Beware the Wicked Heir

by Mara McQueen

  Beware the Wicked Heir

  Beware the Wicked Love, Book One

  Mara McQueen

  Copyright © Mara McQueen

  All right reserved.

  No part of this book may be used

  Or reproduced in any manner

  whatsoever without written permission

  except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names,

  characters, events, and incidents are a

  product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to an actual person,

  living or dead, is entirely

  coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Race To Success

  2. Real Estate Nightmare

  3. Worth It

  4. Too Familiar

  5. Misstep

  6. Scream

  7. Curiosity

  8. Dangerous Things

  9. Hurricane Of A Woman

  10. Notorious

  11. Vicious And Unnerving

  12. Midnight Dash

  13. Gracious Host

  14. Let's Talk Business

  15. Dust, Grime, And Sweat

  16. Too Personal

  17. Quirks, Loose Bolts, And Secrets

  18. Midnight Explorations

  19. Hard Questions

  20. Ripped To Shreds

  21. Shared Lunacy

  22. Exposed

  23. Fake It

  24. Sudden Departure

  25. Summon

  26. Red

  27. One Of Those Lucky Mistakes

  28. No Respite

  29. One More Hasty Decision

  30. Underground Incursions

  31. Help

  32. Devious Trail

  33. A Good Challenge

  34. So Impatient

  35. Ominous Tempo

  36. Fumbling Around In The Dark

  37. A Conversation For A Sunny Day

  38. Crawl Through Emotional Hell

  39. Happy

  40. The Talk

  41. Bloody And Silent

  42. Festering Madness

  43. Flash Of Terror

  44. Bloody Rain

  45. Normal

  46. Wicked

  Afterword

  BEWARE THE WICKED NIGHT

  Chapter One

  She came to sell his manor.

  He doesn’t want her to leave.

  Ever.

  Real estate agent Olivia Abbate is in big trouble. Her crippling debt is destroying her life, and she needs a big commission to save herself. Fast.

  When she arrives at the once-majestic Bolton Manor, she agrees to stay a week in exchange for the commission.

  But then she meets Kieran Bolton, the manor's mysterious heir, whose touches tempt her to drop her professional boundaries.

  But when one of the manor's guests disappears in the middle of the night and Kieran's secrets are uncovered, Olivia’s in danger of losing more than her career. With her life on the line, can Olivia trust the wicked heir?

  Race To Success

  Right around the time they hit the seventh pothole, Olivia Abbate swore two things—to stop buying her pantyhose at two-for-one sales, and to never jump into the first cab willing to take her to the middle of nowhere, no questions asked.

  “Is there any way we can go faster?” she asked.

  The driver glanced at her in his rear-view mirror, using his tongue to clean the remnants of his lunch from his teeth, unimpressed by the urgency in her voice.

  Olivia pretended she didn’t notice. After all, being a real estate agent had taught her plenty of tact and patience. “Or find a shortcut?”

  “No can do, Miss. We’re on the shortest road and I ain’t keen on getting a flat tire.”

  Olivia looked over her shoulder and bit the inside of her cheek. Still no sign of another car. For now.

  Maybe Milo Underwood, coworker and thorn in her side, had gotten lost on the muddy roads. Then again, maybe he'd already arrived at the glorious manor. He wouldn’t have just given up; the dolt would’ve spent a week in the void of space for a sale.

  She gazed down at the single sheet of paper in her folder marked ‘Bolton Manor – potential listing’. She needed to find some sort of detail that might give her an advantage against Milo. Apart from specifying the impressive size of the domain, the obscene number of rooms, a freaking boathouse, and the name of the current owner, there wasn’t much else. Not even a picture of the estate.

  And that meant trouble. Exciting and career-defining trouble.

  Especially since Milo would try his damnedest to get the listing before Olivia, and thus steal her rightful promotion—and her only shot at starting to piece her life back together. She’d spent her last money on this cab ride and was two weeks away from getting thrown out of her apartment.

  She didn’t just want this sale. She needed it.

  From the bottom of her loan account to the pile of bills waiting on the crooked coffee table in the dodgy apartment she called home, Olivia had to secure this sale.

  The car shook as it hit another pothole. Olivia’s muscles clenched. Hailing a cab from Leeds had been a bad idea. But when her boss had mentioned the fancy Bolton estate during their weekly meeting, Olivia instantly knew landing the overpriced property for her posh firm was her lifeline.

  It was the solution to paying off her neverending debt and getting back on track. Unfortunately, Milo, a trust fund baby if she ever saw one, wanted that promotion just as much, and he didn’t have shoddy finances dragging him down. He was driving his brand-new Jaguar to Bolton Manor, after all.

  “Going on a weekend vacation, eh?” the driver asked.

  “No. Just looking into a listing.”

  “You also deal with flats?” he asked, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “Me sister’s got one, real beauty, near Whitley. Her husband’s a bit loose in the liver, if you get what I mean, and she’s plannin’ on retirin’ to a farmhouse once he’s gone. Think you can help her?”

  “Actually, I only deal with houses.” She regretted the words as soon as the driver’s smile turned into a frown. It was the truth—the company she worked at didn’t bother with flats unless they went for huge sums or were previously owned by shameless celebrities. But...the driver had been the only one who’d agreed to take her outside the city limits, and his sister seemed to have enough problems already. “You know what? If she ever decides to sell, give me a call.”

  Olivia pulled out her business card.

  “Heatherton and Associates.” The driver whistled. “I’ve heard about you lot. Been with them long?”

  “Only a year and a half.”

  Olivia placed her file back into her fraying purse, right next to her retractable baton—a woman needed to protect herself—and glanced back again. The only thing behind them was the cab’s tire tracks in the country roads. No sign of Milo, his Jaguar, or his snide attitude.

  Maybe Olivia had a chance, after all.

  The next half-hour passed in a blur of wild fields which slowly turned into a lush forest. Gnarly trees with winding branches and thick, dark trunks spread out as far as Olivia could see, with nothing but a narrow passageway spearing through for the road.

  Olivia was so busy staring out the window—she hadn't seen forests like this back in the US—she didn’t see the shift from muddy road to smooth pavement. But she sure felt the bump.

  Her head almost collided with the window, and her stockings snagged on a piece of torn leather poking out from the seat, unraveling near her knee.

  “We’re almost there, Miss.” The driver shifted
gears as they drove up the steep hill.

  “Good to know.” Olivia sighed, running her hands down her shins.

  She had to make a good first impression, unladylike manners be damned. The owner mentioned in the file, Dorothea Bolton, was seventy-three, and scandalizing her was definitely not on Olivia’s to-do list.

  She bent down, took off her shoes, and shimmied out of the now useless stockings. The driver’s face reddened. She put on a new pair—her last pair, actually—kept in her purse at all times, and resumed her position as if nothing happened.

  The forest became wilder the further they drove, the trees thicker, winding toward the sky like they wanted to spear it. If this was only the domain’s entryway, it meant the entire sale would be worth millions.

  As the car sputtered up the hill, the imposing manor came into view. Olivia's breath caught in her throat as they pulled up into the driveway.

  Her mind raced with all the possibilities—delightful, lavish, exhilarating possibilities. The fountain in the center of the circular driveway was a perfect backdrop for a wedding photo; the magnificent steps, eroded by time and countless visitors, would look even better with a string quartet playing at a private party; the patch of pink and red roses—running wild in what must have been an oval pattern at one point—was ideal for a magazine shoot.

  Long arches guarded the manor’s main doors, carved out of black wood and reinforced with steel bars, wide windows that looked like they had the original stone stools, and slanted tiles on the roof—everything looked amazing. And expensive as hell. But, if she was honest, the building looked a bit worn down.

  The driver cleared his throat and brought Olivia out of her trance. “Er, weren’t you in a hurry?”

  “Yes, yes.” She quickly got out of the car, losing her balance once her heels dug into the wet gravel. She straightened her skirt and grasped the handle of her carry-on. Olivia's boss insisted on agents packing some light luggage and an extra suit for out-of-town listings, just in case. You never knew when your shirt might get stained or your heel might break off.

  “Need a hand?”

  “No, thanks. You’ve helped me enough.” She dug out her wallet, taking out the last bills she had to her name. “Thank you so very much. Keep your phone nearby, I’ll need you again soon.”

  The driver nodded happily and set off, tipping his kitschy hat in her direction. Olivia smiled back—it was hard to find a decent cab driver; she had been called kitten and forced to flash her baton too many times.

  She climbed the large steps, avoiding the chipped edges. The manor’s walls were stained halfway to the bottom and jagged in more places than she would’ve cared for, but it had a solid foundation.

  Best of all? Milo’s car was nowhere in sight.

  Taking a deep breath and plastering on the best estate agent smile she had in her arsenal, she raised herself on her toes and tapped the large brass door knocker: a heavy circle coming out of a wolf’s open mouth. Not terribly original, but the kind of detail buyers with deep pockets loved.

  Nothing happened.

  Olivia frowned and knocked again. And again. And again—

  The imposing door opened suddenly. A middle-aged woman’s head popped out. One side of her face was droopy and emphasized her scowl even more.

  “Yes?” she asked in a terse, raspy voice that could only belong to a life-long smoker.

  Olivia’s smile widened. “Hello, I’m Olivia Abbate. I’m here about the listing.”

  The woman didn’t reply. Instead, she began shutting the door.

  Olivia bristled and poked her right foot in the opening, propping her hand against the door. “Excuse me, madam, but I was called here because the owner of this lovely home is looking for an estate agent. I came to offer my free consultation. However, if I’ve been lied to, I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for my transportation fees. And it’s a long ride back to Leeds.”

  That was a lie. Nobody had to pay for anything until the sale of the property. But Olivia knew when to bluff—playing poker with her college roommates had done more than pad her usually empty pockets.

  The woman groaned and opened the door wider. “You’ll have to take it up with the missus. Ain’t my job to decide.”

  “Thank you.” Olivia dropped her luggage in the foyer, freezing on the spot.

  Oh, God, no. No, no, no, no—

  The interior was strikingly different than the outside. A musty scent lingered in the air. The carpet looked frayed beyond repair. The askew paintings hanging on the walls were almost blurry with dust. Worst of all, completely disproportionate wooden beams encroached on the already limited space of the foyer.

  Every single part of the decor looked ghastly and in need of a very good scrub.

  Olivia rolled her shoulders back. This was fine. Totally not a deal-breaker. Crack open one of the many windows, bring in some extra lighting, and Olivia could sell it as charmingly vintage.

  “The missus is this way.” The woman started walking away.

  Olivia followed, keeping her hands close to her body, trying not to touch any of the dusty furniture. Who kept drawers in the foyer? Honestly now.

  “I didn’t catch your name, Mrs....”

  “Miss,” the woman corrected tersely. “And call me Bertha.”

  Olivia raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment. This Bertha did not like her. She glanced around at the spacious rooms they passed, and her dread grew with each one. The furnishings were completely ludicrous and poorly-kept. What good was a two-hundred-year-old French armoire left to rot in a corner? A draft snaked through the nooks and crannies, and the wood felt like a cage waiting to crumble.

  “She’s right through here.” Bertha pointed toward a large drawing-room. Before Olivia could properly thank her, the surly woman turned around and left, pulling up her skirt as she scratched her thigh.

  Olivia straightened her back, ran a hand through her chestnut blonde hair, trying to hide her auburn roots, and tugged her red jacket lower, making sure she looked as professional as possible.

  Only one first impression.

  She stepped into the room, heels clicking on the blemished marble, announcing her arrival.

  Her face dropped when she saw not one, but two people seated by the closed French doors. An old woman in a wheelchair, who she supposed was Mrs. Bolton, and a mop of blond hair, broad shoulders, and wide, sunburned neck.

  Milo had beaten her to Bolton Manor.

  Real Estate Nightmare

  “Abbate, so nice of you to join us,” Milo said, his smirk impossibly wide.

  Olivia pursed her lips and approached Mrs. Bolton, extending her hand. “Mrs. Dorothea Bolton, I presume. Olivia Abbate. It’s a true pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise, likewise, dear.” Mrs. Bolton grasped Olivia’s palm in her own delicate one. She had a large silver ring on every finger and they clashed with her simple white dress.

  “It’s great to be standing in your home. I dare say it’s astounding.”

  “Oh, how curious.” Mrs. Bolton clasped her hands together. “Milo here was saying the same thing.”

  Olivia turned her head slowly toward Milo, who grinned like an idiot, and narrowed her eyes—astounding was her line. Everyone at Heatherton & Associates knew that. “That’s Underwood, always polite and quick to flatter.”

  “I’m the fastest, after all.” Milo bowed his head in pretend modesty, running a hand down his red tie as he turned to Mrs. Bolton. "Raised in the States, this one. Can't drive like us Brits."

  Olivia was going to kill him. Slowly. “It’s good to see your reckless driving hasn’t caused you any injuries this time.”

  “Oh, your concern for me is truly touching, but there's no need for it.” He looked at Mrs. Bolton again with the sappiest puppy eyes to ever grace a grown man’s face. “As I mentioned, my Jaguar broke down halfway from Leeds.”

  “Then how did you get here before me?” Olivia asked.

  Milo smirked. “Some good man was kind enough t
o bring me here, while they took my car away for repairs. All I had to do was get my travel bag out of the car. One of the many benefits of owning one.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes.

  “You see,” he continued, captivating Mrs. Bolton, “Abbate won’t take any risks. Unlike me—I go beyond the normal call of duty to get the job done.”

  “That’s good to hear, dear,” Mrs. Bolton said. “Looking forward to seeing all that expertise in the next week.”

  Olivia froze. She exchanged a furtive glance with Milo, a single thought mirrored on both their faces—a whole week?

  Clients, even prospective ones, had a habit of being very demanding, but hinting at seven full days of convincing to let one of them sell her house and make her millions?

  “Madam,” Olivia intervened before Milo opened his insufferable mouth again. “We were both sent by Heatherton & Associates to help you get the best possible deal for your home, but we have to return to Leeds, tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Yes, I am aware you need to sell my home.” Mrs. Bolton blinked one too many times, her eyes glazing over. “But I can’t possibly decide if your firm is the best or if you’re trustworthy because I don’t know you, do I? If you live long enough as I have, you learn not to trust the first pretty faces that barge into your house. But we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other in time for my birthday.”