by Nora Flite
“That's amazing!” I gush, unable to keep myself from grinning. My delight is genuine, but my dad hesitates, and I wonder why.
“Yes,” he goes on, adjusting his silver tie. “Quite. It's a big opportunity, but I assume you're able to handle the responsibility of living away from us for three months. Mr. Klintock has expressed his desire to teach you all he can in exchange for you agreeing to work your hardest under his strict guidance.”
I'm nodding and nodding, eager for all of this. “I can't wait. I promise I'll make you proud, Dad. Thank you.”
“Don't thank me. Thank Mr. Klintock.”
“Oh, of course, when can I meet him?”
The men chuckle. I think they're humoring my excitement, but when my father turns, gesturing grandly, it clicks. “You already met him,” he says.
The Devil smiles at me with a sinful glint in his eyes.
No. Wait.
Mr. Klintock offers me his long-fingered hand. “You can call me Marshall,” he says. “I look forward to working very, very hard with you, Leona.”
The memory of his fingers on the back of my ear makes me shiver. I hope I don't give anything away. I clutch his hand; it's hot to the touch. “Me too,” I whisper around my thick tongue.
His grip lingers on mine a beat longer than it should. No one notices but me. He lets go, facing my father with his clever eyes sparkling. “I'd best get going. I'll send a car for your daughter later tonight.” He casts a final look at me over his wide shoulder. The sunlight creates deep shadows along his cheekbones. There's a longing in his gaze, a hint of attraction, no more than that.
Lust.
He leads the way down the hall towards the front doors. Everyone trails him, deferring to him, acknowledging his power without words. My father shares his ear; I wonder what they're whispering about.
A hand grabs my wrist, yanking me backwards. “Mom?” I ask, baffled as the tall, spindly woman forces me past maids who avert their eyes. “Hey! Why are you pulling me, what's going on?”
She throws me into my bedroom. I'm free of her clutches, but when I spin, she's shut the door, closing us in. “There's very little time to prepare you,” she says, blocking the door like I might try to escape.
“Prepare me for what? The mentorship? Dad just told me. I'll pack as fast as I can.”
“I'm not talking about packing.” She advances on me, studying my face. I wonder what she sees because her probing glare softens. She's never been a warm woman, not with any of her children. My hair stands on end. “Leona, do you know what's going to happen?”
“Yeah, something amazing. I'm going to finally practice my skills as an artist under the tutelage of someone who can take me where I want to go.”
“Do you know who Klintock is?”
“I do.” Now, I think, but I don't say it.
She hasn't blinked in far too long. “No. I don't believe you do. He's a man who is used to getting his way. People don't deny him what he wants. Women don't tell him no.”
My eyebrows scrunch together. I think I get what she's implying. “Mom, come on. He's not going to try anything with me.” I motion at myself, half-smiling, while trying to forget the tension between the Devil and me in the roses earlier, and the hunger in his handsome features as he hovered over me in the hall.
“Leona,” she says seriously, advancing my way. “Promise me something.”
“Okay ...”
“Don't get pregnant.”
The laughter erupts from me before I can stop it. “Excuse me?” I manage to choke the question out through my giggles. My mother never, ever talks to me about sex. Not even when one of the boys at my old school asked me to prom. I went, begrudgingly, and spent the whole time hiding from the poor boy who'd been pressured to ask me out because of my family's last name. I was relieved he was too scared to ask me to dance. I read a book while everyone else danced their teenage lives away.
My mother pushes me against the wall and my head bounces lightly off the surface. “Listen to me,” she hisses, her face inches from mine, “This isn't a game. Don't laugh!”
I hold up my hands, wishing I could find the guts to shove her away. It's hard to shake the habits formed from your earliest memories. Fighting my parents was a fun dream, not reality. “I wasn't saying it's a game,” I mumble.
“You laughed. That tells me you think I'm joking.”
“I mean, you said not to get pregnant,” I counter, blushing to my ears. “How can I not laugh a little. I'm not ... why would he ... with me ...”
“Because putting a baby in your belly would give him access to our family's wealth in a way someone like him should never have.”
The new direction of the conversation left me off balance. I reach for my bed, sitting heavily on the green blankets. I look at my feet, the dirt staining my skin, and try to make sense of what my mother has just told me. He wants our family's money? Klintock looked like someone with plenty of cash. Even without Katy's reveal about his dangerous connections, he had influence and power among the rich. Who would want more?
My father would.
The realization sends shame trickling through my body. Is it so crazy to think Klintock could be as greedy as my own dad? No. It isn't.
“Is this just another high-society game?” I ask, my voice cracking.
"Life for our family is always a game. We play to win."
For a few precious moments I actually thought I was leaving this terrible, tragic, poisonous world my family relished. I was wrong. Where I'm going is just a different shade of the same shit. I want to gag. "If you're so freaked out about him getting me pregnant, maybe I should turn the offer down."
"That's not an option!" Her eyes dart to me, cold and hard as ice. “Raising your stature among the New York elites is something I refuse to miss out on. Whatever Klintock sees in you, it's your duty to convince him to get you every connection, every meeting, that he can. Use whatever ... tools you have to succeed. Just don't go too far. Once you do, there's no going back.”
"Use him," I mumble. "And don't get used in return."
"Exactly. I knew you were smart, it's one of your few strengths." She leans away, adjusting her shawl and tucking her arms around her chest. Closing herself off to me was her default setting. “Pack your bags. He wants to leave tonight.”
I deflate on my bed. Of course. I'm just another tool.
Why had I dared to think, even for a second, that I could be more?
Chapter 3.
Packing doesn't take long.
In school, people expected me to have access to unlimited credit cards. Like I could simply waltz into any store, buy anything or everything, without breaking a sweat. I did have more clothes than I needed. Plenty of expensive makeup. Over-priced electronics. Most were gifts from people trying to get favors from my parents. It's much cheaper to throw thousand-dollar laptops at a few kids in exchange for my father’s investment in a new wing of a college somewhere than to go to a bank for a loan.
Unlike my siblings, I never cared for money. I'd tried to turn the gifts down for years, but my mother scolded me so many times, and the gifts always appeared in my bedroom whether I denied them or not.
But the things that matter to me are not so fancy. And, bonus, they fit easily in a single suitcase. I'd just finished putting my sketchbook, art supplies, and the one pair of nice boots that I loved (winter was on the horizon) into the case when someone knocked.
“Come in,” I say, looking up.
Katy peeks at me through the gap. “Hey,” she says gently. “Your ride is outside.”
“Okay.”
We stand there awkwardly. She bolts across the room suddenly, wrapping me in a tight hug. I have a terrible feeling it's the last one we'll ever share. “Be careful,” she whispers in my ear.
I clutch her so she can't move away. I want to tell her what Mom said, but honestly, I'm still caught up on what she told me. “Katy ... the stuff about Klintock being involved in the mafia ...”
�
��I'm probably just paranoid,” she says quickly.
“And Willbur?”
“Since when did you care what he says?”
“I care about it when it means I could be locking myself in a room with a killer.”
Katy's face screws into a knot. “You're a grown-ass woman, Leona. You're also the most unambitious member of the Hark family to ever exist. It's possible this man has seedy connections. Maybe that's good.”
“How is that good?”
“Take advantage of this situation! You're going to be living with Marshall Klintock! He gets whatever his clients need. You're a client, now, in a sense. Use that power.”
My mouth hangs open. I want to tell her that's exactly what Mom said. I also want to say I can't do what any of them are suggesting, it's not me. “Katy–”
“Grow some backbone,” she snaps, then flashes me a sly grin. “The next time I see you, you better have that man wrapped around your finger and a slew of clients begging to display your artwork around the world.”
Then she's shoving me out into the hall, pushing my suitcase into my hands, ignoring my stammering arguments as the security detail swarms me. “Katy!” I shout, staring at her over my shoulder. She waves, but she's not smiling.
My parents don't say goodbye to me. There's no one in the driveway but more security and a glistening black car to take me away.
****
The small plane is waiting for me at the private airport. I've flown from here before—my parents would never fly commercial—but I've never come here alone. And I do feel alone, even with the security guard in the backseat with me.
The driver pulls as close as he can to the angular plane with red wings. I press my nose to the glass, realizing that's not our plane. My confusion bubbles into anxiousness. The driver opens my door, but I don't get out, not right away. I stare at the plane to try and see what, or who, is inside, but the windows are too small to get a good look.
“Ms. Hark?” the driver prompts me.
I clutch my suitcase as I climb out into the cool evening air, thankful I've dressed in my long, dark blue jacket and warm thermal leggings. My white converse sneakers hit the pavement quietly, bringing me to the staircase that extend out of the plane's belly. There are eyes on me. The driver and my security guard watch me from beside the car. Their flat expressions say, “You're on your own, now.”
I reassure myself that there's nothing to be scared of. I should be elated to be leaving on some grand adventure into my future. It doesn't matter if Marshall Klintock is involved in the seedy underbelly of the mafia. People in high places trust his services. Why am I acting like a scared mouse?
Be a rat, I remind myself. Rats can survive anything. Rats are hungry.
Pushing my shoulders back and standing tall, I gather myself. I climb the stairs and duck my head to enter the plane. I notice two things right away: the gorgeous, red velvet interior that reminds me of my rose garden ...
... and the Devil is here.
Marshall Klintock is reclining in a large seat, his long legs spread like a king on a throne, a glass of amber-colored liquid in his grip. He half-smiles at me and stirs in his seat. It’s a small motion, but one that suggests he’s trying to conceal the way his body reacts to the sight of me.
Heat blooms in my lower belly and I drop my suitcase. “Oh! Uh, hello,” I sputter, crouching to pick it back up. There's motion to my left as a stewardess appears, her hair in a tight bun, her lips a tighter grin.
She holds out her hands for my suitcase. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Hark,” she says. “Please make yourself comfortable. We'll be taking off as soon as Mr. Klintock gives the command.”
“Thank you, Sierra,” he says. She nods, vanishing into the nose of the plane. The door closes, erasing the stairs and removing any escape. You don't want to escape, I remind myself. This is an opportunity. But my feet are stuck to the floor. I can't move down the aisle, not when he's waiting for me with that eager look in his eyes.
Marshall Klintock reminds me of a regal wolf. People might find themselves fawning over photos of dangerous animals, thrilled at seeing one at a distance or in a cage. But who would willingly creep into a wolf's den?
“Are you scared of me?” he asks, breaking the silence.
His bluntness doesn't make me breathe easier. “No,” I lie, and to make a point, I force myself to walk towards him. There's another wide booth across the aisle from him. I make for it—he rises to his feet, blocking me, motioning to share his.
I pull up short. There's a challenge in his eyes. If you're not scared, prove it, his confident grin says. With a final glance at the other seat, I settle into the one across from him. It's plush, and there's a small table between us. When he sits, his knee touches mine; I jerk away, squeezing my legs together, tucking them out of his reach. He smiles at my reaction. “It's good to see you again, Leona,” he says.
“You saw me a few hours ago.”
“Yes. And you didn't know who I was. Now you do.”
“Now I do,” I repeat, narrowing my eyes. More than you might realize, thanks to Katy. “When you came up to me in the garden, why didn't you say that what you were doing at my house involved me? Why did you call yourself—”
“The Devil?” he cuts me off, lifting his glass, taking a sip. “Because I am,” he purrs.
I scrutinize him up and down. “You look like a normal man to me.”
“Someone with an imagination like yours should know we're more than what's on our surface. Some of us, anyway. People like your father are exactly who they appear to be.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask.
“Here.” He sets a glass on the table, filling it with something from a dark bottle. I read the label before he sets it in a deep indentation in the wall by the plane's window.
Scotch. “I can't drink yet,” I say.
“You're twenty years old.”
“It's illegal.”
“Since when does legality stop people from doing what they desire?” His voice is smokey. I grip my knees so keep them from trembling. Him bringing up legality makes me think about his connection to the mafia. I scan his hands, trying to see the tattoos I glimpsed earlier. “This isn't your first sip of alcohol, Leona. Don't lie.”
A pink blush crosses my cheeks. I still don't take the glass. “I'm fine.”
Klintock empties the glass into his own. “Suit yourself. I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to.” His foot touches mine under the table, sending a thrill up my skin.
I jerk away. “Listen, Mr. Klintock ...”
“You can call me Marshall.”
“Fine, Marshall. I wanted to ask you something.”
“Anything,” he chuckles.
I part my lips, the memory of my mother's warning jumps up my throat. Don't get pregnant. I force the words down, refusing to give them power. “Why me?”
His dark eyebrows inch up his face. “That's a broad question, Leona.”
“How did you discover my art?” Does he follow Instagram? How would he know it was even me?
“I have my ways.”
“That's not enough of an answer.”
“And what are you going to do if it's all I give you?” He props his chin on his hand, smiling at me. “Will you get off my plane? Turn down my offer? You can, if you want. We haven't left the ground.”
I shoot a look out the window at the tarmac. “You'd let me just leave after going this far?” Marshall is quiet, his body still as a statue. It emboldens me to speak more sharply. “I do want to learn from you. My dream is to wrap myself in the world of art, and you're my first, maybe my only, shot at that.” I grit my teeth, meeting his steely gaze. “But I know there's more going on. I'm not talented enough for you to extend such a personal offer to me. This is about my family, isn't it?”
He lets his hand drop, fingers folding together on the table. “Leona,” he says softly, but there's a darkness on his tongue, “Let me make this clear. I don't want your family
. I want you.”
The rush of delicious arousal stuns me. Marshall's voice is thick, powerful, and alluring. I'm not going to survive his straight-forward way of talking. My family always spoke in code, dancing around the truth with cruelty or gossip to get their way. “There's no point in hiding it,” he continues. “I actually thought it was obvious. I've been blessed to see many mysterious, beautiful things in this world. I know when I've discovered something special. Why does it matter how I found my way to you? I'm here now.”
I'm lost. My head is light, my body floating. I grip the chair's belt and strap myself in, because without it, I'm going to drift away and never come back down. “Sorry,” I whisper, clearing my throat. “Did you just call me beautiful?”
He laughs, throwing his head back. The noise shakes my bones, heats my blood. The speakers rumble as the captain announces we're taking off. There's passion in Marshall's eyes, the black centers somehow darker than the rest, sucking me in as he stares eagerly.
The engines roar, deafening me.
I don't need sound to know Marshall is still laughing.
Chapter 4.
We land safely in the state of New York. The trip was uncomfortable. Neither of us spoke much. He flipped through a notebook while we were in the air, jotting things down, leaving me to stew in the turmoil of my thoughts.
He wants me.
What the hell did that mean? I couldn't ask, not after he'd laughed at my last question about me being beautiful. I'd never thought I was ugly, but beautiful?
I'm a man who can't resist beautiful things. That's what he told me earlier today. God, was that really only hours ago? My life had flipped upside down so fast. He also warned me about what he does to beautiful things. Breaks them.
“Leona.” Klintock is standing at the bottom of the plane's steps with an umbrella in his hand. I didn't notice the rain, but I do now. The refreshing smell heightens my senses, waking me up. He holds his hand out expectantly. I climb down the steps, consciously avoiding his offered hand, but I do stand under the shelter of his umbrella. I knew he was tall, but at his side, my head comes to his chest. The umbrella looks miles above me.
