Nate had only been fourteen at the time, and John had never been a part of the usual family rigmarole. Whenever he’d been at the various family events, Nate had thought him to be pretty cool. Always friendly, caustic with his comments about the charades the Conroy-Kelly parties truly were. To hear of the man’s death had been saddening but to the extent that anyone would feel for a relative stranger.
His mother was John’s closest family, and she’d inherited all of his stuff. What she’d wanted, his many lucrative patents, had been bequeathed to Blue Ridge. The man’s pride and joy had subsequently been dumped in the attic out of rage, and Nate remembered spotting a whole bookcase full of diaries a few years back. He’d hunted them down, found them and it was the diaries he was reading, in the vain hope that he’d find inspiration. Inspiration that would put a halt to his morbid thoughts about being disabled, and that would urge him to embrace life again.
The diaries stemmed from the car accident that had robbed John of his leg and the aftermath.
In truth, it couldn’t have been better for Nate. Reading of his great-uncle’s similar struggles enabled him to come to terms with himself and the Nate he now was. Made him realize he wasn’t alone and that it was tough but it would get easier. Sometimes clichés were a bitch, but time, according to John’s words, really did heal all wounds.
Even one as gaping as a lost limb.
Nate continued to read the diaries even after John had ceased talking about his disability. The way he thought, the process of John’s thinking, it all fascinated Nate and he carried on, demolishing the thick tomes. In those books, loaded with looping scrawl, Nate found a connection with a man who could have meant more to him had John not taken his life. Nate found a peace of sorts.
That is, until the end of the diaries neared.
As the pages diminished, Nate’s sadness grew unbearably. The closer he came to the final words, the last paragraph, he began to grieve. As he mourned, he analyzed John’s words, seeking a reason for his great-uncle’s suicide. John had never left a note, no letter to explain why he had to end it all. His genius, his sometimes all-encompassing depression, had been enough of a reason for the coroner.
But as he analyzed and sought the truth, Nate discovered a very different reason for John’s death. His great-uncle hadn’t committed suicide.
A few months before the end, John had been depressed; a depression, which had sometimes consumed him and led to long, rambling diatribes scribbled messily in his diaries. But a woman, Greta, had entered his world, and even though it had caused a fall out between John and his best friends, Nate’s great-uncle had never felt better. His optimism was boundless and imbued in every word.
As he read on, Nate’s confusion knew no bounds. John’s notes on the latest math algorithm he was working on were slightly confusing, but Nate had once studied advanced math, so he could work through it, piece together the puzzle, even though John’s brilliance was evident in every single calculation. And it was there, he came to realize, where a motive was buried.
Not for suicide.
For murder.
The conviction that John had been killed became an obsession. He couldn’t sleep, had little to no appetite and dropped twenty much-needed pounds as the need for the truth ate him alive. He buried deeper into the diaries, seeking clues and finding many. He researched the commune John had made his home, and Nate knew, knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he’d uncovered what had really happened in the depths of the celebrated, if unorthodox, genius haven.
He’d found a kinship among the written secrets, the tucked-away hopes and dreams of a man he hadn’t known but wished he could have. No matter how long it took, the depths he had to crawl to, Nate would discover what really happened to his great-uncle.
It became his raison d’etre. He forgot his disability. Ignored it.
There was no time to waste on self-pity or being maudlin.
He had a murder to solve.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Present day,
Blue Ridge Ranch,
Sheridan, Montana
“Are you sure there won’t be any legal repercussions from this farce?”
“I am the law, Marina. Or, at least, a large cog within the wheels of justice. You’re safe—that is to say, as safe as anyone is.”
“Nice to know you’re as arrogant as ever, Erick,” I mock, tightening my grip on the ATV’s steering wheel. A part of me is relieved; another part is irritated by Erick van der Viel’s reassurance.
The Russian mob who stole my client list back in Chicago, something my boyfriend Nate took a bullet for, have decided to extort money from my old clientele. Erick is here on damage control and even though he’s a cocky bastard, I’m glad it’s him dealing with this. I’ve known him since I was a kid; we grew up together, and I not only know who and what he is, I know I can trust him.
When Erick is on Blue Ridge, he’s just Erick. Not a man with more power than the President himself. After all, Presidents have to be elected and have to answer to the various councils and bodies of the US Federal government.
Erick doesn’t answer to anyone.
Well, if he does, I can’t imagine who.
He’s a ghost. And if I have his assurance that I won’t go to prison for the time I spent as a madam, then I know I’m safe.
My freedom comes at a relatively low price: I have to supply him with a list of my high profile, ex-customers. A list that includes everything from kinks to an estimate of how much money they spent at Papillon, my previous place of business—a brothel.
“I’d say you’re used to arrogance,” he comments, remarking on my snarky retort.
If I was anyone else, then I should probably kowtow to him. Get down on bended knee in gratitude. That isn’t me. And legally, while I walked a long, thin line between being legal and illegal, there’s nothing I can really be arrested for. That isn’t to say it couldn’t happen, that fabricated charges couldn’t be put together to catch me. But the world isn’t fair. When they say it isn’t what you know but who, it’s the truth.
I know Erick, therefore, I’m safe. I can bitch at him and complain about his irritating attitude.
“And why is that? Why should I be used to highhandedness?” I ask with a cocked brow.
He hums under his breath but ignores my question. “I’d also have thought you’d have better taste than to be with a man like Nathan Conroy.”
“You see, darling, that’s where we disagree. I have perfect taste,” I almost purr. Even as mad as I am at Nate, there’s no denying he’s perfect for me.
“Wouldn’t be the first time we didn’t see eye to eye.”
I frown at his glum tone. “We rarely agree. On anything. I’d think something was wrong if that suddenly changed.”
A long, low hissing breath bursts into the air. Through the pitch black, I can’t see him. Even though he’s next to me, five inches away in the cart’s passenger seat. That doesn’t mean I can’t sense his sudden seething fury. Or his jealousy.
“How is it you can get on with Nathan Conroy but you can’t with me? We’re cut from the same goddamned cloth, yet getting you to even have a meal with me is like digging for gold.”
It’s the jealousy rather than the fury that makes me feel awkward. It isn’t all that difficult to change topic, especially as an earlier suspicion of mine has just been confirmed. “I thought you two knew each other.”
After Erick’s arrival, Nate, Erick, and I had all convened to my office to hash out the details for the level of damage control required to resolve the situation between my old clientele and the Russian mob seeking to blackmail them.
Let me just say this; America is about to experience a flurry of top-level, political resignations.
As selfish as it is, and as horrible as I may seem, I don’t actually feel much guilt for my role in all this.
Men and women in the elite circles we’re talking about, should know better. They should have more sense than to frequent brothels.
Those with no sense at all would simply have found an alternate means of fulfilling their particular kinks. I just happened to own one of the most popular joints and because of it, my girls and I made a ton of cash.
Whether or not Papillon existed, the people we’re talking about, would have sought succor elsewhere.
So, I can’t feel any remorse, when I was nothing more than a tool. One of many they probably used.
I do regret that one of the politicians has taken his life rather than endure public humiliation. But again, it was his choice. It had always been his choice, and now, it’s his family who will have to deal with the backlash. If I feel pity for anyone, it’s his wife and the ubiquitous 2.4 kids who are grieving for a father and husband they never really knew or understood. The family didn’t ask for this fallout. Regardless of that, though, they’re the ones who will have to deal with the shame in place of the man who should be weathering the storm.
“I just knew the sparks between you two weren’t because of me and this stupid situation,” I continue, thinking back to the bitter tones and glances, the glares and harsh words the two had shared whenever the need to talk to each other had arisen.
When Erick had first stepped out of the helicopter, the pair of them had made out they were little more than acquaintances. Yet the way they spoke to each other, the anger and the bitterness, had told a tale of its own.
Erick merely shrugs at my words. “I know a lot of people and this isn’t my first visit to Blue Ridge since Nate took over as foreman.”
“Bullshit.” I snort and turn my head up to stare at the stars overhead. Millions, billions of them play dumb witness to this secret chat between Erick and myself.
Having delivered Erick to the lodgings of his mother, Dorothy, I should be on my way back to the homestead. It’s late, time for bed and in the morning, I have the confrontation with the wicked witch, Greta, to contend with. But with the antagonism between Erick and Nate hovering at an astonishing level, I know I’ll have very few opportunities to chat with Erick alone. And in truth, the real reason I offered to drop him off at his mother’s when he could easily have walked, is Natalia.
Erick’s PA.
At the airfield, when we greeted Erick, his PA was there, as she always is. There is definitely something going on between Nate and her. I want to know what that is before I lay any accusations at Nate’s door.
“You’re lying,” I continue. “I always could read you and that hasn’t changed. You know Nate better than you’re letting on. I’ve seen him with a lot of folks; some he likes and some he doesn’t, but he never spoke to any of them the way he did to you. It takes a damn sight more than a few visits here to create the level of discord between the pair of you. Tell me, Erick. I want to know.”
“I wonder what Nate would say if he heard you talking that way. Digging into his privacy.” The silkiness to his tone makes me stiffen—I recognize it, having heard Nate chastise me with this particular cadence to his speech. “I’m sure he wouldn’t approve.”
It’s then and there that I realize submissive I might be, but only to one man, and Erick van der Viel isn’t he.
Even though Nate and I are on shaky ground at the minute, thanks to all the lies he’s been telling me, I quickly run through his rules in my head. Nothing in there states I have to obey another Dom—nothing. Thank fuck.
How is it I’ve only just realized Erick is a Dom? Considering sex was my business, it’s an unnerving oversight. Saying that, Nate hid it from me too. Either they’re really good at deception, or I’m just blind.
And it isn’t ego talking, when I select the former over the latter.
“Nate isn’t here to approve or disapprove of our chat, Erick. Had I known you were into the same kinks as him, I’d have offered you the services of my best sub. Rosalie was very popular, you know.”
“I’ve never had a need to prevail of Papillon’s services.”
“Apparently, that was a wise decision. Especially if this security leak is anything to go by.”
He shrugs. With the moonlight bouncing off him, I can just make out his cocksure grin. “They wouldn’t be able to touch me anyway.”
“Arrogance isn’t an attractive trait, Erick. I’ve already told you that. Maybe you should remember it for future reference?”
“We both know that’s a lie.” He turns toward me and slips his hand on my shoulder, then drags it down my arm until he reaches my wrist. He cups it gently before sliding his fingers through mine.
Immediately tugging free from his hold, I murmur, “We do? I’ve no reason to lie, Erick.”
“Nate’s about as vanilla as cookie dough. Arrogance is ingrained into his being as it is in mine. It’s what makes us who we are. Although, not you. I’d have taken you for anything but a sub, but the instant I saw the byplay between the pair of you tonight, I realized that’s what you are. A sub. I thought he’d been trying out vanilla, trying to get the taste of cookie dough out of his system. Until tonight.”
In his own way, Nate is very imperious and while his orders can rub me the wrong way—something I enjoy sometimes—never like Erick’s surety and self-assurance does. Rather than say that, rather than defend Nate, tartly, I tell him, “Being a sub doesn’t make me attracted to any dickhead in a suit.” Eying his tailored jacket, pants and shirt, I don’t try to hide my smirk.
“If you were mine, you wouldn’t get away with that.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not yours then, isn’t it?” I stare at him and shake my head. “Don’t fuck up a friendship, Erick, just because we’ve both discovered something about the other’s private life.”
He grunts. “He’s a lucky bastard. But then, he always was.”
That low growl of moments before hisses out with a sibilant sizzle. His hand comes up again, this time to cup my cheek. I force myself not to move away. Aware that for once in his life, Erick isn’t entirely in control, and that things could deteriorate very quickly if I’m not careful.
“We could have been good together, Marina.”
His nostalgic, bittersweet and almost mournful tone has me frowning. “We’re chalk and cheese. Too similar to get on with one another without blood being shed. If we’d really connected, then we’d have done it ages ago. When we were teens.”
“I tried. You chose Jimmy instead.”
I wince at the venom imbued into my husband’s name. “Exactly. I didn’t choose you.”
His hand tightens on my jaw. “I could make you choose me.”
“That’s kind of an oxymoron,” I tease, even though I feel anything but amused. “You can’t make anyone choose someone. It either is or isn’t.”
My words are light, but the intensity pounding out of Erick’s every pore is heavier than concrete. Were I not used to Nate’s intense ways, as well as various dubious situations I encountered at Papillon, I might feel nervous. As it is, I know I have to tread carefully. I’ve always known he found me attractive and in my own way, I shared the sentiment, but not enough to make a go of it. I wasn’t lying when I said we’re not well suited. But I never imagined our meeting up again would result in this.
Erick, at this moment in time, is a cocked gun. One misstep and he’ll shoot.
I reach for his hand, curl my fingers loosely into his and with his mind focused on my gesture; I change the subject, picking up on something he’d said moments before. “Always? How long have you known Nate, Erick?”
Silence is his first answer. In the heavy, quiet atmosphere, I can hear the roughness of his breathing. Where this has come from, this ardent need to snatch me from Nate, I’m not entirely sure. I guess him learning I’m a sub was the final straw in the attraction he felt for me. Either that, or he wants to hurt Nate. I’m levelheaded enough to think it’s the latter over the former. The fact he’s always liked the way I look is probably just a plus. I can’t be flattered over something that has little do with me.
“I’ve known him since college.” He finally answers my question, after a good fi
ve-minute pause, but tugs his hand free from mine and moves away from me toward the outer edge of his seat. When he clears his throat, I know any so-called danger has passed. I can’t deny I’m relieved. “We had economics together.”
Fuck. There’s so much I don’t know about Nate. The Nate I thought I knew is riddled with holes; big gaps, chunks of space and time I’m completely blind to, and economics class is yet another piece to the jigsaw puzzle that is my lover.
“He took economics?” I blurt out, my voice redolent with surprise.
Despite myself and my own less than squeaky-clean tendencies of hiding the truth from Nate, I feel wronged. I should know what he studied at college. If the topic had arisen, I would have asked, but I shouldn’t have to. These things…people in relationships share them. Why did he keep this from me? And hell, that pertinent piece of information wasn’t even on his resume.
Not that it would have been.
Don't employees realize employers need to know this shit?
Grumbling silently at the thought, I let Erick continue.
“His father’s from the Naples branch of the Florida Conroys. They’re big news down that way. In the whole state, actually. Nate said he was the black sheep. Never doing what his father wanted, never taking any interest in the family corporation. He said he’d inherited the Kellys’ drive for creation.”
“The Kellys?” I ask, recognizing the surname. John Kelly, a one-time inhabitant of Blue Ridge, was Nate’s great-uncle. As I just discovered tonight. After nearly three months of living on the ranch and after countless generalized mentions of John, for some reason, Nate decided to keep his relationship to the man a secret.
“Yeah. The Kellys are his mother’s side of the family. His father would have preferred him to have taken after the Conroys. Economics and math were the classes Nate had to take to please the old man. But cinematography hooked him in the end.” Erick’s voice is a rumble in an otherwise quiet night. “I guess he still doesn’t like to talk about his people. Never did.”
Sinfully Mastered: Naughty Nookie Page 31
