him again, but it wasn’t the deep dark this time, merely sleep, and when he awoke again the tube was gone and he could see and speak and breathe again. And the thing that had touched his fingers was an envelope containing paperwork for a Swiss bank account someone had opened in his name—a Swiss bank account that contained roughly thirty-three million American dollars.

He took the money and he took the advice of his one and only hospital visitor. He returned to America, to the country where he’d once experienced true happiness.

And in America he did as he’d been ordered.

He found a new hobby.

Kingsley finished dressing. He tucked his shirt in and pulled on and buttoned his embroidered black-and-silver vest. Once more he looked dashing and roguish all at the same time. The household knew something had happened and for their sake he would act the part of their fearless leader as always if only to comfort their minds. In truth, he’d never been so scared in his life, not even that day in the hospital.

He yanked on his jacket as he stepped away from the mirror. Never before had he dealt with a crisis of this magnitude in his world. As soon as he’d built his Underground, his Empire of S&M clubs that catered to the wealthy and the powerful as well as the scared and the shamed, he’d begun stockpiling blackmail fodder on all the police chiefs and politicians, on the media and the Mafia, anyone who could potentially threaten his borders. Now the thing he’d feared most, harm—real harm to a citizen of his kingdom—had befallen them. And he had only himself to blame.

As soon as he left his bedroom, his night secretary, Sophie, met him in the hallway. She rattled off half a dozen messages and meetings.

“Cancel all the meetings,” he ordered as they reached the stairs. “Ignore the messages.”

“Oui, monsieur. Master Fiske is in your office.”

Good. Griffin was on time today.

He dismissed Sophie and headed to his private office on the third floor. When he reached it, he found Griffin standing by the window talking in hushed tones to the young man with him. Kingsley watched them a moment, waiting for them to notice him. But they had been afflicted with the tunnel vision of new love. Griffin raised his hand and cupped the face of Michael, his new lover. One kiss turned into a second one followed by a whisper. Michael nodded and leaned into Griffin, and when Michael’s silver eyes finally looked at something other than Griffin, Kingsley saw the terror in them.

He could sympathize.

“You should have left your pet at home,” Kingsley said, unable to resist goading Griffin.

Griffin raised his chin as he wrapped an arm possessively around Michael’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest.

“Somebody has Nora, King. I’m not going to let Mick out of my sight until we get her back.”

“Your pet is not in danger. I don’t think la Maîtresse is, either. Not yet.” He spoke the words with confidence and hoped they believed the half-truth.

“I don’t care. We protect our property. You and Søren taught me that.”

“C’est la guerre.” He sighed. Kingsley had no counterargument. Wasn’t that why he’d sent Juliette away? To protect his property?

“Hey, where is Søren, anyway?” Griffin asked.

“He’s tied up at the moment.” Kingsley chose not to elaborate on the literal truth of that statement.

“What do we know? Anything?”

Kingsley shrugged.

“It’s a long story. Too long to tell. A waste of time. The priest and I, we have an old enemy we’d thought long dead. She’s not. I don’t know what her game is, but rest assured, it is a game.”

“Nora’s been kidnapped. What the fuck kind of game is this?”

“A very dangerous one. Luckily I’m something of an expert at dangerous games.”

“I’ll break any legs you tell me to,” Griffin offered, and Kingsley gave the slightest laugh.

“I appreciate the offer, mon ami. I think a more subtle approach might be necessary with this adversary. What I need from you is this …” Kingsley reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver key ring adorned with a fleur de lis. On it were eight keys—one to each of his clubs and the town house. “I will be occupied for some time dealing with this nasty business. Someone needs to keep an eye on the Empire for me.”

Griffin’s dark eyes widened. He held out his hand and Kingsley placed the keys in Griffin’s palm.

“The keys to the Kingdom,” Griffin said. “I’d say thank you for the honor but I know you’re only giving them to me because you don’t have any other choice.”

“I have dozens of staff on my payroll, many choices. I trust you. You can keep everyone in line until I come back.”

“Do you know where Nora is? Do we know anything? Do you think we should call—”

“The police? I know who we’re dealing with and I’m fairly sure what she wants. I wouldn’t call the police unless you want la Maîtresse dead.”

Michael inhaled at the word dead and Kingsley had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. The poor boy, so young and innocent. He wouldn’t stay innocent long under this roof.

“If anyone hurts Nora …” Griffin let the words hang in the air, the unspoken threat more potent than any words.

“If anyone hurts Nora, you will have to stand in line for your retribution. I know a few who have the greater claim to her.”

“Point taken.”

“Now go see Sophie. She knows everything you’ll need to know. Remember, in this world it is better to be feared than loved. Keep everyone in line. Use a firm hand. You can stay in the house if you wish. Your pet, too. Although whatever you do, don’t go into my room.”

“Do I want to know why not?”

“Non.”

Griffin nodded and shoved the keys into his pocket.

“I’ll take care of the Empire. You find Nora, okay?”

“That is the plan.”

Griffin, with Michael trailing behind, headed toward the door. In the doorway, Michael paused and turned around.

“Mr. Edge?”

“What is it, Michael?”

The young man went silent for a moment and Kingsley waited. Usually he would have scolded someone for calling him Mr. Edge. It was monsieur, Kingsley, Mr. K., or nothing at all. But today he couldn’t care less.

“It’s only …” Michael began again, and Griffin put a comforting hand on Michael’s back. “Nora’s one of my friends.”

“I know she is.”

“I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“I’ll find her,” Kingsley promised. “We’ll bring her home.”

“Thank you. I mean … merci.”

Kingsley gave Michael a smile as he and Griffin left him alone in the office. One of his dogs, Max, ambled in and nudged Kingsley’s hand. As Kingsley petted the dog, he thought of Sadie, the lone female of his rottweiler pack. She’d died, stabbed in the heart. Had his own sister done that? Put a knife into the chest of an animal? Surely she had help with her games. Say what one would about Nora Sutherlin, but the woman was a survivor, strong and resilient and could have easily fought off another woman. She’d been born strong and iron had sharpened iron. Submitting to a sadist had made her unbreakable. Becoming a Dominatrix had made her vicious. She’d even broken him a time or two. But that was all play. Men paid for the privilege of letting her break them. Now she was in real danger. This wasn’t sadism or some role-play between consenting adults. This was violence, real violence and danger, the most pressing danger. He’d seen her lash bloody tiger stripes onto the body of a masochistic client with her whip skills, but he’d also seen her freeze in terror when a mentally unbalanced fan had attacked her at a book signing with a knife.

With a sigh, Kingsley ran his hands through his hair and rubbed hard at his face. If only the phone would ring, if only the letter would come with the demands and the threats. This dangerous game had only started. Marie-Laure had the board set up. What would be her opening move?

“Marie-Laure …” he whispered to himself. “What are you waiting for?”

“Monsieur?”

Kingsley turned around and glared at his secretary.

“Sophie, anything you need now must go through Griffin.”

“But, monsieur, there’s someone here to see you.”

“He can see Griffin.”

“He says he’s only here to see you.”

“He better be important.” Kingsley strode toward the door. Perhaps Marie-Laure had moved her first pawn.

“I think he is,” Sophie said with wide, scared eyes. “He says he’s Nora Sutherlin’s fiancé.”

3 THE KNIGHT

This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening. How could it be happening? The questions stomped through Wesley’s mind like a spooked stallion, trampling all other thoughts, all other questions. From the moment he’d gotten off the phone with Søren he’d been moving through the hours like a robot. He’d lost feeling in his hands. His ears wouldn’t stop ringing. The world buzzed with white noise and the only thought he could hold in his head was, Why?

He’d woken up yesterday on the floor in one of the stables. Blood on his head, static in his brain, and no Nora anywhere. He’d called Søren, who’d hung up on him the moment Wesley had told him Nora was gone and the words I will kill the bitch were written on the stable wall. With a pounding skull, Wesley had thrown a few things into his car, left a vague message for his parents about visiting friends with Nora and headed north. He didn’t dare fly. He couldn’t risk being unreachable for four hours. What if Nora had been kidnapped for ransom? He’d pay every penny he had and steal whatever else he needed to buy her back again. He stopped only for gas on the way from Kentucky to New York and to down painkillers for his splitting headache. Surely he had a concussion from whatever had hit him. But that was the least of his worries now.

All that mattered was getting Nora back. Whatever the price.

And this was part of the price, coming to this house that he’d never entered before but already hated. Nora had said on at least a dozen occasions that, love him or hate him, Kingsley was her go-to man for any crisis she couldn’t solve on her own. I trust Kingsley and I have good reason to. Even Søren goes to Kingsley when there’s a shitstorm, she’d said. And if I’m involved there’s usually a shitstorm. Wesley had decided then and there he never wanted to meet this Kingsley person, whom he considered to be nothing more than Nora’s pimp. Kingsley called her all the time on that damn red phone of hers and sent her into all sorts of dangerous situations that left Wesley in borderline panic attack mode until she got home again.

But he couldn’t deny this was the shitstorm to end all shit-storms. Only for Nora would he come to Kingsley begging for help.

Wesley paced as he waited and knew if someone didn’t get him in five seconds, he’d go hunt Kingsley down himself. Kingsley Edge—who the hell was this guy, anyway? Wesley looked around the room for any clues and found nothing but a well-appointed music room complete with grand piano, antique furniture in various patterns of black-and-white and no hint whatsoever about what kind of person owned this house except that he had good taste and a lot of money. Nora didn’t talk too much about Kingsley except to complain about him overbooking her back in her days as a Dominatrix. Although once she’d had a little too much to drink and spilled a few secrets about him, secrets she probably hadn’t remembered telling him the next day. But other than that, Wesley knew nothing about him except that he was French. He imagined Kingsley was older, much older than Nora, and probably not very attractive. If he was attractive Nora probably would have had much nicer things to say about him other than muttering her usual vitriol at him. If she wasn’t calling him “Kingsley” she was calling him “the Frog” or the “fucking Frog” more likely. She called him that so often that whenever Nora said “Kingsley” Wesley always pictured an actual frog wearing a beret. He hoped his imagination was somewhat close to the mark.

“So the future Mr. Nora Sutherlin has come to visit,” came a voice from behind him, a voice with an unmistakable French accent.

Wesley turned and discovered a prince where a frog should be—shoulder-length dark hair, olive skin, riding boots and a frock coat, handsome beyond reason. Did Nora not have any ugly men in her life?

“I think Nora Railey sounds better.” Wesley stood up as straight as he could and met Kingsley’s eyes from across the room.

“I’ll have my secretary start engraving the invitations.” Kingsley came into the room slowly. “Let’s hope we can find the bride before the big day arrives.”

“You know about Nora?” Wesley’s heart leaped, hoping against hope.

“I know she’s been taken. I know who has her. Where she’s been taken, I do not know that.”

“Does Søren know anything?”

“Søren knows more than you and I combined. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know where she is, either.”

“But you know who has her?”

“Oui.”

Kingsley turned around and started to leave the room. Wesley raced after him and grabbed the back of his long coat. Before he knew what had happened, Wesley found himself with his back planted hard into the wall and Kingsley’s face inches from his own.

“Young man, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Kingsley held Wesley immobile. “I used to kill people for a living. I never officially retired.”

“You don’t scare me.” Wesley hoped the pounding of his heart against his rib cage didn’t betray him. Kingsley dressed like someone off a romance novel cover but Wesley discerned genuine danger in the Frenchman’s eyes. Nora worked for this man? Called him the Frog to his face? She was braver than Wesley had ever given her credit for.

“You’re more attractive in person than you are in your photographs,” Kingsley said, giving Wesley’s face a close inspection. “I’m still not quite sure what she sees in you, however. Unless she lied to me about wanting a child of her own.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Not quite a man yet, either. Don’t worry. You will grow up quickly in this house. Peut-être …” Kingsley moved an inch closer to Wesley’s face and stared deep into his eyes. “She sees in you what I see in you.”

“What’s that?”

Wesley attempted to wrest himself out of Kingsley’s grasp. Kingsley didn’t let go.

“Everything she doesn’t see when she looks in the mirror.” With that, Kingsley released him and Wesley wrenched himself away. He felt a wave of nausea as if his brain bashed against his skull. But he didn’t give in to it. He breathed through his nose and stood his ground.

“I want to see Søren. Now,” Wesley said.

Kingsley straightened his jacket and smoothed his vest.

“Answer two questions first. Then I’ll let you see him.”

“Whatever. Fine. What?”

“Question one—is it true that you are affianced to her?”

Wesley narrowed his eyes at Kingsley, who stood waiting, tapping the toe of one of his stupid boots against the floor.

“Yes. Right before she got kidnapped, we went horseback riding. I asked her to marry me. When we got back to the stables, she said yes.”

Kingsley nodded as he rubbed his bottom lip with his fingertip before raising two fingers.

“Second question. Did you ask her to marry you before or after your head injury?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?” Wesley asked, coming up to him again. Cautiously this time, however. If Kingsley pushed him into the wall again, Wesley knew he’d lose whatever nothing was in his stomach for sure.

“Oui. But only once. I made sure they never said it again. Come along. You want to see the priest? I’ll show you the priest.”

Kingsley started up the stairs and Wesley had no choice but to follow. He noticed Kingsley wincing slightly as they turned a corner and headed to the third floor. Was he injured? Had someone attacked Kingsley, too?

“Are you all right?” Wesley asked, his loathing temporarily giving way to his better instincts. Kingsley might be the asshole of the universe, but Wesley hated to see anyone in pain.

“It is safe to say I’ve been better.”

“Did someone attack you, too?”

“I wouldn’t call it an attack.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“I’d call it one of the better nights of my life.”

Kingsley said nothing more as he led them down a hall to a room on the right.

“I’m afraid le prêtre won’t be much good to you.”

“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”

“If you insist.” Kingsley opened the door to a room at the end of the hall. Wesley’s eyes widened when he took in the scene. On the floor, at the end of the biggest red bed he’d ever seen in his life, sat Søren, his blond head bowed, his eyes closed. “Talk away. He may not talk back, however.”

“What the hell …?”

“He threatened to call the police,” Kingsley said matter-of-factly. “The police, the church and all city, state and federal authorities. I couldn’t allow that. For his sake.”

“So you …”

“Sedated him. And handcuffed him. He’ll be out another hour at least with the shot I gave him.”

“You drugged Søren?”

“I have a very well-stocked medicine cabinet in case of emergencies.”

“You’re crazy.”

Kingsley gave a shrug so nonchalant it could only be described as French.

“Turnabout is fair play, non? His turn to wear the handcuffs.”

Wesley could only stare at Søren on the floor. Even unconscious he had a certain broken nobility to him in his black clerics and his white collar. The one time Wesley had spoken face-to-face with the man, he’d been wearing secular clothes.

“He’s a priest,” Wesley said as the reality of Søren’s profession finally sank in. He knew, of course. He’d known from the beginning. Nora never hid that from him. But seeing the collar …

“He is. And possibly the finest priest in America if not the world. And if he wants to remain a priest and get his lover back, then it’s for the best we leave the authorities out of this. I can only protect his secrets so much. He’ll thank me later.”

Kingsley closed the door and started back down the hall.

“Kingsley, we have to call the police. I don’t care what happens to Søren or you or even me. We’re wasting time. We don’t even know where she is.”

“You call the police if your car gets stolen. You don’t call them for anything that matters. I know who has your fiancée, and believe me, if you value your beloved’s life at all, you will trust me—calling the authorities would equal a death sentence for her.”

The truth of the words shone in Kingsley’s eyes. As much as Wesley didn’t want to believe him, something told him that whatever happened to Nora, it wasn’t some kidnap for ransom, wasn’t some prank or game.

“The woman who has your fiancée is willing to kill. She’s done it before. She’s also willing to die. Something else she’s done before. A dangerous combination. We raise the alarm, the siren sounds, Nora dies.”

“How do you know this person’s willing to die?”

“Because, mon petit prince, she pissed me off. That is a good indictor she had a death wish.”

Kingsley’s brash words failed to give any comfort.

“They’re going to kill Nora, aren’t they? The words on the walls …” Wesley whispered, his heart clenching as he remembered the fear upon seeing the French words, even not knowing what they meant. “Søren said they mean ‘I will kill the bitch.’“

“If it comforts you at all, ‘the bitch’ is not your Nora. I’ll leave the story for the priest to tell.”

“No way. You knocked him out so now you’re going to tell me.” Wesley stared Kingsley down. Kingsley might be strong and dangerous, but he was also in pain and pain made him vulnerable. Wesley wouldn’t back down this time. “And you’re going to tell me now.”

Kingsley exhaled heavily through his nose before shrugging again.

“Those words—I will kill the bitch—were uttered thirty years ago by the woman the priest married at age eighteen. His wife, Marie-Laure … my sister.”

“Thirty years ago … Søren was married to your sister?”

“Yes. A marriage of convenience. That was what it was supposed to be. That is what he told her it would be. She wanted more, more than he could give.”

“She was in love with him?”

“Oui, or whatever she had in her heart that passed for love. Obsession would be a more accurate word. When she found out he loved another she said those words as a threat. For whatever reason she waited thirty years to carry out her threat.”

“Nora would have been four years old then. She didn’t even meet Søren until she was fifteen, which is bad enough. No way could Nora have been the other woman at four years old.”

“Exactement. That’s why I say you can take some comfort in that threat. That’s why I know she’s alive and safe … for the time being. Le prêtre was in love with someone else at the time. But your fiancée was not the bitch my sister meant.”

“Who was she, then? Maybe we should talk to her.”

Kingsley turned on his booted heel and gave Wesley a gallant mock bow.

“You already are, mon ami. The bitch … at your service.”

4 THE ROOK

As soon as she got to the hotel, Grace Easton decided she’d stay only one night. What was the point of such a beautiful room with a view of the ocean if she didn’t even have Zachary with her to share it? She stared out the window onto the beach and saw two birds dancing at the edge of the water, dancing and biting each other. A mating ritual, perhaps? Or fighting? Or both? Nora would say both, wouldn’t she? Grace smiled as she dug her phone out of her purse and called Nora’s number. When voice mail picked up, Grace left a quick message.

“Nora, it’s Grace. Zachary had to fill in for someone at a conference in Australia. I’m all alone in Rhode Island on holiday. Thinking of coming to the city. I’d love to get into some trouble with you.”

Grace knew such a message would surely get Nora’s attention. That woman had been threatening Grace with all sorts of scandalous fun if Grace ever dared cross into Nora’s territory again. Nora had said she would introduce Grace to Søren if she was feeling up to the challenge. Hopefully Nora would call back tonight so Grace could make some new plans. Nothing more depressing than staying alone in a honeymoon suite at a New England ? and B. Why had she come, anyway, other than habit? She and Zachary had vacationed here almost every year of their marriage. It was the one time Zachary could see his best mate Jason from university who’d moved here ten years ago. But now Zachary was trapped at a conference and Jason and his wife had canceled on them because of a family emergency. Grace was trapped alone on holiday in America. What would be better than getting into a little trouble with the one and only Nora Sutherlin? Maybe … maybe Nora was the reason she’d come without Zachary. Nora had practically dared her to take a walk on the wild side with her. Grace did love a challenge.

With a jet-lagged sigh, Grace pulled away from the window and dug through her carry-on bag. From it she pulled out her eReader and stretched out on the bed, deciding to read until she heard back from Nora. She’d gotten to the good part of the book right as her plane had landed.

“Harry?”

“You can do better than that,” came a voice from behind him. Blake turned around and saw Harrison sitting cross-legged on the floor. He’d laid down a plaid blanket and had a lantern sitting by his knee. The light from the flickering wick cast a golden shadow across his face. During the day at school all anyone saw of Harrison were his black retro glasses and the books that never left his hands. But Blake saw past the glasses, past the books.

“Better than what?”

“You’re really going to call me ‘Harry’ down here? While we’re alone together?”

“What am I supposed to call you? Mr. Braun? Sir?”

“I wouldn’t stop you if you did.”

“I’m not calling you ‘sir.’“

Harrison shrugged as he turned a page in the textbook in front of him.

“Suit yourself. You’re the one who started this.”

Blake considered turning around and leaving. This was the stupidest idea ever, anyway. He’d never forgive Mr. Pettit for forcing him and Harrison to write that paper together. One late night on Harrison’s bed arguing about the morality of Machiavelli’s political philosophy had brought him here to this moment.

“Me? You kissed me, remember?”

“You were begging for it.” Harrison glanced up at Blake over the top of his glasses. “Three chairs in my room and you sit on the bed next to me?”

“Why do you have so many fucking chairs in your room, anyway?” Blake sat down on the blanket across from Harrison.

“To see if you’d sit in them or choose the bed.”

“You were testing me?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I failed the first test.” Blake ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

“You sat on the bed next to me. I kissed you. You kissed back. Hate to tell you this, but you passed.”

Blake stared at Harrison and willed himself to hate him. It should have been easy to hate Harrison. Captain of the academic team, every teacher’s pet, only a junior but already he had scholarship offers from two Ivys. On top of that he was the one guy at their Catholic school who’d come out as gay. He’d done it on purpose, practically daring the school to expel him, expel the straight-? student, captain of the debate team, smartest fucking kid in school who’d won as many academic awards as Blake’s team had brought home soccer trophies. He wanted the fight, the publicity, the day in court. The more the other guys at school taunted and tortured him, calling him a “fag” and shoving him into lockers, the quieter, calmer and more determined he seemed to endure it with dignity. He always introduced himself as “Harrison” but everyone who hated him called him “Harry” just to be petty. Harrison didn’t blink, didn’t cry, didn’t act like he noticed the hate hurled his way.

It was Harrison’s noble stoicism in the face of torture that first caught Blake’s eye. That and that perfect fucking face of his that he hid behind those hipster glasses.

Harrison slammed the book shut and Blake jumped.

“Look, it’s 8:13 already.” Harrison took off his glasses and for the first time Blake saw his naked face. God fucking dammit, why did he have to feel this way for another guy? “They lock us up at nine. You came to me. You said you couldn’t stop thinking about me. You said you’ve never done anything with a guy before but you had to know for sure and maybe could we hang out and talk and … remember all that?”

“I remember.”

“Was that a lie? Or are we playing a game?”

“This isn’t a game to me,” Blake pledged.

“What is it, then?”

Because he couldn’t hold back anymore, Blake leaned forward and kissed Harrison. Unlike the first kiss on the bed two weeks ago, a kiss that had been slow and sensual and had left Blake questioning everything he ever wanted, thought or believed, this kiss fell flat on Harrison’s unmoving lips.

“What’s wrong?” Blake asked, terrified of the answer.

“You’re doing it wrong.” Harrison gazed at him with narrowed, hooded eyes. Their lips were only an inch apart.

“How do I do it right? Tell me … you’ve done this before.”

“Lesson one—don’t stop breathing.”

“What do you—”

Before Blake could finish asking his question, Harrison had him by the throat.

“I let the whole world fuck me over by day. But you and me, when we’re alone, it’s you who gets fucked. You get to run the school by day. At night, with me, you’re mine. I own you. You want to do this, you never forget that. So … do you want to do this?”

Blake swallowed and felt his Adam’s apple hitting Harrison’s hand.

“Yes, Harrison.”

“At least you finally got my name right.”

Harrison released Blake’s throat and without apology or further preliminaries rose up onto his knees and pulled his shirt off. Blake knew nothing of what Harrison did after school. Homework, right? But he must have been doing something other than studying to get those muscles in his biceps and on his stomach. Blake didn’t get much more time to stare because Harrison unzipped his jeans, grabbed Blake by the back of the neck and pulled his head down.

“Take it,” Harrison ordered, and Blake wrapped his mouth around him and sucked deep. He knew he should have been grossed out by this, by sucking off another guy. But he wanted it, wanted him, and couldn’t get enough.

On his hands and knees with Harrison’s cock down his throat, Blake felt, for the first time in his life, like he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing.

“Lesson two …” Harrison reached down and grabbed Blake by the chin, stopping him. “You get me this turned on and there will be consequences.”

“What kind?”

Harrison grabbed Blake’s shirt and pulled. The shirt came off first and then the jeans, the boxers right along with them.

“This kind.”

Grace finished reading the scene and let the eReader slide out of her hand as she closed her eyes. Her swollen clitoris pulsed against her fingers and every muscle in her back tightened like a coiled spring. The images flashed through her mind—the two teenage boys hiding their hunger for each other from the world, the bitterness that they had to hide making them all the more desperate for each other, the young mouths meeting, their bodies joining…. She came hard, rocking against her hand as her vaginal walls contracted against nothing.

She pulled her hand from between her thighs and lay gasping on the bed. Between gasps she heard something vibrating. Not a vibrator, though—she hadn’t packed hers.

Finding her phone, Grace raised it to her ear without checking the number.

“Hello,” she said, taking another breath.

“How’s my Gracie?”

“Amazing …” She gave a throaty laugh and heard Zachary chuckling on the other side of the world.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re amazing or are you leaving it to my imagination?”

“I’ve been reading.”

“Horrible idea. I hate books. Reading’s for bellends.”

“It’s one of your writers.”

“Writing’s for bellends.”

“What about editing? Do you recall editing one called All Hallows High?”

“Oh, God.”

Grace laughed again as she sat up in bed and rested against the headboard.

“What is that for? That ‘oh, God’? It’s fantastic.”

“I think Nora wrote it to test me.”

“It’s a romance novel. Not a very hard test.”

“It’s an erotica novel between two teenage boys at a Catholic school.”

“And?”

“And she’s trying to get a rise out of me with it.”

“She got one out of me. With my husband on the other side of the earth she’ll probably get another one out of me before the night’s over.”

“I’m glad you find a book that includes illegal sexual acts so erotic. The underage boys fuck each other.”

“You remember I’m a teacher. Teenagers, even the boys, do that sort of thing.”

“Oh, yes, and the teacher fucks the boys, too.”

“Dear Lord. Do the boys also—” she dropped her voice to a stage whisper “—smoke marijuana?”

“You’re mocking me.”

“You do remember that you lost your virginity at thirteen, and that I lost mine at eighteen to my own teacher, who happened to be you?”

“Please don’t call me out on my hypocrisy when I’m trying to be hypocritical.”

“Zachary.”

“What?”

“Stop being so vanilla.”

Zachary fell silent on the other end of the line and Grace could only cover her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Grace.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I know you do.” She grinned to herself, having much too much fun teasing her husband.

“So you’re enjoying the latest work of Ms. Sutherlin? Sounded like it from how breathlessly you answered the phone.”

“Love it. I slept with her editor to get an advance copy.”

Grace stood up and found an empty glass. She tucked the phone under her ear while she filled it with water. Her little reading session had been a workout. Nora’s books left her as breathless as her characters.

“Should I be worried that my wife is reading Nora Sutherlin’s books?”

“Why? Because she’s Nora Sutherlin the writer or because she’s Nora Sutherlin the woman you slept with last year?”

“Can you tell me the right answer before I give my answer?”

“‘Neither’ is the right answer. You have nothing to worry about.”

“My wife is masturbating to my ex-lover’s books. Nothing good can come of this.”

“Orgasms came of it.”

“Other than that.”

“Your wife knows her husband is in love with her and is devoted to their marriage. Your wife knows that Nora Sutherlin isn’t a threat to her marriage. And your wife knows all of this even knowing her husband still carries a torch for Ms. Nora Sutherlin.”

“Now that’s not true at all. I adore her, yes, even if she will be the death of me someday. But the feelings are entirely of the friendship variety. Nothing more.”

“It must be so much easier to lie to me on the phone instead of face-to-face.” Grace pulled the covers down on the bed and slipped in.

“It is, come to mention it.”

Grace sighed as she pulled her leg to her chest and rested her chin on her knee.

“I borrowed your coat the other day. Your gray trench. Couldn’t find mine and it was raining. Stuck my hand in the pocket and guess what I found?”

She almost laughed aloud at the sound of Zachary’s heavy guilty sigh coming from the other side of the world.

“A black tie?”

“A black tie … that for some reason smelled of hothouse flowers. I only ever remember meeting one person in my entire life with that scent on her. Beautiful woman with green eyes and black hair and spectacular cleavage. Sound familiar at all?”

“Vaguely familiar.”

Grace remembered how her hand had trembled when she saw the black silk tie, smelled it. That day she met Nora, she remembered that scent, the scent of flowers that thrived in captivity even if they didn’t belong there.

“She put it in my pocket, and I didn’t know she’d done it. It was a joke, not some precious souvenir.”

“And you kept it in your pocket for over a year because …?”

“You never know when you’ll need a spare tie.”

Grace stopped talking and took a drink of her water.

“Are you angry?” Zachary asked, and she heard real concern in his voice. They teased each other often about that year they spent apart, he in America, she still in London. That year had been so hard and so hellish for the both of them that the only way they could face the memory of it was by mocking it, defying it to have any power over their marriage.

“No, I’m not angry. I think I’d worry about you if you weren’t still attracted to her. My only worry is …”

“What?”

“I’m sure this won’t make any sense but … do you miss her? Or do you miss it? Nora’s quite specific. There’s no one like her so I understand if you miss her. But if you miss it, miss the sort of sex you had with her that you and I don’t have, then I’d be worried.”

“I miss her,” he said, and Grace believed him. “I won’t lie. She and I had an amazing passionate night together. I saw another world with her, a world I never even dreamed existed. It was eye-opening to say the least, and I’m certainly glad I got to see it. But it’s not my world. You’re my world.”

“You’re my world, too,” she confessed, smiling through tears. They’d only been apart two days and she was already getting emotional and maudlin. Damn Zachary for being so lovable, so missable.

“So we’re all right? You forgive your husband for occasionally having fond reminisces about a wild American girl he once—”

“Once?”

“Or twice. Or … more than twice.”

“It’s unfair. I know I’m supposed to be jealous that you had a night of sex with a beautiful woman who writes torrid books and lives a scandalous life,” she said in her most dramatic Masterpiece Theater voice. “But really I’m jealous that you got to see that world. What does she call it?”

“The Underground.”

“Yes, you got to see the Underground. S&M clubs and Dominatrixes and wealthy and powerful deviants. Meanwhile, I was falling asleep in my tea while Ian droned on about bloody exchange rates.”

“So you’re telling me that you’re not jealous that I slept with Nora Sutherlin and still miss her from time to time. You’re jealous that I had more fun committing adultery than you did.”

“Entirely correct.”

“You’re not far from the city. Call Nora. Tell her to show you the Underground. Have some fun adultery for once.”

Grace felt her conscience bite her. Not much of a bite. More a nibble.

“I did call Nora already,” Grace confessed. “Got her voice mail. Thought we could meet for a drink.”

“Nora doesn’t have one drink. She has drinks—plural. And kinks—plural. Be prepared for a long night if you end up in the passenger seat of her car.”

“I’ll say my prayers. Are you sure you’ll be fine with me spending some time with her?”

She heard him sigh and her heart clenched to hear it. She could picture his face right now, so striking with his ice-blue eyes and thoughtfully furrowed brow.

“Gracie, I know you’ve been under so much stress lately. I know how hard this has been on you.”

He didn’t have to say what “this” was. This was their failed quest to get pregnant that had left them both emotionally exhausted.

“A little,” she admitted in a choked whisper.

“Go have fun, darling. You deserve a night off.”

“So … how much fun are you willing to let me have?”

“As much as you want. I had mine. You go have yours. Be careful and don’t give me any details about it the next day. Ignorance is bliss.”

“What if you find a black tie in my coat pocket that smells like some handsome bloke?”

“I’ll think positively. I’ll pretend you murdered a stranger and kept the tie as a memento.”

“Fair enough.”

“Call Nora again. Give her my lust. And tell her to please write a book that isn’t specifically designed to get us all arrested next time. Oh, and remind her that her edits are due on Monday.”

“I’ll pass the message along. If you need me, I’ll be in the Underground. So try not to need me.”

“Have a good time. Be safe. Stay away from men in collars.”

“Are the male submissives dangerous?” she asked, feeling rather proud she knew the terminology.

“I was talking about priests.”

They bid their good-nights and Grace hung up the phone. Priests … as if she could stay away from Nora’s priest. Ever since Zachary first told her about Søren, Grace knew she had to meet this man someday. During her first phone call with Nora, she’d grilled her relentlessly, fascinated to speak to a woman who had a Catholic priest for a lover.

A priest … really?

My priest. He’s been my priest since I was fifteen years old. I hope you’re scandalized. It’s no fun if you’re not scandalized.

Thoroughly scandalized. Is he handsome?

Is the pope Catholic?

I’ll take that as a yes. Zachary’s not very fond of him.

Zach has terrible taste in men.

He said Søren wasn’t nice.

Søren isn’t nice. But he’s good.

Good? How good?

He’s the best man on earth.

That’s quite a claim. I’ll have to meet this man if he’s the best man on earth.

I’ll introduce you someday. One word of advice—show no fear.

Show no fear?

Seriously. He’s like a big cat with a catnip toy if you give him your fear to play with.

How big of a cat are we talking about?

Lion. Big damn lion.

You make him sound dangerous.

Oh, he is dangerous. Just part of his charm. But he’s not half as dangerous as Kingsley is. Søren calls the shots. Kingsley’s the trig-german.

And what do you do?

You already know the answer to that, Grace. Anything I want to.

Grace found herself smiling again at the memory of the conversation. Zachary did say he trusted her, and she had to admit she’d rather regret not taking him up on his offer. She and Zachary almost always vacationed in Rhode Island in August, the week before her school year started again. Only his conference in Australia had been moved and now they were on opposite ends of the earth. Would be nice having a little adventure. And she did want to meet this priest of Nora’s. Any man who scared her husband, the infamous London Fog of publishing, that was a man she had to meet.

Grace picked up the phone again and dialed Nora.

This time someone answered.

But it wasn’t Nora.

5 THE PAWN

Laila slipped off her shoes and socks and stepped onto the lush green grass eager for the reunion she knew was at hand. She crossed the lawn toward the dense copse of trees. The sidewalk could have taken her there but she’d much rather dig her bare feet into the earth. All her life she’d dreamed of America, dreamed of this country so much larger than her own. Maybe it was even big enough to hold all her hopes and dreams. Denmark felt like an old relative she’d long worn out with courtesy visits. America seemed new and fresh to her, not covered in the dust of dead kingdoms.

Her steps slowed. She found the house hidden deep in the trees and smiled at the sight of it. No wonder her uncle Søren loved it here so much. No wonder he never let them send him anywhere else. Such a pretty house, this little two-story Gothic cottage that looked like something off the cover of a mystery novel.

Laila knocked once and received no answer. Another knock. Still nothing. Strange … she would have thought at least one of them would be waiting for her at the rectory. Last week she’d received an email from her tante Elle offering to fly her to the States for a week. “Shh …” read the note. “Let’s give your uncle a big surprise.”

So where was her aunt? And where was her uncle? With a nervous hand, Laila turned the doorknob and found the door unlocked. The flight had been delayed an hour in London. Maybe her aunt and uncle were home. Perhaps they were … occupied. She wouldn’t put it past them to steal a spare hour. Laila found herself smiling as she stepped into the kitchen.

She’d worn that smile before when she’d caught them in an embrace during a visit last year. An embrace and a whisper, a whisper and a kiss … Laila had seen the glint in a pair of green eyes, a glint that hinted the embrace was merely a prelude to a nighttime symphony.

“Wipe that smile off your face, young lady,” her uncle had ordered her as he’d pulled back and crossed his arms across his broad chest.

“Why?” she’d asked. “Am I not supposed to know about—” and she dropped her voice to a whisper “—sex?”

“No, you are not.” He’d given her a look so stern it nearly scared her. Or would have scared her had someone else not reached up and flicked him on the ear.

“She’s seventeen. She’s allowed to know about the birds and the bees and that you and I very often engage in the birds and the bees. More bees than birds. Like last night, for example. And this morning. And—”

And whatever came after the “and” got muffled under her uncle’s hand.

“Laila,” he said with deliberate, menacing calm to Laila and the woman he gently, playfully suffocated under his hand, “is not to know about sex or talk about sex or have sex. Ever. I’ll never have children. She is therefore my honorary daughter. With her love of animals, Laila was no doubt destined for the Franciscans. I have the perfect convent picked out for her. Her room is already reserved. Now I have spoken. Nod if you understand.”

And Laila and the woman in his arms nodded even as she giggled all the way back to her bedroom.

Of course she knew about sex. She knew he had it all the time with her “aunt,” as she and Gitte, her sister, thought of her. Not that it bothered her. She wasn’t Catholic, after all. Why should she care if he had a lover?

And such a lover he had … No one seeing her could blame him for what he’d done. Then again, no one seeing him could ever blame her, either. As a younger girl, she’d envied her aunt in a way. Her feelings about her uncle made her ashamed of herself sometimes until she got a little older and realized she didn’t want him so much as she wanted what they had, her onkel Søren and tante Elle. What they had … it seemed like magic to her. She even thought of it as not a thing so much or a feeling, but as a place. The Enchanted Kingdom of Adulthood, she’d dubbed it. Adults alone lived in that world and as a girl she’d longed to gain entrance into it and learn all its secrets.

Whenever around her aunt and uncle she felt like she stood outside the gate and could see through the bars. She only needed the key. Love. That was the key. Adult love. Private love. Passionate love between two people who told secrets with their bodies. She’d learned about love watching her aunt and uncle doing nothing but talking to each other. There had only been those few visits, once a year, sometimes twice, but they were enough to teach her that love wasn’t something one found only in books. The kind of love that knights fought for and kings died for and ships were launched for and poets recorded for posterity—it was real. She’d seen it. She wanted what they had, wanted that secret that they told each other without even saying a word. She’d seen it pass between them with every glance. Maybe she would have that someday, she wished every time she’d seen it. Maybe she’d find it here in America.

Silence filled the rectory. She heard nothing, no one. What if he was with her now in his bedroom? Maybe that’s why the quiet all about her resonated with restless energy. In a house so small surely she could hear the sounds of passion even upstairs and behind closed doors. Or was it possible to make love entirely in silence? She doubted her aunt could. As a girl of ten, Laila had discovered that if she sat on the floor with her ear to the wall, she could hear them at night. That young she never quite understood what she heard—breathy gasps, warm, illicit murmurs, a moan followed by silence. Sounds of pleasure caused by … what? Then she hadn’t known. She’d heard other sounds, too—whimpers, cries, quiet noises that sounded far more like pain than pleasure. It gave her the strangest feeling in her stomach to sit by the wall at night and force herself to stay awake and listen to them in their bedroom. Sometimes she felt something like jealousy. Sometimes her whole body shuddered with a need for something she couldn’t name.

Shuddering … that’s what it was. The house seemed to shudder as soon as Laila stepped foot into the kitchen. Laila’s happiness here started to falter. Something didn’t feel right. Never before had she breached her uncle’s home, but she knew the house, like him, would be meticulous, nearly immaculate. And it was. Nothing out of place. Nothing disturbed. Nothing wrong. But still … everything seemed wrong. She passed through the kitchen and into the living room. Beautiful, of course. A thousand books. One perfect grand piano. A fireplace naked without a fire. She found a staircase and took it to the second floor. She found the bathroom, the office…. When she stepped into the bedroom, she almost blushed.

Laila couldn’t look at the made bed without imagining the sheets askew. Four years ago, her aunt and uncle had come to her grandmother’s funeral, and as usual after everyone had gone to bed, Laila pressed her ear to the wall and listened. She’d expected to hear the usual sounds of passion, of pain. Or maybe only talking. But that night she heard them doing something she’d never heard them do before in the Enchanted Kingdom of Adulthood—fighting.

“I don’t want to discuss this with you, Eleanor.”

“The funeral’s tomorrow. We need to talk about it.”

“You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did. I thought you might want … she might have wanted …”

“No, she wouldn’t. She gave it to you. She wanted you to have it. Unless it means nothing to you anymore.” Laila heard the bitterness in her uncle’s voice.

“It means as much to me as it always did. I only thought that since I left you, you might want to bury it with her.”

“You might have left me, but I never left you. Keep it if you want it at all.”

“At all?” Her aunt sounded aghast. “It’s my most precious possession.”

Laila’s stomach had clenched so hard at her tante Eleanor’s words and the fervency in her voice. As was her habit, she reached up to her neck and wrapped her hand around the locket that rested in the hollow of her throat for comfort.

“As you are mine.”

Then Laila had almost stopped listening. The sorrow in her uncle’s voice cut into her, his words sharp as a knife.

“Don’t … don’t make this harder than it is.”

“It couldn’t be any harder than it is, Little One.”

Silence came after that but only for a moment before she heard her uncle’s voice again, tender and careful.

“Forgive me. I’m so grateful you’re here. For me … for them.”

“They don’t know, do they? You haven’t told them I left you.”

“I only told Freyja. Laila and Gitte worship you. I didn’t want to hurt the girls.”

Laila heard laughter then, but it did nothing to untie the knots.

“What are you laughing at?” The mirth in her uncle’s voice calmed her momentarily.

“You saying you didn’t want to hurt the girls. Not your usual style, is it?”

“You keep smiling like that, and I’ll turn you over my knee.”

“Now that’s more like it.”

An intimate silence filled the room again—a silence that hinted at kisses and other more private acts.

“I’ll stay as long as you want or need me to. And I’ll keep this until the day I die. But if one of the girls asks me about us … I won’t lie to them.”

War had broken out in the Enchanted Kingdom of Adulthood. She wanted to hear no more. But she couldn’t stop listening.

Laila backed out of her uncle’s empty bedroom, a bedroom she knew she didn’t belong in, and returned to the kitchen. She’d hoped to find sanctuary here but now she felt only troubled. The very air in the entryway seemed worried, as if someone had left in a great hurry and offered the house no explanation.

She wandered around the kitchen, afraid for some reason to venture out but also afraid to stay put. Maybe she should call the church. She had that phone number. He might be gone but his secretary could be working there. Maybe she had an emergency number.

Laila went to the kitchen phone not wanting to use her cell. When she reached it she discovered at last a cause for her concern.

The rectory had a landline still. Had he been there, she would have teased her uncle for being part of a church so old-fashioned they still used big black rotary phones with dangling cords. But her small smile died when she lifted the receiver and found a crack in the cradle. More than a crack, the phone was marred by a huge ugly gash. The handset, too, was damaged. She stared at the phone in her hand before resting it gently onto the cradle again. Someone had been on the phone and hung it up so violently and with such force the phone had cracked open. As a small child she’d hung off her uncle’s arms like a monkey on a tree—sometimes she clung to his biceps with her hands, sometimes she hung upside down from her knees. It seemed he could keep her suspended in the air forever. As long as she hung and she’d swung, she’d never once feared he would drop her. And he never had. She’d never met a man stronger than her uncle. Only a man of incredible strength could have done this kind of damage with one fierce slam.

Even as her body started to shake, Laila’s mind began to race. She needed to get out and seek safety. She picked up her suitcase and raced to the door, but the sound of footfalls on the hardwood stalled her steps.

She spun around ready to thank God her uncle had come back and would make everything okay again like he always did.

But it wasn’t him.

And nothing was okay.

6 THE QUEEN

A smiling woman stood before Nora. She wore an elegant black-and-purple dress, understated lipstick and a maleficent gleam in her dark eyes. Nora’s chair faced a large window. The sun had already set; the diaphanous curtains moved in the evening breeze like green smoke surrounding her. The woman, whoever she was, looked about forty-five years old and had long dark hair classically coiffed. And for some reason something about the set of her lips, the line of her jaw, reminded her of Kingsley.

“Who are you?” Nora said, her voice groggy with pain. She didn’t follow up with “Where am I?” because she didn’t want to know.

“You don’t know?”

“If I knew, why would I ask?”

Nora pulled on the handcuffs behind her back. She had small hands and could sometimes squeeze out of handcuffs if she had enough wiggle room. But they were clapped on tight, too tight, and no lock pick set or hairpins were to be found. Her heart thundered in newfound panic.

“I’ll give you a hint,” the woman said with a smile that held no friendliness at all. “You’ve slept with my husband.”

“That doesn’t winnow the field down as much as you think it would.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at Nora and something in that look seemed so familiar, she suddenly knew exactly who it was who faced her. Terror, real terror, gripped Nora’s heart with hooked talons.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Nora whispered.

“You’re Catholic. Haven’t you ever heard of resurrection?”

“Marie-Laure.” Of course she was. She looked so much like Kingsley it was as if she was a house he haunted.

“Marie-Laure Constance Stearns. Comment ça va?”

Nora swallowed.

“I’ve been better,” she said in answer to Marie-Laure’s question. “Usually when I’m handcuffed it’s consensual.”

“Only usually?”

“I get arrested a lot.”

Marie-Laure came toward her and bent over. She stood so close and studied her with such scrutiny that Nora could smell her perfume—cypress—and see the crow’s feet mostly hidden by an impressive makeup job under her eyes.

“See something you like?” Nora asked as she leaned back in the chair trying to move her head as far from Marie-Laure’s as possible.

“Simply trying to see what he sees in you. My husband, I mean. I’m not finding it yet.”

“I give great head.”

The retort was answered with a slap, hard and fast, to her left cheek.

Nora winced and blinked her now-tear-filled eyes.

“You are seriously good at that,” she said. “Wow.” Søren had slapped her harder than that but only once ever, on the night she’d gone back to him.

“I thought my husband was a man of refined tastes.”

“In wine and books and music, he is. Terrible taste in women, though. Obviously.”

Nora braced herself for another slap. It didn’t come.

Marie-Laure took a few steps back until she stood at the window again. Something about that window, this room … Nora had a feeling she’d been in this house before, but when? She remembered it like she remembered a dream—all haze and feeling, no substance.

“I was only twenty-one years old when I got married. And he’d turned eighteen on our wedding night. We weren’t much more than children then, so I forgave him for not loving me.”

“How Christian of you.”

“You see … shortly after we married, I discovered the truth about him and my brother. They tried to keep it from me. But I knew. I saw them whispering together at times, saw the way my husband looked at my brother when he should have been looking at me. Kingsley boasted of his female conquests. As a girl I thought he was exaggerating. Then when I knew about him and my husband, I thought he’d been lying the whole time. Embarrassed, a cover-up.”

“Kingsley’s not gay. Neither is Søren. Not that there’s anything … well, you know.”

“I realize that now. Then I thought they were, that they were deeply in love with each other. I knew my marriage was ostensibly for money—that’s what he said, anyway—but I agreed to it because I knew he’d love me eventually. Why wouldn’t he?”

“I can think of a few reasons,” Nora said, determined to piss Marie-Laure off as much as possible. What a fucking lunatic. If she survived this, Nora would kill Søren for marrying Marie-Laure all those years ago. On paper it had seemed like the perfect solution. Marie-Laure and Kingsley had had no money. Søren had his trust fund just waiting for him to get married or turn twenty-one. If Søren and Marie-Laure married, no one could say a word about all the time Kingsley and Søren spent alone together. They could have lived in the same house. And Marie-Laure would have been rich and free to do whatever she wanted with whomever she wanted. But it was Søren she wanted, the one man whose love she would never have. And the plan that looked so perfect on paper, the marriage that meant everyone would win … for Kingsley, Søren and Marie-Laure, it had been the beginning of the end of everything. Maybe even Nora’s life.

“Everyone loved me at that school. I had every boy there falling all over himself for me. When I knew my husband had no interest in me, I even took one of them up on his offer. One of the students, a boy named Christian. Perfect, non? Oh, and one of the priests.”

“That’s shocking.”

“They’d never seen a girl as beautiful as I was. How is that shocking?”

“Other than Søren I’ve never met a priest who was interested in women.”

Marie-Laure gave her a smile so sweet Nora almost wished the woman would slap her again. Anything other than that smile.

“He must love beating you.”

“He’s a sadist. Of course he does.”

“Does that bother you? That he’s a sadist? That he needs to inflict pain to become aroused?”

“You’re going to interrogate me about my relationship with Søren?”

“You have other plans?”

Nora had her hands cuffed behind her back and it felt like the cuffs themselves were attached to the chair.

“Guess not. What do you know about Søren, anyway? You haven’t seen him in thirty years. How do you even know what he’s into? How did you even find me? What do you want?”

The questions finally poured out of Nora as she gave in to her fear.

“What do I want?” Marie-Laure repeated the final question. “That I will tell you. I want to have a long talk with my husband.”

“You could have called him. Phone at the rectory. He’s got a cell phone, too, although the church pays for it so he tries not to use it for personal calls. He’s anal like that.”

“No … I tried to talk to him before when we were together. I asked him over and over again what was wrong with him that he didn’t want to be with me.”

“Maybe he just wasn’t that into you,” Nora offered, but Marie-Laure ignored her.

“So if I had someone he loved here, someone he wanted to protect, then perhaps he might finally answer the questions I have. I can’t quite believe he does love you, though. Especially now that I’ve met you.”

Nora looked down at herself, her stained jeans, her bloody white tank top, her hair in lank, dirty waves. No doubt she looked as bad as she felt.

“This isn’t me at my best, I promise.”

“I’ve seen you at your best. I still wasn’t impressed.”

“Jesus, tell me how you really feel.”

“I cannot quite fathom that he cares as deeply for you as I would need him to, so I brought in a little … what’s that phrase? Backup?”

She called out a name then; it sounded like “Damon.”

A man entered the room. She knew it was a man from the sound of his footsteps even though Nora couldn’t see him.

He and Marie-Laure spoke to each other in French, which Nora caught most of. She heard “handcuffs” and “Bring in the girl.”

The girl? This couldn’t be good.

Whoever he was stood behind Nora and uncuffed her from the chair.

Nora brought her arms around and massaged her wrists. She almost felt more secure cuffed to the chair. If they uncuffed her it was probably because they weren’t afraid of her. She didn’t like being the woman in the room no one was afraid of.

Nora stayed in her chair and didn’t turn around when she heard the door open behind her again. But when the door opened a third time, she heard the pained cry of a young woman. She stood up and spun around.

“Laila?” Nora recognized the girl at once—Søren’s niece. The man let Laila go, and she rushed into Nora’s arms.

“Tante Elle,” Laila cried as they sunk to the floor together. Nora pulled her close and held tight to the girl’s trembling body.

“You psycho bitch, what the fuck are you doing?” she demanded, turning back to Marie-Laure.

Laila clung to Nora, who could only pull the girl closer and rock her in her arms. She seemed mostly unharmed. A cracked lip, a bloody bruise on her cheek. She must have fallen in some sort of struggle.

“Are you all right?” she whispered to Laila in the little Danish she remembered.

“Okay,” Laila whispered back. “I was at Onkel Søren’s house. They grabbed me and—”

“You two look very sweet,” Marie-Laure said. “And aren’t we a lovely trio? We have the wife, the mistress and the niece all here together. I thought about taking one of his sisters, but the little girl’s better. Men always do prefer the younger ones. Look at you …” Marie-Laure studied Laila’s face. “Such a beautiful thing. You look like him. Different eyes, though. Sweet blue eyes, not gray. All the boys must be in love with you.”

Laila shuddered in Nora’s arms.

“No one is in love with me,” she said, and Nora kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Jeg elsker dig” into Laila’s ear—I love you.

“Don’t worry. Love is overrated. But tell me something about love, Laila,” Marie-Laure said, coming close to where Nora and Laila sat huddled on the ground. She sensed the man hovering behind them so she made no move to escape. It was too dangerous, especially now with Laila there shivering in her arms almost paralyzed from fear.

“What?” Laila asked, her voice quaking. Nora ran her hand up and down Laila’s back, trying to instill some comfort into the girl.

“Does your uncle love this woman?” She inclined her head toward Nora. “This whore of his? Does he love her?”

Laila looked up at Nora, who only nodded her head, indicating Laila should tell the truth as best she could.

“Yes,” Laila said. “Of course he does. She’s …” Laila’s voice broke and tears started to stream down her face. Nora started crying then, too, in simple fear for Laila. “She’s everything to him. She’s like his wife.”

Marie-Laure’s eyes flinched but she only turned back to Nora.

“What about her?” Marie-Laure said to Nora. “Does he love his niece?”

“Of course he does, you lunatic. She’s like a daughter to him.”

“The pretend wife or the pretend daughter? So hard to choose … I need to keep one of you here. But one of you needs to go to him and deliver a message. But who does he love more? Whom should I keep? Whom should I send? Whoever stays, we’ll have a wonderful time together, me and my houseguest.”

The man, Damon, stepped forward and into Nora’s field of vision. Had she seen him on the street she would have thought him homeless as gaunt and bitter as he looked. Thin and short, but those traits only made him look more menacing. He had a deadly tilt to his mouth and a roughness about his edges despite his expensive gray suit. He had the same look in his eyes that Kingsley had—the look of a man who’d killed without caring and could still sleep at night.

“I know …” Marie-Laure continued. “I’ll let you two decide. Choose. Who stays? Who goes? Quick, quick. Tell me.”

A smile of pure malice swept across Marie-Laure’s face. Laila gasped and started to speak.

Nora clapped her hand over Laila’s mouth.

“I’ll stay,” Nora said immediately and without hesitation. “Send Laila with whatever stupid fucking message you have. I’ll be your houseguest as long as you want.”

Marie-Laure shrugged seemingly unimpressed and unsurprised by Nora’s answer.

“C’est la vie. I think you’ll be more fun to play with, anyway. Damon?”

The man stepped forward, grabbed Laila by the arm and hauled her to her feet. Marie-Laure met her eye to eye.

Nora started to stand up but Damon shot her a warning look. Nora sank back down the floor. Instead, she reached up and clasped Laila’s hand.

“Tell your uncle, my husband …” Marie-Laure dropped her voice to a whisper. “That I gave him my death as a gift. And now I’m taking my gift back.”

7 THE KING

Even knowing how futile it would be, Kingsley made phone calls to a few of his better sources—one in the upper echelons of the NYPD, another in the FBI. They both pledged to quietly investigate but they made him no other promises. He would have made more calls but couldn’t afford the risk. Only being a priest brought Søren the same measure of peace that owning Nora did. If it got out that not only was Søren still married somehow but also had a lover, the justice of the church would come down swift and merciless. Only last year Kingsley had read a story in the news about a Catholic priest who’d fallen in love with a woman and married her. The consequence? Excommunication. Strange justice. Priests who molested children were put into counseling. The priests who fell in love with adults were damned. And Søren wondered why Kingsley had never converted.

Not a week ago Kingsley had wished to see a world without Nora Sutherlin in it. Had that stray, bitter whim brought this upon them? He was no fool. A world without Nora Sutherlin was a world without Søren. If the priest lost his Little One, especially if her death happened because of something Søren had done, no matter how inadvertently, it would mean his destruction. Søren couldn’t live in a world without Nora. Kingsley couldn’t live in a world without Søren. Her death would be like the sinking of a great ship. She would take them all down with her.

Marie-Laure … Kingsley sat on the edge of his desk, his forehead in his hand. Ma soeur, what have you done? And what had they done, he and Søren, as boys? How much guilt did he bear for this crime? He knew Søren had told Marie-Laure their marriage would be one in name only. It would be for the money and nothing else. But Marie-Laure, vain and mad with love, refused to accept that.

Did he say he loved you?

Non … but he should. He must. He’s my husband.

He told you why he married you. He did it for us, Marie-Laure, to help us.

I don’t want his money. I want him.

You can’t have him.

Why not?

And to that question—pourquoi pas?—Kingsley had no answer. No, he did have an answer but one he couldn’t tell her, wouldn’t tell her. Because he’s mine, not yours, he could have said. Because he loves me, not you, he wanted to say. Because I’d rather see you dead than let him touch you the way he touches me.

That final treacherous thought was the one that haunted Kingsley for the past thirty years. He never uttered it, only in his mind, his heart, and yet he still carried the guilt of how much he’d meant the words at the time. Sitting on the edge of his desk, staring out onto the midnight city, he conjured that horrible memory of his sister’s body in the snow on the ground. His targets were all demons back in his days as a Jack-of-all-deadly-trades for the French government. The world slept better when Kingsley put a bullet in those chests. He aimed for the heart and left easily identifiable corpses. They might be demons but they came from somewhere and he knew someone would want a body to bury in an open casket. He could at least give them that. After all, the body he’d seen at his feet the day he thought Marie-Laure had died … nothing before or since, not even seeing his parents in urns, had turned his stomach like that. The rock had shattered her face. Nothing but gray matter oozed from the broken skull. The body, too, was broken, nothing but a bag of bones. Only her left hand had survived the fall. The wedding band on the ring finger had shone clean and bright and golden in the sunlight. Not dented, not scraped, not bloodied. That’s how he should have known the ring had been planted on the dead girl’s hand.

And the dead girl … who was she? Kingsley had barely glanced at the newspaper article Søren had uncovered. A young runaway from Quebec coming to America for a better life. What did she run from? An abusive father? A broken heart? Poverty? Or was she running to something, or someone? Whatever reason, she deserved better than to die like that, her body so torn up by the rock that had killed her they’d had to carry her away in two bags. It seemed too convenient to imagine the girl had been the victim of a simple accident, falling from the cliff to her death. He and Søren had had to abandon the hermitage where they’d had their assignations. Perhaps the girl had taken refuge there in the winter and Marie-Laure had met her on one of her long walks. Had his sister befriended the girl? Had they shared confidences? Did Marie-Laure tell the girl all about her marital troubles? The husband who wouldn’t touch her? Did Marie-Laure lure her to the edge of the cliff and push her to her death? Her shock at seeing him and Søren kissing seemed genuine at the time. Kingsley had wanted her to see them together, had timed his confrontation with Søren in the hopes Marie-Laure would discover them in some state of passion or undress. Then she would know the truth without either of them having to tell her. Then she could see how much Søren loved Kingsley, not her. Then she would understand the truth and move on.

Foolish boys they were. Children playing dangerous games after dark, as Søren had said. So foolishly wrapped up in lust for each other they never even noticed that Marie-Laure was playing her own dangerous game with them.

Now Nora could end up like that runaway on the snowy ground. And that left Kingsley with no choice but to do now what he merely fantasized about thirty years ago.

He would see his sister dead.

The phone rang and Kingsley answered it in an instant.

“Report.”

“I miss you, monsieur,” came a rich, honeyed voice on the other end of the line. “How is that for a report?”

Kingsley sighed as he felt tension releasing from his body like air from a popped balloon.

“Jules, you’re breaking the rules,” he teased. Hearing her voice, her laugh, was everything he needed and the last thing he wanted.

“You can punish me for it when I come home. I know you told me not to call until you said I could, but I had to hear your voice. It’s been a week.”

“A very long week, my Jewel. And it’s only getting longer.”

Kingsley ran a hand through his hair and wished it was Juliette’s hand on him. Søren had destroyed him during their night together. He needed Juliette’s touch to restore him again. But that would have to wait.

“Let me come home. Let me take care of you. It’s my place.”

“You have to take care of yourself now. It’s not safe here.” He wanted to say more, to tell her the truth of what had happened. The risk was too great, however. No woman in the world submitted more beautifully in the bedroom and acted so independently outside of it. If she knew how bad it had gotten, she’d be on the next flight back to the city, his orders be damned. “You can come home when it is safe. No sooner.”

“Is it going to be like this from now on?”

“Oui,” he said without apology.

“Have you told le prêtre?”

“Non. He has too much on his mind now.”

“You try to protect us all,” Juliette said, and he heard the love in her voice—the love and the exasperation. “You must let someone take care of you. Let me take care of you.”

“I’m fine. I am. We all are.”

“Is he? Did Nora come back?”

Kingsley swallowed. He hated lying to his Juliette. She was as much his confessor as Søren was Nora’s.

“He’s been better. And non, she is not back yet. Juliette …” He paused to gather his words. With so many lies he had to give her some truth. “Søren and I, we were together.”

He heard that musical laugh of hers all the way from Haiti.

“No wonder you sound so tired.”

“It’s part of it, oui.” He laughed, too, but the laugh quickly died. “My Jewel, you know—”

“I know,” she said quickly and simply and without the slightest hint of judgment or fear in her voice. “I know you love him. I know he loves you, too.”

“He loves me? From your lips to God’s ears. He loves only her.”

“You forget we love more than one person. You do, she does, he does … I do.”

“You’ve fallen in love already?”

“Bien sûr. You’ll have to share me now.”

“As long as I have you at night.”

He pictured her now, his Juliette, standing on the balcony staring at the ocean, her statuesque beauty, her dark skin glowing in the fading evening sunlight. They’d met on a beach at the edge of the ocean, and he couldn’t see rising water without thinking of her. He’d never forget the first time he saw her. Some children on vacation had been pelting a native bird’s nest with stones. Juliette decided to give them a taste of their own medicine. A grown woman throwing rocks at the spoiled scions of white American tourists. He’d been doomed from the start.

“Every night, my love. All my nights are yours.”

Kingsley heard the front bell at the door and voices in the hall—Griffin and a woman’s voice. A woman’s voice he’d never heard before.

“I must go. No rest for the wicked,” he said.

“Mon roi,” she whispered, and Kingsley’s heart clenched at the name she called him only in their most private moments. “Please, be safe. I need you.”

A thousand times she’d whispered that to him … breathed it across silk sheets as she crawled to him, moaned it into his ear as he entered her. But those words had a new meaning now that had nothing to do with passion anymore.

“I need you, too,” he said. “I need you to do as I tell you. Stay there. Stay safe. You’ll be home soon.”

“Promise?”

He paused before answering. He could promise her nothing now, should promise her nothing.

“I promise.” Sometimes a needful lie was less a sin than the truth.

He hung up the phone and forced thoughts of Juliette from his mind. No time for emotion or sentimentality. No time for love, not when he had a job to do. And while no one on earth admired or adored women more than Kingsley, a battlefield was no place for them and he could not deny that his world had turned into a war zone. He and Søren would find a way to get Nora back. And her fiancé, Wesley, who was young but certainly no coward. Any man who braved the bed of Nora Sutherlin and the wrath of le prêtre could be called many things, but not a coward.

Kingsley stood up straight and took a deep breath. He felt better now. Juliette was safe and far away from all this madness. The three of them—Wesley, Søren and he—would find a way to deal with this crisis on their own. They’d put no more women at risk. He should ban them all from the house for the time being. He would exile them, send them all away. They were too fragile, too at risk in such a dangerous time.

He started toward the door to his office but it opened before he got to it.

A beautiful redheaded woman, her pale skin painted with freckles, swept into the office ahead of Griffin.

“Ma’am, you can’t barge in—” Griffin said, and Kingsley raised his hand.

“Hello,” the woman said, facing Kingsley.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, you can tell me what the hell is going on. Where’s Nora?”

“I would tell you if I knew, madame. Perhaps you could tell me who the hell you are?”

“My name is Grace Easton, and I know that means nothing to you, but I’m friends with Nora. I tried to call her and got Wesley. He told me someone had taken her and …”

She continued speaking in her light and musical accent. While she spoke Kingsley walked over to one of his filing cabinets, opened it and thumbed through files. He pulled one out, walked back over to her and let her finish her speech.

“… and I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s going on or at least lets me speak to Wesley. I know I seem like a madwoman showing up out of nowhere and you have no idea who I am but I promise—”

“Grace Easton, neé Rowan, age thirty,” Kingsley said, opening the file. “Irish mother. Welsh father. Fluent in Welsh, I see. I think that’s the one language le prêtre doesn’t speak. You’re much more beautiful now than you were back in school, and you were très jolie back in your school days. No wonder Professor Easton deflowered you on his desk. Although had it been me, it would have been the desk, the floor, the wall, back on the desk but from behind …”

He pulled a photograph of a twenty-two-year-old Grace Easton on her graduation day standing with her husband, Zachary Easton, and held it up to her.

She stared at it with wide turquoise eyes.

“My God … Nora wasn’t exaggerating.”

Kingsley put the photograph back into the file.

“Welcome to hell, Mrs. Easton. Now if you wouldn’t mind, get out.”

8 THE KNIGHT

Wesley stood in the bathroom of the guest room Kingsley had escorted him to and pressed a wet washcloth to the back of his head. He’d seen enough head injuries working at the hospital that he knew his was minor enough he didn’t have to worry about it. He needed a Band-Aid, though. Otherwise, he was going to be bleeding into his hair for a week.

What did it matter? Wesley dropped the bloody washcloth into the sink and went back into the bedroom. On any other day he might have admitted to finding the room beautiful, even opulent. Nora had told him about Kingsley’s house—the four-poster beds in every room. Better for bondage, she’d said, and Wes could see the marks on the footboard, remnants of metal handcuffs probably. Silver and pale blue, the room looked like something out of a Founding Father’s house, one he’d visited as a kid on vacation with his parents. Wes’s foot slammed against something under the bed. He knelt down and found a metal briefcase. Curious, he opened the latches and saw a dozen different types of sex toys, plus condoms and lubricant. Behind so much beauty lay so much sin. He slammed the case shut and shoved it under the bed with such force his head started to ring. Forget it. His pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting Nora back. He couldn’t believe he had to trust her life to Kingsley, the biggest asshole he’d ever met in his life, and to Søren, who was apparently still unconscious. These were the men Nora trusted more than anyone else on the planet? Her judgment was getting worse all the time. Agreeing to marry him might have been good evidence of that.

He sat on the bed and rubbed his aching temples. His hands shook a little. Was it from low blood sugar? Or from the fear, the bitter aching gaping fear the likes of which he’d never felt before? Both probably. He should be planning his wedding right now curled up in bed with Nora. Not here. Anywhere but here.

This was stupid. He didn’t need to be thinking about the future, anyway. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, except for getting Nora back as fast as they could. Every minute that passed put her deeper into danger. He wished he knew where she was. He’d take her place in a heartbeat.

Wesley jumped as Nora’s cell phone started to ring again. He grabbed at it, praying it was the kidnappers with information.

“Yes?”

“Wesley, this is Grace again. I’m in Kingsley’s house.”

“So am I.”

“Good. Could you help me? He’s trying to kick me out.”

Wesley hung up and raced from the bedroom. He didn’t find Kingsley in his office or anywhere on the second floor. Finally in the front room of the house he found a redheaded woman with freckles arguing vociferously with Kingsley.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Wesley inserted himself between the two of them.

“I’m attempting to rid myself of an intruder in my home,” Kingsley said. “I’ve shown her the door. She simply needs to walk through it.”

“I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s going on with Nora. No, that’s not true. I’m not leaving until I see Nora.”

“I think she means it,” Wesley said, standing at Grace’s side.

“Mon Dieu, the entire vanilla world has taken over my house. Fine. Both of you stay. Have tea. Turn everyone in my house boring. If you need me I’ll be trying to find Nora if only to get rid of you two.”

Kingsley turned and stormed out of the front room.

“Charming, isn’t he?” Grace turned to Wesley. “Thank you.”

“So you’re Zach’s wife?”

“That would be me.”

“I’m Nora’s fiancé.”

The look of shock on Grace’s face prompted Wesley’s first laugh in over twenty-four hours.

“I know. Long story,” he said.

“Nora never ceases to shock me. I’m not even going to ask.”

“Good idea.”

“I will ask this—do you know anything about what’s going on?”

“Really, really long story.”

“I’d like to know it. This may come as a shock to you, but Nora’s about my only female friend in this world.”

Wesley walked over to the sofa and sat down, sinking deep into the black-and-white-striped cushions. He felt light-headed, tired, lost. He knew he needed to eat something, check his blood sugar, take care of himself. But he didn’t have the energy for it, didn’t have the will.

“Nora doesn’t have many female friends, either. She says she scares women.”

“I’m not scared of her. Maybe I should be but I’m not.” Grace sat next to him on the sofa and spun her wedding band on her finger. “When Zachary and I reunited after our separation, my closest friends were furious at me for taking him back. He’d run off to America, had an affair with another woman. I forgave him but they wouldn’t. The only person who seemed to be genuinely happy for us was—”

“Nora.”

Grace nodded. “She’s been a good friend to both of us. I’m sick to my stomach with worry. Zachary’s in Australia at a conference and now the one friend I had in the States I wanted to see is … God, Wesley, what on earth is happening here?”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this sick or this tired or anywhere near this scared. “But I guess it doesn’t matter now. When Kingsley and Søren were teenagers, they had a relationship.”

“They were lovers?”

“Yeah. That. They were in school together. It was a—”

“Catholic school, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was.”

“This is starting to sound familiar.”

Wesley told her what he knew of the story. Kingsley and Søren falling in love, the sister, Marie-Laure, coming to visit, Søren marrying her so that she and Kingsley wouldn’t have to live an ocean apart anymore. But the sister had fallen in love with Søren and when she discovered that he loved her brother …

“She faked her own death?” Grace asked, aghast.

“By killing a runaway who had the same color hair as her. The body had on her wedding ring. Nobody even guessed it was someone else. Kingsley thinks his sister crossed the border into Canada and lived in Quebec for a while. According to him she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Easy to find a rich man to take care of her.”

“But why all this? Why take Nora now after all these years?”

“No idea. He doesn’t know what set her off, either. Something must have.”

“Where’s Søren now? Can I speak to him?”

“He’s in Kingsley bedroom. Third floor. Door at the very end of the hall.”

Grace stood up.

“I don’t think you’ll get much out of him, though.”

“Why not?” Grace asked from the doorway.

“He’s unconscious.”

“What?”

“Kingsley gave him a shot of something. Apparently Søren was going to call the cops and the rest of the world. Kingsley said it would be the worst idea ever.”

“Unconscious or not, someone should check on him.”

“He’s all yours.”

Grace started to leave but hesitated in the doorway. She turned back around, came to him and dropped a quick kiss on his forehead.

“She’ll be all right. I have faith in her,” Grace said, squeezing his shoulder. It was the first kind thing anyone had done or said to him all day. He could have wept from simple gratitude alone.

“Thank you,” he said, and could barely hear himself speak. Grace said nothing, either, merely smiled at him before leaving the room.

Alone in the front room, Wesley prayed. He prayed helplessly, not even knowing what to pray for other than a miracle. That’s what they needed now. A miracle. A sign from God. Something to tell them everything would be all right, Nora would be safe, the world hadn’t spun out of God’s control even if it felt like it had.

Somewhere nearby Wesley heard the sound of a car door slamming. He ignored it.

If Nora were here she’d tell him to relax, to take deep breaths, to take care of himself. Stop worrying about me so much, Nora would say to him, had said to him a thousand times. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.

But he was supposed to take care of her. Søren had entrusted Nora to him and he’d let her get taken by some lunatic with a thirty-year-old grudge. And now he felt forsaken. Losing Nora was his punishment for not taking better care of her while they were together. He’d thought she’d be so much safer with him than with Søren, and now she was gone. Stolen from him. He’d failed her, failed them all.

Please, he prayed once more. Give me a sign you’re still listening.

Wesley heard a sound then, a knock on the front door. He waited, not knowing if he should be answering the door in someone else’s house or not. But then it came again, louder this time. The door had a bell. Why was the person knocking instead?

He went to the door and opened it. A girl lay curled up on the landing, bleeding from a cut on her face.

She opened her eyes—bright blue eyes, intelligent and scared.

“Hello?” He knelt down and met her face-to-face.

“I have to deliver a message,” she said, her voice strangely accented.

“From who?” Maybe it had happened. Finally. A message from the kidnappers.

“From God.”

9 THE ROOK

Grace walked down the third-floor hallway, leaving the men of the house to their own devices. They were all terrified—Wesley, Griffin, who’d let her in the house, even Kingsley, although she could see he had much more practice at hiding his fears than the rest of them.

Nora … Grace prayed her name as she neared the bedroom she’d been warned away from. She could put together no other words for a prayer. All the possibilities she could pray against were too terrible to imagine. Wesley said Kingsley’s sister had Nora. His sister … a woman. Better a woman than being taken by a man. A woman kidnapped … surely his sister had help, had men around her. Impossible to think any lone woman could get the better of Nora Sutherlin. Dear God, Nora. It turned Grace’s stomach to even consider what might be happening to Nora right now.

Outside the door to Kingsley’s bedroom, Grace paused and wondered for a moment what she was doing. She merely wanted to see him … this man, this priest, the one person her usually fearless husband ever admitted to being afraid of. Nora seemed the ultimate free spirit to Grace—she trod across the world in leather boots with black sails flying. And yet when she spoke of Søren she called him the man who owned her. Owning Nora sounded as dangerous as owning a nuclear bomb. Valuable and powerful it may be, but who would want that sort of thing under one’s own roof?

Grace turned the knob on the door and peered inside. A small lamp had been left on and pale gold light filled the room. On the floor at the end of the grand red bed sat a man with his blond head bowed as if in prayer. The door made the slightest squeak as it opened but the man on the floor didn’t move. Whatever Kingsley had drugged him with clearly hadn’t worn off yet.

Shutting the door behind her, Grace moved closer to get a better look at the man. Her heart contracted with sympathy. He’d be in agony when he came to. Sitting on the floor had to be uncomfortable, and far worse, when he woke up it would be to a world where Nora was still gone. Kneeling on the floor at his side Grace studied his face.

Good God, Nora hadn’t been exaggerating at all. Is he handsome? Calling this man handsome would be like saying Einstein was fairly decent at his sums. He was so handsome she wanted to demand an apology from him. He had blond hair long enough to run one’s fingers through but still short enough to give him a civilized air. Nora had called him dangerous but Grace couldn’t see the threat at all. He was tall, definitely. Even sitting on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, Grace could tell he must have stood well over six feet. But no, certainly not dangerous. In fact, he looked rather kind, especially around his eyes. Nora often extolled his virtues as a priest to her—how he treated everyone at the church with equal respect, how he listened without judging, how he treated the children like adults and forgave the adults like they were children, how he gave and gave and gave of himself to them and asked nothing in return, only that they remember all blessings come from God, even the ones in disguise.

No, he certainly wasn’t dangerous. Perhaps only to someone who tried to harm Nora. But it was madness to have him locked up in this bedroom like some sort of wild animal. Surely she could find the key somewhere. She’d unlock the handcuffs, let his arms relax into a more natural position.

Grace stood up and looked around. There it was, the key to the cuffs hanging on a blue ribbon off the back of the door. When he’d woken up he would have seen the key staring right at him. Cruel of Kingsley to do that if he, in fact, had done it on purpose. And something told her he’d most certainly done it on purpose.

Once more she knelt at his side and reached behind him. It would be awkward getting the key in the lock from this position. She’d practically have to wrap her arms around the man. But he slept on, oblivious to her presence. So Grace turned toward the bed and pressed close to his body. She couldn’t resist breathing in the scent of him. He smelled cool, clean, like a new fallen snow on a deep winter’s night. Nonsense. What was she thinking? The fear and panic were clearly getting to her. Who on earth smelled like winter?

She took a deep breath, shook off her poet’s musings and started to bring the key around his hip. She found the cuffs on his wrist and felt the slight depression of the keyhole.

“Almost there,” she whispered to herself. “We’ll get these off.”

At that he raised his head and Grace found herself staring at the hardest eyes in the most dangerous face she’d ever seen in her life.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Gasping, she dropped the keys and scrambled back a few feet on the floor.

“Father Stearns,” she said, almost panting from the sudden scare. “I’m so sorry. I only wanted—”

“Welsh accent … you’re Mrs. Easton, yes?” Father Stearns raised his chin an inch higher and waited for her answer. She felt like an utter fool sitting on the floor trying to keep her skirt from riding up her legs while a Catholic priest studied every line of her face.

“Yes. I’m Zachary’s wife. I was on holiday and called Nora. Wesley answered …” The words poured out her in a wave of nervous energy. “He told me what happened, where he was going. I came straightaway.”

“Have we heard anything about Eleanor?”

Grace’s stomach sank. She would have given anything to be able to tell him any news.

“Nothing anyone’s told me.”

Father Stearns nodded and leaned his head back against the bed with his eyes closed.

“I’m so sorry,” Grace whispered. “Nora, we care about her, Zachary and I.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, Mrs. Easton.”

She smiled. “Please call me Grace. Nora’s told me a great deal about you.”

“No wonder you’re so nervous.”

Grace laughed nervously, proving his point.

“She’s only told me good things, I promise.”

He opened his eyes again and stared at her for a long silent moment, searching her face for something. For what, she couldn’t imagine. But she didn’t quite mind his gaze on her. It felt intimate without being inappropriate.

“I refuse to believe that,” he finally said. “I know Eleanor too well.”

“Well, perhaps it all wasn’t good per se. But nothing bad. Fascinating definitely. She did seem to imply you were the one usually putting the handcuffs on, not ending up in them. I could take those off if you’d like.”

“I would like. But as I said, I don’t recommend it.”

“Why not?” She moved a little closer to him, feeling a bit more comfortable now that they’d started talking.

“I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe nonconsensual violence is ever justified. I am trying to remember that I’m a pacifist so I don’t murder Kingsley where he stands.”

Grace laughed again, less nervously this time.

“I don’t think murder will help the situation.”

“It might not hurt it.”

The words should have been a joke but Grace heard no mirth in his tone.

“I’ll go now if you like.” Grace started to stand. “I didn’t mean to be so nosy, but I saw you on the floor and—”

“No. Don’t go. Please.”

He sounded so humble that Grace couldn’t help but sink to her knees again.

“Of course.”

“Stay and talk to me. Distract me from all the thoughts in my head.”

She heard a note of desperation in his voice.

“I’ll stay. I’ll stay as long as you want me to.” Grace moved a little closer to him on the floor. “Do you want to talk about the thoughts in your head?” she asked, as if she were talking to one of the children in her class. “If they’re half as awful as mine, it might help to get them out.”

He said nothing at first, only opened his eyes and stared at something only he could see.

“We’re all terrified,” Grace whispered. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. This doesn’t happen to people you know. This happens in movies, or in foreign countries and the stories get turned into movies, and it’s all madness. I almost died when I was nineteen having a miscarriage, and I’m telling you now, I’ve never been this frightened.”

“I was eleven years old when I looked death in the face the first time. In my early twenties I spent a few months in a leper colony. I have dug my fingers into a teenage boy’s sliced-open wrists to try to stop him from bleeding to death on the floor of my church. I thought I knew terror before today. I was wrong.”

“I keep telling myself to stay strong, that Nora would be strong for me so I have to be strong for her. Falling apart won’t help her. We can’t despair.” Brave words but all Grace wanted to do was dissolve into tears.

“Don’t despair? That’s usually my line.”

“I imagine even a priest needs words of comfort sometimes.”

“All the time, Grace.”

He fell silent after that and she feared the thoughts in his head as much as she imagined he did.

“I don’t want to know what’s going on in your mind, do I?”

“Terrible thoughts. Vengeance. Brutality. What I want to do to anyone who hurts my Little One.”

“You call her Little One?”

“I always have. She was a teenager when we met. A very ill-mannered teenager. She demanded to know why I was so tall. She insinuated I had grown this tall simply for attention.”

“Only Nora could be rude and flirtatious at the same time.”

“I explained to her that I was tall so I could hear God’s voice better. And since I was taller and could hear Him better, she should always listen to me. That didn’t sit very well with her. She retorted the next day with a verse from Psalm 114. ‘The Lord keeps the little ones.’ Her biblical proof that God prefers short people. I started calling her Little One after that. It helped us both remember she belonged to God first.”

“And you second?”

“A close second,” he said, giving her a quick but devilish grin.

“These are good thoughts. Keep telling me good thoughts. Maybe we can get you over your murderous inclinations and out of the handcuffs.”

“I have no good thoughts right now.”

He fell silent and closed his eyes. Grace knew that whatever was going on in his mind right now was nothing she wanted to know.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his eyes still closed. “It’s not safe here. You should be with your husband.”

“Zachary’s at a conference in Australia. And I’m not going anywhere, not until Nora’s back. I don’t care if my husband divorces me, Kingsley has me arrested and I get fired for missing school, I’m staying.”

“Missing school?”

“I’m a teacher. School starts next week. But it will start with or without me.”

“What do you teach?”

“Year 11 English Lit. Teaching Shakespeare to seventeen-year-olds is not unlike herding cats.”

He smiled then and opened his eyes.

“I used to be a teacher,” he said. “I taught Spanish and French to ten- and eleven-year-old boys.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“It was. I rather liked it, though.”

“It is rewarding in its own way. If you get through to one student a year, see that spark of understanding, see that little hint of the adult they’ll become and you know you’ve somehow helped him or her along that path … it’s worth all the work, all the sacrifice.”

“It was like that with Eleanor when she was a girl. The moment I saw her at age fifteen, I saw exactly who she would become.”

“No wonder it was love at first sight.”

“Love, lust, fear, wonder and joy—such joy. I considered it my mission in life to make sure she survived her teenage years to become the woman I saw in her.”

“Survived? I recall being a teenager as rather difficult, but certainly not life-threatening.”

“Eleanor’s were not the typical teenage years.”

“I don’t believe Nora has had a typical anything her entire life.”

“That would be an accurate statement.”

“If it helps any, I think you did a good job with her. She’s a rather impressive person.”

“I tried not to fail her. Everyone else in her life had—her father was a criminal, her mother considered Eleanor a mistake. It gave me great pleasure to take her from them. More pleasure than I should admit to.”

“You smiled. Would you like me to take the handcuffs off now?”

“I would like that, but I’m still picturing Kingsley in the morgue. And of course, I’m only focusing my anger at him because he’s here. I know I’m not actually angry at him. I keep trying to tell myself that.”

“He was trying to save you from yourself. You are a priest, after all. Can’t be telling the police and the FBI and the whole wide world that someone has your lover.”

“I couldn’t begin to care less what the whole world thinks of my relationship with Eleanor. All that matters is getting her back.”

“Of course,” she said, smoothing her skirt over her knee. “But will the police help? I’m asking a genuine question. If you think they could help, I’ll call them myself and Kingsley be damned.”

Father Stearns turned his eyes from her and exhaled.

“No, they won’t help. They can’t. It’s been thirty years, but I haven’t forgotten what Marie-Laure was like. Obsessive nature. Clearly she wants revenge. On me. On Kingsley. Eleanor will be that instrument of revenge. She’s not trying to steal a jewel and abscond in the night. She wants to hurt us. She’s died before. I don’t think she’s afraid to die again. My fear is that she plans to take Eleanor with her. Police involvement will only put Eleanor’s life at greater risk.”

“Marie-Laure … Kingsley’s sister was your wife?”

“Was … is my wife apparently. Kingsley missed her terribly back when we were in school. After their parents died, he and Marie-Laure had little but each other and even then they were separated by an ocean—she in Paris, he in America. I thought it would make him happy to see her again.”

“She came to your school?”

“I arranged to bring her over. It had been over a year since they’d seen each other—brother and sister. And yet less than a week after being reunited, Marie-Laure simply announced that she was in love with me.”

“That must have been something of a shock. For you and Kingsley.”

“It was an unpleasant shock. My heart was very much elsewhere, but I didn’t want to hurt the girl. Kingsley seemed so happy to have her back with him. I remember that day like yesterday. I’d gone for a walk alone. Marie-Laure followed me, asked if she could join me. We’d barely gone a mile when she stopped and confessed she’d fallen in love with me. I tried to stay calm, rational. I said to her that I was sorry, but I didn’t feel the same. But she shouldn’t take it personally. I told her I wasn’t capable of loving her like someone else could. She said she didn’t care.”

“She cared. I promise, she cared.”

“I told her that if she wanted, we could be married, but it would be a marriage in name only. I told her about the trust fund I’d receive if I married. She and Kingsley could have every penny of it. God knows I didn’t want a cent from my father. I would ask nothing in return from her. She could be as free as she wanted to be with anyone she wanted. All I asked was that she let me finish out the school year at Saint Ignatius. For legal reasons I thought it would be best if we at least lived together for a few months.”

“She agreed to that?”

“Readily. She said she understood, and that it was kind of me to offer. Kind, she said. More like stupid and foolish. I’m not stupid very often, Grace. That was stupid.”

“You were in love, not stupid. They’re two very different diseases with identical symptoms.”

“I was in love. I’d never felt anything like that before. I wanted to tell her but Kingsley wanted to wait. I thought she’d understand eventually.”

“But she didn’t understand.” It wasn’t a question. If Marie-Laure had kidnapped Nora, clearly the woman didn’t understand.

“I didn’t even allow us to kiss at our wedding. That was one of the conditions. I knew it would hurt Kingsley too much to see. And yet, on our wedding night, as soon as we were alone, she threw herself at me. Everything I told her, everything she’d agreed to, she pretended like it hadn’t happened. She acted as if the only words I’d said to her that day in the woods were ‘We can be married.’“

“Love can give you tunnel vision. I know I had it with Zachary. I only saw the possibilities, never the danger.”

“Love made Marie-Laure very dangerous. She touched me constantly. I hated it. Especially being touched in my sleep.” Something flashed across his eyes—an old memory, perhaps, and a very bad one at that.

“Was it difficult to rebuff her advances? After all, if she looked anything like Kingsley, she must have been beautiful.”

“Many thought her so. Some who saw her declared her the most beautiful girl they’d ever seen. But she held no interest for me. None whatsoever. All her beauty was on the outside. I cared for her because Kingsley did. That was all.”

“I’m sure she thought you’d change your mind eventually. Women do that, convince themselves men will change when they won’t. If Marie-Laure believed in the power of her own beauty, I’m sure she thought she could change your mind. Must have been a great blow to her ego when she couldn’t.”

“She was less than pleased, obviously.”

“I’ve known my fair share of women like that. Beautiful, dangerous girls. Any man who didn’t fall at their feet … they considered it an insult and a challenge.”

“You speak of beautiful women as if you weren’t one. I assure you, you are. The freckles are an especially nice touch.”

Grace hoped the low light in the room masked the blossoming blush on her face.

“I’m not sure I agree with you. My husband would, but Zachary’s a freckle fetishist, if there is such a thing.”

“Your husband and I have excellent taste in women.”

The blush deepened at the insinuation. Grace took a deep breath. Show no fear, Nora had cautioned. Now she knew why.

“Nora was right about you.”

“About what?” Father Stearns asked. “Or do I not want to know?”

“She told me you’d play with me, play with my mind. You intimated that you know my husband has slept with Nora. Trying to gauge my reaction?”

“Perhaps. It’s not typical wifely behavior to show such concern over a woman who her husband has been with.”

“You can play all the mind games you want with me. I do care about Nora. My marriage is better than it’s ever been because of her. It’s the two of us in our marriage for the first time ever. Me and Zachary. Not me and Zachary and his guilt.”

“Doth the lady protest too much?” Father Stearns narrowed his eyes at her and Grace found herself squirming under the intensity of the gaze.

“No, I’m simply speaking the truth. I love Nora. She’s a dear friend, and considering I slept with someone even before Zachary had his night with your Nora, I think all is forgiven between us and then some. And Nora was absolutely right about you.”

“Was she?”

“She told me to show no fear around you. Said you’d play with it like a cat with a catnip toy.”

At that, a laugh filled the room, warm, rich and masculine. It made every nerve in Grace’s body want to stand at attention and salute someone.

Then the laugh died and Father Stearns closed his eyes again. Once more he leaned his head back against the bed. He seemed to be in prayer.

“Forgive me, Grace,” he exhaled his apology. “I try not to—” he paused as he seemed to search for the right word “—inflict this side of myself on the unwilling or unsuspecting. I’m afraid it simply comes out at times.”

Grace scooted a little closer to him again so that their legs were mere inches apart. She reached out and laid a hand on his thigh right above his knee. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to do that other than she’d touched Zachary a million times that way when offering support or comfort.

“The woman who you’ve loved for almost twenty years has been taken. You were drugged and handcuffed to a bed. You’re a Catholic priest and if any of this gets out, your reputation and career will be ruined. Please …” Grace squeezed his leg and felt muscle hard as steel under her hand. “Please do not apologize to me. God knows I can’t do anything to help this horrible situation at all. If at the very least I can be a sympathetic ear, then please, inflict whatever you need to on me.”

Father Stearns raised his eyebrow at her, and Grace sensed even the shadows in the room scuttling into the corners and pressing their backs to the wall.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, removing her shaking hand from his leg.

“Are you sure about that?”

“You are terrible. Seriously,” she said, trying to laugh off her nervousness. “I’m going to take the handcuffs off you now, but I can tell I’m going to regret it.”

“You will.”

“How on earth can anyone concentrate with you being … you?” she teased as he reached behind the bed and found the keys again. “You must delight in scaring women.”

“Men, too. Ask your husband.”

“Oh, he’s told me.”

“I should apologize to him. When we met I was feeling unnecessarily territorial. Eleanor never brought outsiders into our world. I knew he had to be very special to her to show him that side of her. I took my irritation out on Zachary.”

“Don’t apologize. He’s shredded the egos of so many writers I’ve lost count. It’s only poetic justice you shredded his a bit.”

“You have no sympathy for the male ego, do you?”

“Of course not. I’m a wife. I’m rather glad you terrified him a little.”

“You don’t seem terrified.”

“I am, I assure you. But Nora warned me how terrifying you are. I’d prepared myself.”

He smiled then, a genuine smile entirely devoid of guile or artifice.

“Eleanor is not even remotely afraid of me.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Grace came up to her knees and reached behind Father Stearns. Here she was a grown woman married for twelve years and she felt as awkward as a schoolgirl around her secret crush.

“I assure you it’s true. I learned long ago that it was for the best that I erect a very high wall between myself and the rest of the world. She and Kingsley are the only two people I’ve ever met who simply ignored that wall as if it didn’t exist.”

Grace’s hands fumbled to find the keyhole. She found it with a fingertip and pushed in the key.

“Kingsley and Nora ignored your wall. I have to ask … what is the reward for getting past that wall of yours? Or is it a punishment?”

“Both reward and punishment.”

“How so?”

Father Stearns turned his head to her and the handcuffs popped open. At that moment their faces were so close together if she leaned in an inch they’d be kissing.

“I fucked them.”

Grace sat back on her knees, the keys falling from her hand.

Father Stearns brought his arms around and removed the cuffs. He massaged his wrists and Grace could see purple bruises peeking out from underneath the black cuffs of his clerics. Even drugged he’d clearly put up a fight.

“Thank you, Grace.” Father Stearns came to his feet. “I no longer wish to kill Kingsley. No more than usual, anyway.”

“You’re welcome, Father.” Grace’s voice quivered but Father Stearns was polite enough not to point it out. Perhaps he’d had enough playing with her mind tonight. Pity. She already rather missed it. At least it had distracted her from the gnawing terror for a few minutes.

He reached a hand down to her, a hand she took with more pleasure than she felt comfortable admitting to herself.

“You’re welcome to call me Søren. I’d prefer it if you did.”

“Of course … Søren. That’s what Nora always calls you. She says she can’t call you ‘Father Stearns’ without wanting to giggle,” she said, coming to her feet. She straightened her clothes, which had gotten rumpled while sitting on the floor. “Søren’s a Danish name, yes? What does it mean?”

“It means ‘stern.’ A good name for me, I’ve been told.”

“I beg to differ. I don’t think you’re quite as stern as you’re letting on.”

“Careful, Grace … it’s dangerous behind the wall.”

His tone was teasing but she heard a real warning in his words, a warning she decided to heed.

“So, what now?” she asked, deciding a change of subject might be for the best. “What should we do?”

“The only thing we can do is wait. For a week now she’s been playing a game with us. Sending photographs, breaking into homes—my sister’s, Eleanor’s … She stole a file from Kingsley’s office. This is a woman who wants to play a mind game with us. Eleanor will stay alive as long as Marie-Laure enjoys playing the game.”

“She will be fine. Nora will,” Grace said again, more for her sake than his. “I mean if any woman can get through this, it’s Nora. Isn’t it?”

“She’s strong, intelligent and cunning. She’s well-trained. If forced to defend herself, she can. She knows how to hurt people and hurt them badly. As a teenager she got into a few fights, but as an adult, she’s never hurt anyone without their consent. She may have to now.” He paused and Grace watched as his large hands curled tight into fists before he relaxed his fingers once again. “I would pay any price to save her from this.”

She took his hand in hers and held it a moment.

“I know you would. I’d give anything to know something … anything. What is Marie-Laure waiting for?”

“I don’t know. But surely she knows the silence and the waiting are the worst of tortures.”

“It has to end. It’s been a day already. Something has to—”

The sound of heavy footsteps in the hallways cut off the end of Søren’s sentence. She heard doors opening and slamming shut. She and Søren stepped into the hall. The man who’d escorted her to Kingsley’s office, Griffin, exhaled with relief at the sight of him.

“Søren,” the man said, almost panting in his panic. “There’s a girl here asking for you.”

“A girl?”

“She’s down in the front room.”

He looked at Grace and she knew it had happened. Finally. Marie-Laure had started the game.

“Did she tell you her name?” Søren asked as they strode down the hall, Grace following close behind.

“Nope. But she’s looks about eighteen, she’s blonde, she sounds foreign and she’s fucking gorgeous. You got a daughter you never told anyone about?”

“No,” Søren said, his pace quickening. “But I have a niece.”

10 THE PAWN

Laila pulled her knees to her chest on the sofa and shivered. Why was it so cold in here? Was it cold? Somewhere over her head one man spoke to another man. Although she spoke English almost as well as her native Danish, their words did not register with her. She heard static, white noise, and could only stare with fixed eyes at the doorway.

“What’s your name?” a gentle male voice asked in English. “Can you tell me your name?”

Finally the words cut through the static.

“Laila,” she whispered.

“Laila. That’s a pretty name. I’m Wes.”

“Hi, Wes.” She blinked and looked at him. Her eyes finally started to focus and she at last saw the person who’d carried her into the house. Before he’d just been a presence, male and tall. Now she saw him. He had shaggy blond hair and warm brown eyes and easily the most handsome face she’d ever seen on a man in her life. Man? Maybe not. He didn’t look that much older than her. Nineteen? Twenty, maybe.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t think so.”

“Your face is bleeding a little. It looks like you scraped it on the concrete. We’ll clean it up and you’ll be okay.”

“Okay.”

He spoke with such quiet confidence that Laila believed him immediately even if he meant only the cut on her face would be okay.

He took her hand in hers and she clung to it, desperate for comfort from this stranger. He didn’t feel like a stranger to her, though. He didn’t ask her questions about what had happened to her, how she’d gotten here. He knew somehow. He was part of this. They were part of this together.

“Laila?” A familiar voice cut through the haze and she sat up immediately, throwing herself in her uncle’s arms. The one moment of peace she’d felt looking in Wes’s eyes disappeared as the floodgate broke. She sobbed against his shoulder as he gathered her to him on the sofa. In between her choking sobs, she told him the story. She’d come to surprise him. She’d gone into the rectory. She thought no one was home. She heard footsteps … something covered her head. She fought, she struggled, but no amount of thrashing would get her free. They’d taken her somewhere in the trunk of a car. It felt like days in the car but probably only a few hours. When the car stopped, someone pulled her out and when they yanked the blindfold off, she saw …

“I saw Tante Elle. They have her,” she said, switching to English. Other people had come into the room while she was speaking—a beautiful woman with red hair and freckles and a man with dark hair, olive skin and dangerous eyes. They looked as scared as her uncle, as scared as her.

“Who?” Wes asked, over Laila’s shoulder.

“Eleanor,” Søren explained, kissing Laila on top of her head. “Laila and her sister consider Eleanor their aunt. Go on, Laila.”

“She was there on the floor.”

“Was she hurt?” Wes asked.

Laila shook her head. “She has some bruises on her arms, on her face. There was another woman there and a man with a gun.”

“What did the woman look like?” asked the man with shoulder-length dark hair. He spoke in a French accent. Kingsley, that was his name. Her aunt had told her about the handsome Frenchman who she called the bane of her existence. From her tante Elle it had sounded like a compliment.

She stared at him.

“She looked a little like you.” The man shook his head and he swore under his breath. He turned his back to the room. “But older,” Laila continued. “And angry. She was smiling but she looked very angry.”

“What did she say?” Her uncle brushed the hair off her face.

“She said awful things …” Laila returned to her Danish, not wanting anyone else to hear. She told her uncle everything the woman had said, everything her aunt said in defiance. And she told him about the choice they had to make. Laila buried her head against his chest when she confessed what her aunt had done and how powerless she’d been to stop her.

“Søren?” The redheaded woman with the freckles came closer. “What did she say?”

Laila only listened as her uncle recited her tale in English. He left out the part about the woman calling her tante Elle a “whore.”

“Marie-Laure made them choose,” he said, his voice low but steady. “She told Eleanor and Laila that one of them could leave and deliver a message to me. The other one had to stay behind as … entertainment. Eleanor …”

He paused to clear his throat and Laila began to cry again, sobbing silently against his chest.

“What?” Wes asked. “What happened?”

“Eleanor covered Laila’s mouth so she couldn’t volunteer. So Laila was allowed to leave with her message.”

He fell silent and no one in the room spoke. The confession of her aunt’s sacrifice had made mutes of them all.

“Dammit, Nora …” Wes was the first to speak. She winced at his words, felt her own failure to speak in time, felt more than anything shame over how relieved she was that she’d been allowed to go free.

“She gave me a note to give you.” Laila dug in her jeans pocket and pulled out the paper. “She said to tell you that she gave you her death as a gift and now she was taking her gift back. She said God had a message for you, too.”

Kingsley exhaled noisily and with great and very French disgust.

“And what does God have to tell us?” he demanded.

“She said that God says no more sinning. Time for atonement.”

No one said anything as Laila held out the note to her uncle. Without any show of emotion he read the words before handing it to Kingsley. Kingsley took it from his hand and opened the note.

“What does it say?” Wes demanded. Laila was grateful he’d asked. She hadn’t gotten to read it. “Is it a ransom note? I’ll pay whatever they ask.”

“Not a ransom.” Kingsley balled up the note. “And it doesn’t matter what it says because we’re not going to let her play us.”

“It does matter what it says.” Wes stood up and walked over to Kingsley. “I’ll play any game I have to if it means getting Nora back.”

“You’re not the one she wants to play with, Wesley,” Søren said, and Laila looked up at him. “Kingsley and I are the ones she’s angry with, the ones she’s trying to hurt.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Wes faced her uncle with fury in his eyes. She’d never seen anyone look at her uncle like that.

“Whatever I have to.” Her uncle said the words simply and without a trace of fear. For some reason his lack of fear and the quiet determination in his voice scared her more than her own kidnapping had.

“And then what?” Wes asked.

“I get her out,” Kingsley said.

“You get her out?” Wes turned to Kingsley. “You and what army?”

“I don’t need an army.”

“What? Are you the French James Bond or something?”

“Of course not. James Bond is vanilla.”

“I feel so much better now,” Wes said as he scraped his fingers through his hair. “Kinky James Bond is going to rescue Nora. Thanks but maybe it’s time we get the cops involved.”

“Call the police if you want her dead. By all means, call them. They love to blare their sirens so the whole world knows they’re coming. Do you know how easy it is to kill someone like …” Kingsley raised his hand and snapped his fingers loudly in Wesley’s ear, so loudly Wesley flinched. “Like that. The speed of sound is 342 meters per second. The speed of a bullet is four times that. She’ll be dead before they can even knock on the door. I promise you, she’s guarded. Every minute of every hour someone with a gun is within shooting distance of her. One wrong step equals one bullet.”

“We have to do something. We don’t even know where she is,” Wes said.

“I do.” Laila sat up and wiped her face. “I know where she is.”

“Where?” Wes looked down at her and she saw hope in his eyes.

Laila reached up and unclasped her necklace. She flipped open the locket and passed it to her uncle.

“That room.”

“What room?” The redheaded woman leaned over her uncle’s shoulder and stared at the picture. Laila didn’t have to look. She’d worn the silver heirloom locket for most of her life, knew the photographs in it better than she knew her own face. On one side of the locket was a picture of her grandmother holding her mother as a newborn baby. On the other side of the locket was a photograph of her grandmother holding her uncle Søren as a newborn. Her grandmother had kept a box of photographs that she looked at from time to time. They all seemed to be taken in the same room—a library with a fireplace. Gold walls, green curtains. She’d asked her grandmother about it once and her grandmother had said she would rather not talk about her time living in America. All that mattered, her grandmother said with a sad smile, was that she gave birth to her son while in that country. He made up for everything.

“Are you sure?” her uncle asked.

She nodded. “I saw the pictures in Mormor’s box. There was one where she sat by a fireplace holding you. She wasn’t smiling. But it was that room in my locket, the one Tante Elle is in. I know it was.”

“Søren?” Wes’s voice prompted her uncle to look up from the locket.

“Eleanor’s at my half sister’s house. She’s at Elizabeth’s.”

“Your sister’s house?” Wes asked. “Is she involved in this, too?”

Søren shook his head. “No, I told Elizabeth to leave the country and travel, to stay on the move. I’d been afraid something like this would happen. She and her sons left last week. She’s not home. She’s not part of this.”

“We’re sure she’s at your sister’s?” Kingsley asked.

“Yes.” Søren looked at Kingsley, who nodded as if Søren had given him some kind of telepathic message.

“We’ll go, then,” Kingsley said. “I’ll call him right now.”

“Call who?” Wes asked. “Go where?”

“We have a friend who lives near his sister’s,” Kingsley explained as he pulled a phone out of his trouser pocket. “Only ten miles away. I’ll be able to plan better if I’m closer. I may have to come and go several times. I need a base. His house is perfect.”

“A friend of yours? Can we trust this guy?” Wes stared aggressively at both Kingsley and her uncle. For the first time she wondered who he was, what he was to her aunt that made him so deeply a part of this nightmare.

“We can trust him. He owes me. He owes him, too.” Kingsley nodded at Søren as he scrolled through the numbers on his phone. “And he owes our missing Maîtresse most of all.”

Laila sensed excitement in the air. Not excitement, no. More like anticipation and even a measure of relief. They knew something now, something more than they did before. And even more, they knew something the woman who had her aunt didn’t know they knew. They knew where to find her.

“He doesn’t owe you anything,” her uncle said with obvious exasperation.

“He kicked me out of my own bedroom. He owes me.”

“Who is he? Nora’s life is on the line here. If you won’t even let me call the police—”

“He’s on our side, I promise,” Kingsley said. “Trust me, you’ll like him. He’s nice and dull. Married, a family man. He’s even … honorable.” Kingsley said the last word like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“A nice and honorable family man?” Wes repeated, sounding utterly shocked Kingsley would associate with such a person. “Then why are you friends with him?”

“Because he’s kinky as hell, and I used to fuck his first wife.”

“Kingsley, please,” Søren said, scowling.

“This is why no children are allowed in my house.” Kingsley winked at Laila. “You turn everyone vanilla.”

“I’m eighteen now,” Laila protested.

“I was talking about him.” Kingsley pointed at Wes with his phone. Laila smiled at Wes, who rolled his eyes.

Kingsley raised the phone to his ear. Someone on the other end answered as Kingsley grinned like the devil himself.

“Wake up, Daniel. I’m calling in that favor you owe us.”

Part Two

11 THE QUEEN

For what felt like an hour, Nora paced the room with the green curtains. They hadn’t handcuffed her, hadn’t gagged or bound her; they’d simply left her to walk unencumbered. She tried the window first and found it locked and barred. She’d need a blowtorch to get out that way. The door seemed too dangerous. Anyone could be standing behind it with a gun waiting to shoot on sight. Still, if no one came back for her in another hour or two, she’d give it a try. Better to die on her feet than huddled in a corner crying.

She kept moving about the room, trying not to give in to panic. Where was she? She felt like she should know. The furniture was elegant but old and dated. She’d guess someone had decorated the house in the 1960s and no one had bothered updating the decor since then. It gave the room an eerie feel, like she’d fallen into another time. Or that time stopped in this room. When she paced she pushed against old stale air that had probably wasted away in this room as long as the furniture had.

What the fuck was happening? She thought she knew everything about Søren’s marriage to Marie-Laure. Thirty years ago, Søren had brought Marie-Laure from Paris to visit Kingsley in lieu of the Je t’aime that she knew Kingsley had longed to hear. Søren told her that he’d never considered the possibility of marrying Marie-Laure until he’d seen how happy Kingsley became in her presence, and once he’d thought of marriage, he realized it could be the perfect solution. But Marie-Laure had ignored Søren’s cautions that he would never love her back and she’d fallen head over heels for him. Head over heels … how it began. How Nora thought it had ended. Marie-Laure catching Søren and Kingsley in an intimate moment … Marie-Laure running through the winter woods in shock and grief. She slipped on ice, perhaps—or maybe it hadn’t been a simple slip—and plunged a hundred feet to her death, her body shattering on a rock below. Now she knew it had been a lie. Marie-Laure had learned long before that moment she walked in on Kingsley and Søren that they were lovers. Did she think she’d done them a favor? She would die and leave Søren a widower, and he and Kingsley would fall into each other’s arms and be happy together forever?

I gave them my death as a gift … and now I’m taking my gift back.

Nora stopped her caged pacing long enough to glance out the window again and peer between the bars. The stars danced high in the night sky. What time was it? How long had she been here? She wore the same clothes she’d had on in the stables with Wesley back in Kentucky. She still had on her black snakeskin cowboy boots she’d worn riding. Still had on …

Nora glanced down at her left hand. On the ring finger sat a diamond that outshone the stars in the sky outside the window.

“Wes …” she whispered, staring at the ring. God, poor Wesley. He must be out of his mind with panic now. What had he done? She prayed he hadn’t called the police. Getting the police involved would only make things worse. This woman might be crazy but she was dangerously crazy. She had to be intelligent to fake her death and make a life for herself for thirty years. If Marie-Laure wanted revenge on Søren it would be easy enough—kill Nora. She knew Søren would rather see his own heart cut out than allow anything to happen to her. If the sirens started screaming, it would be quick work to slit her throat and disappear back into whatever secret hellhole Marie-Laure had been hiding for the past thirty years.

Footsteps in the hallway alerted her she had perhaps only a few more seconds alone. At one end of the library stood a fireplace, and by the fireplace hung a row of antique bronze fireplace tools, including a poker. She felt a strange something when she picked it up. The heft of it surprised her. There was a weightiness to it greater even than its actual mass. She sensed history in it and didn’t understand why. Didn’t matter. It was the same length as a riding crop and she gripped it just the same. Kingsley Edge had been the first man to put a riding crop in her hand. A riding crop used properly merely stung like fire when applied to the body but it sure as fuck could do a lot of damage if used improperly. Kingsley’s number-one word of warning to her when he gave her the first of her little red riding crops—never go near the face, never go near the eyes. I met a boy in India who’d been blinded when a rich man hit him across the eyes with a riding crop. Don’t get me sued, chérie.

The door started to open. Nora strode toward it.

A man stepped in the rom.

Nora aimed for the eyes.

From the look on his face, he’d been expecting an attack, but not of this variety. He caught the brass bar an inch from his skull and with his other hand grasped Nora by the wrist and slammed her into the floor. She hit hard and the air rushed from her lungs.

“You should have seen that coming, Andrei,” came Marie-Laure’s mocking tone from above her. Nora put up a struggle but gave up when the man, Andrei, put his full weight into the knee holding her down.

“I saw it coming. Thought she’d go for the groin,” the man said.

“I only do CBT when paid,” Nora grunted through gritted teeth. She could hardly breathe with this Andrei bastard on her back. The other guy, Damon, probably weighed one-fifty wet. This guy weighed two tons dry.

“CBT?” Marie-Laure repeated.

“Cock and ball torture.”

A trilling laugh filled the room and Nora saw Marie-Laure floating down to the floor in a sea of diaphanous black satin.

“You’re delightful.” Marie-Laure pushed a stray strand of black hair off Nora’s face. “This is good. I’m having so much fun right now. I have my husband dancing for me. I danced for him thirty years ago. Now it’s his turn.”

“What do you want with Søren?”

“Only to play awhile.” Marie-Laure took another lock of Nora’s hair in her hand and twirled it girlishly around her finger. “I’m being so silly with him. I burned his bed. And Damon, he killed one of my brother’s dogs. He even wrote a message in blood.” Marie-Laure giggled like a schoolgirl. “It’s ridiculous. I even gave him until noon on Friday to make up his mind about us. High noon. I’ve seen too many movies, haven’t I?”

“And not enough therapists.”

The dig didn’t seem to make any impact. Marie-Laure kept grinning.

“Pull her up,” she said, nodding at Andrei. The man grabbed Nora by the upper arms and dragged her to her feet. “You’re disgusting.” Marie-Laure looked Nora up and down. “And you smell.”

“I’m doing the French thing. I’m down to one shower a week.”

“Is pissing yourself a French thing?” Marie-Laure batted her eyelashes at Nora and wrinkled her nose like a little girl.

“Your fault for knocking me out. I’ll take a shower if you’ll let me. I have a nice shower back at my house. I can find my own way there. I’ll see myself out.”

Wanting to test the waters, Nora took a step forward and Andrei swiftly and efficiently pushed her into the wall. He did a good job with it—pushed hard enough to make a point, not so hard she hurt herself. Nice technique.

“You promised to be my houseguest, remember?” Marie-Laure reminded her. “The little girl is on her way to my brother’s with her message for my husband. And you’re staying with me. I’m looking forward to it. I don’t spend much time with women. I much prefer the company of men.”

“I don’t have many women friends, either. Less drama, more cock. I get it.”

“You never stop talking, do you?” Marie-Laure tilted her head to the side and studied Nora like she’d encountered some sort of alien species.

Nora replied by saying absolutely nothing.

Marie-Laure nodded. “You’re funny,” she said in an approving tone. “It’s très chère. Is that why my husband loves you? Because you make him laugh?”

“I’m pretty entertaining, but I don’t know if that’s the main reason he loves me.”

“Any theories?” Marie-Laure gave a dismissive shrug that was so very French Nora wanted to slap her.

“None that make sense.”

“That’s what I want to understand.” Marie-Laure looked Nora up and down again. “I want to know … why you? Long ago I thought, peut-être, he could love only another like himself, a man, a boy. I forgave him for not loving me because he couldn’t help it. I even left so he and my brother could be together. But he can love a woman and of all the women in the world—elegant women, intelligent women, women of poise and breeding and loyalty.” At that Marie-Laure glanced down at Nora’s left hand. Nora felt the ring on her finger heavy as deadweight. “So many better women in the world, and he picks you.”

“I know. Nuts, right? If you figure it out, be sure to let me know.”

“We will figure this out, you and I. Come along. You’ll stay with me. But first we have to clean you up. I can hardly look at you. Andrei, bring her, s’il vous plaît.”

Marie-Laure spun around to the door, graceful as the dancer she once was. The man took Nora’s elbow in his stern grip and escorted her to the door.

“Do you mind if I ask where we are?” Nora glanced around the hallway. It all seemed so familiar and yet …

“You don’t know?”

Nora tried not to roll her eyes.

“I know I’ve been here before.”

“Have you? I’m surprised he brought you here. I imagine he comes here as little as possible.”

“Søren brought me here?” As she said the words, Nora noticed a painting hanging in the hallway. A young girl of about eight in a white dress sat in a rocking chair, a small stuffed horse clenched in her hand. The artist had painted a smile on the girl’s face but left her violet eyes empty of hope and happiness.

Nora had seen those eyes before.

“Elizabeth …” she whispered, meeting the painted child’s broken gaze. “We’re in Elizabeth’s house?” Once Nora made the connection, the memories of her one trip here came flooding back. Søren’s father’s funeral. Nora had been only seventeen years old. Ostensibly he’d brought her to the funeral for the sake of Claire, his half sister, who was about her age. But Nora knew better even then. Something had happened in this house, something bad, something Søren wanted to tell her but had been waiting for the right time. When his father was dead and buried six feet under, that had been the right time.

The fireplace poker … now she understood why it had felt like a memory in her hand. An eleven-year-year-old Søren had wielded it against his own father in that room to stop him from raping Elizabeth. And Elizabeth had wielded it herself to stop her father from killing Søren.

“Where’s Elizabeth?” Nora demanded. “And Andrew?”

“Gone.” Marie-Laure waved her hand dismissively. “My husband apparently told her to leave the house and take her sons with her. Too bad. I would have liked to have met my sister-in-law at last.”

“Sons?” Nora caught a glimpse of a family photograph at the end of the hallway. Elizabeth, who was about Marie-Laure’s age, stood under a tree with her son Andrew at her side and a much younger boy in her arms.

“Oh, oui. She adopted another son three years ago. His name is Nathan. You didn’t know?”

Nora shook her head. Three years ago … Back then she did everything she could to stay out of Søren’s life. She knew if she stayed one second too long in his world, she’d never leave it again. Or she thought she’d never leave again if she went back. She thought Søren would never have let her. But he had and now she’d ended up here with his maniac dead wife. Never before had she more longed to be chained up to his bed with nowhere to go. Not for sex this time but for safety.

“I didn’t know. He doesn’t talk about Elizabeth much.”

“Never thought such a brave man would be so scared of his sister,” Marie-Laure said in a tone so taunting that Nora briefly considered trying her luck on a double murder/escape attempt.

“Not scared of his sister. Scarred by his sister. There’s a difference.”

“Scarred? Perhaps. Kingsley told me about Søren and Elizabeth … what they did together as children. He thought it would convince me that I’d married a man too scarred to love. I believed it for a day or two, wanted to believe it. But …”

“But what?” Nora asked, not sure she wanted the answer. Still it seemed expected of her to ask so she decided to play along for the time being.

“Damaged, my brother called my husband. Broken. Lies, obviously. He wasn’t broken. He was stronger than anyone I’d ever met. So I thought perhaps he was too strong to love me. Love makes one weak, makes one vulnerable. Perhaps he didn’t love me because he would not allow himself to be so weak. But he was weak.”

“Søren is not weak. Not now. Not ever.”

“Is that so? Let me show you something.”

Marie-Laure continued down the hall and Nora followed, the bodyguard Andrei right next to her not speaking but never once taking his eyes off her.

She entered a bedroom, large and opulent. One of the nicer guest rooms, Nora guessed, as it held no photographs or personal items that seemed to belong to the house or its inhabitants. Although Marie-Laure had clearly made herself quite at home. She sat on the cream-colored silk covers and gathered her robe around her like some princess in repose. From the nightstand she picked up a Bible with a white leather cover.

“One of the priests at the school gave me this as a wedding gift,” Marie-Laure said, caressing the engraved words on the front. “Father Henry. He even wrote the date of our marriage inside with our names.”

Marie-Laure smiled wanly at the book. She brought it to her lips and pressed them to the cover before looking at Nora again.

“I had such dreams for us. This Bible was my most precious possession. I loved to open it and see our names inside and our wedding date. I thought he wasn’t touching me because we still barely knew each other. I thought in a week or two, he’ll be more comfortable with me. If I give him enough time, then he’ll make love to me.”

“I’m sorry he couldn’t be what you wanted,” Nora said, mustering a modicum of real sympathy. But not sympathy for Marie-Laure, the kidnapping psycho on the bed. Only sympathy for the girl she’d once been, the girl who’d loved someone who would never love her back.

“No, you aren’t sorry. If he could have loved me back, we still would have been married. And where would you be if he hadn’t been your priest?”

“Dead.” Nora said the word quickly and simply and without hesitation. She said it because it was true. Had Søren never come into her life, she would have followed in her father’s footsteps. She would have followed them right into the grave.

“Dead. So love saved your life. It ended mine.”

If only, Nora thought, but decided to keep that remark to herself. Her cheek might not survive another slapping.

“I wanted to show you proof. You say my husband is not weak. I disagree. This is my Bible. My husband had his own Bible, too. He always kept it with him, and read from it all the time.”

Nora suppressed a mad, tired laugh. All zee time. Wherever Marie-Laure had been living, she hadn’t completely lost the French accent there.

“He is kind of gay for the Bible,” Nora agreed. “So what?”

“So, I watched him one night opening his Bible. He turned to a page and smiled. I’d never seen him smile like that. I know he didn’t see me watching him. I know he wouldn’t have smiled like that for me to see.”

“Smiling at the Bible? Must have been reading Song of Solomon.”

“Not quite.”

Marie-Laure opened her Bible and took out a scrap of paper, yellowed slightly with age.

“He’d stepped out for a moment. Father Henry came for him. Alone with his Bible, I told myself I simply wanted to see if he’d written our names and the date of our marriage in it. He hadn’t, of course. My heart broke but still I turned the pages. Perhaps I’d find some comfort in this book he read so much. I found no comfort, but I did find this.”

She handed the note to Nora. The bodyguard made no move as Nora reached out and took it from her. Carefully she unfolded it and read the words.

You Blond Monster, I’d give my right arm for another night like last night. Knowing you, you’d take it.

At the bottom of the note were two more words.

Je t’aime.

French for I love you.

Kingsley had left Søren a love note in his Bible, and Søren had kept it.

“There were dozens of them,” Marie-Laure continued, the mad smile now gone from her face. “Dozens of notes from my brother to my husband. Most were like that—a mix of hate and love. Some were only love. Some only hate. One note …” Marie-Laure paused to laugh. “One note simply said, ‘Bad news—I’m pregnant. It’s yours.’ My brother and his sense of humor.” She shook her head like an older sister would at the stupid joke of her younger brother.

Nora wanted to laugh, too, at young Kingsley’s thirty-year-old dirty joke, but at the sweetness of it, the silliness, the absolute intimacy implied by the stupid crack that Kingsley felt the need to write down and tuck into Søren’s Bible for him to find and laugh over later. No one finding those notes could have missed the meaning of them. Kingsley and Søren—it wasn’t sex or lust that brought them together again and again. They’d been in love. Nora knew it. She’d known it for years. But Marie-Laure hadn’t known it until that moment.

“I kept this one note as evidence if I needed it,” Marie-Laure said, her voice now cold and emotionless again. “I left the rest where I found them. My husband … I’d never met anyone so intelligent. And yet, love made him so weak and so foolish that he left two dozen pieces of evidence of his affair with my brother inside his Bible. Oh, yes, my husband was weak. Love made him weak. And I realized then love had made me weak, too. I didn’t want to be weak anymore.”

“I know they would have told you in time about them. Kingsley doesn’t like talking about that part of himself. But he would have. Eventually I know he would have.”

“Doesn’t matter. They lied by omission. They used me.”

“Used you? Søren told you that he wasn’t in love with you. You knew that before you married him. He thought you wanted the money, thought you needed it.”

“I wanted him, loved him. And he didn’t love me. My own brother didn’t even love me. Kingsley loved my husband more than his own flesh and blood. My husband loved my brother more than his own wife. I didn’t know what to do. The notes I’d read … the words were burned into my mind. I prayed all the time. Days and days of walking alone in the woods trying to clear my head, trying to find an answer. Instead, I found the hermitage … their hermitage. And I got the miracle I’d prayed for.”

“What miracle?”

“A girl, a runaway, hiding out in the hermitage. Long dark hair, almost my height. It was meant to be. Destiny. She was perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“I’d given all the options so much thought. I could tell Christian what was happening. He loved me, worshipped me, thought my husband insane for never touching me. If I’d asked him he would kill my husband for me … kill my brother. But then I thought of those notes and how much they must love each other. And I did love Kingsley even though he’d stolen my husband’s affections from me. So I knew what I would do. I would kill myself.”

“But you didn’t. You killed that poor girl.”

“She had nothing. Nothing at all. She thought she’d find a new life in America. I merely saved her the heartache of disappointment.”

“By murdering her? Yeah, you’re all heart.”

“She was a gift. She made it so easy to disappear. No one even looked for me. I found the road, hitchhiked into Canada, found someone to take care of me … so easy to die.”

“You didn’t die. You murdered someone.”

Marie-Laure only shrugged as she sat her white Bible back on the bedside table.

“Someone had to die for their sins, their lies. But I’m starting to think …”

Her voice trailed off and she tapped her chin.

Fear shivered over Nora’s skin.

“Think what?” she whispered.

“That one death was not enough.”

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