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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.”