by Raine, H. J.
“Yes?” Lucian answered, pouring a metric ton of unpleasantness into the single syllable.
“Good morning!”Clark chirped.
“No,” Lucian countered, flopping onto the silks and satins of his bed. “But it tends to improve with the first killofthe day.”
“And, yet, alas and woe unto me, as I must deny mylord suchinvigoratingprivileges withmytrivia.”
Lucian groaned. Damn Clark and every insufferable, military, morning soul on this god-forsaken rock. “The high protocol speech would probably prove more effective onyour Sir, Maxwell.”
“But it serves me so much better as a way to remind youofthe little pleasures inlife, Luke.”
“And I really must speak to Daniel about why he lets youout ofyour pen.”
“He likes me free-range.”
“More’s the pity.” Lucian rubbed the bridge of his nose, thankful the shades were still drawn on their electronic timers. Waking up with a migraine diminished the enjoyment he usually took from Clark’s battle of wits. “What do youwant?”
“To catch you before you headed to the office,” Clark said, tone morphing into respectful. “I have an update onour ongoingpuzzle.”
Lucian’s eyes snapped open, attention riveted. “Should we meet for this discussion?”
“Not necessary,” Clark replied smartly. “Most of the details will be released to the press soon enough, and our talk is just speculation.”
Fears about communicating over an open line waylaid, Lucianrelaxed. “Proceed.”
“I just received word that the latest victim matches the MO ofthe other seven.”
“Your connections to the coroner’s office once again prove invaluable,” Lucian said and sighed. “So that means Miranda Higgins...”
“Died of strangulation. Rope burns around her neck, wrists, knees, and ankles. They’re calling it accidentaldeathbyauto-erotic asphyxiation.”
“Bullshit,”Lucianhissed. “Thougha veryconvenient wayfor a prostitute to die and have no one take note.”
“Just like the others, sir, yes.”
“Did she like to dance?”Lucianasked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn.”
Did she like to dance was the code phrase asking if Miranda was tied to Haze, a BDSM club on the outskirts of the city. It fed the least desirable customer and had made a name for itselfby escaping any number of lawsuits. The owner was an expert in iron-clad contracts for every kind of play within the factory turned den of despair’s walls, and the right amounts of money were paid to the right people to keep it in business. Lucian would have taken the direct route and seen it burned to the ground years ago, regardless, but his father’s mob cronies were both the clientele and the people paid to keep the club running. Lucian’s ownership ofClub Break, anestablishment at odds with everything Haze stood for, was well known by Hendrick’s people, as was his disdain for the other club.
Despite Lucian’s asshole father’s ties and the occasional scrap of blackmail material or information that came fromHaze, one of Lucian’s goals was to see it shut its doors. He’d met Raquelle at a dirty nightclub when he was eighteen and high on freedom. The boy had been beautiful no matter what sex Raquelle chose to be for the day or night, and Lucian had fallen in love inthe wayonlyfirst-time idiots could.
Raquelle used clubs like Haze to drudge for customers, and he spoke of bondage and pain as trials and tribulations of the job. While he was with Lucian, however, he didn’t trick. He didn’t need to with Lucian’s money lining his pockets, but he still put anything that came in powder form up his nose. Raquelle didn’t die strangled, beaten, or from HIV complications, but heroinkilled just the same.
Lucian no longer saw it as a personalfailure, except when half a fifth into his cups, but as soon as Lucian was back in NewAmsterdamwith the network and the clout he established with Clark’s assistance, he’d started the slow process of applying the right kind of pressure to end Haze.
In his effort to assist, Clark had started digging and came to Lucian one day with a theory about a string of murders that were all loosely tied to the club. All the victims were either Haze frequenters or ex-employees. That bit ofinformationalone had takenyears to acquire. Haze didn’t exactly keep pristine records, and those it did keep had a tendencyto get doctored or lost.
Clark got in contact with their people at the NAPD and started building a file, but all the other leads on the case led to dead ends or more questions. There appeared to be loose connections between the victims and nefarious members of New Amsterdam’s underground -- minor mob bosses, flunkie bodyguards, informants, etc -- but nothing solid. There was nobody who either knew the missing pieces to the puzzle or who were willingto risk their lives for a few whores that nobodyremembered.
Luciantook exceptionto that sort ofrecalcitrance.
“And I trust the other injuries are consistent?” Lucianasked ina dull, dangerous tone.
“Yes,” Clark answered. “One dislocated shoulder, remodeled. Old scars that could easily be from whips or impact play gone too long and too rough. Trace amounts ofthat unknownchemicalinher blood.”
“Anyleads onthat?”
“Nothing substantial, but current educated guesswork points to an MDMA derivative. Something to heighten sensation, lower inhibitions, that sort of thing.”
“This isn’t enough to go to Issac,” Lucian said, right eye pulsingpainfully.
“No,” Clark confirmed. “The chief of police would take one look at this and call us insane. He has to pay his dues to the power players just like the rest of us, and what we’ve got is just my flimsy connectors and your vendetta.”He paused. “Sir.”
“And what would he do even if it was more? Nobody to arrest. So many bodies, so little time to give a shit.”
“I’msorry, Lucian.”
“Apologies don’t pay,” Lucian said, quoting one of his father’s earliest lessons beaten into Hendrick’s only child. “Get me a report on everything we know. We’ll meet first ofnext week.”
“Not earlier?”Clark asked, soundingsurprised.
Lucian gritted his teeth on having to explain. He hated showing any kind of weakness, even to the guy he used to fantasize about while jerking off in the dojo showers at age twelve. “Migraine.”
Clark sucked air through his teeth. “You only get those after a really tough job, boss. You been holding out onme?”
“I’msure that’s quite impossible,” Lucian muttered, kicking back the sheet to let cool air touch his bare skin.
“This have anything to do with that Cartier watch youbought a week ago?”
Lucian paused in his act of rearranging his eight pillows into a pile. “How the hell do you know about that?” he asked, pain and shock doing away with his preferred formality.
“I keep tabs on your credit card statements,” Clark said, as though it should be obvious to anyone with an eighteenth of a brain. “Which reminds me, any luck findinganaccountant to replace the last one youfired?”
“Not yet,” Lucian growled. “And I pay you to watchother people, not me, Maxwell.”
“I like to think I can save you fromyourself,” Clark said, gentle and infuriating. “Did yousee him?”
“See who?”
“Shea.”
Lucian flinched at the name. Usually Clark didn’t have the audacity to call Lucian’s hand. “Why should I bother answering when I’msure you’re about to tellme whether I did or didn’t?”
“Holy shit.” Clark sounded awed. “You finally did it.”
“As fascinating as this is, I’m going to have to get onwithmyday.”
“Jesus, no wonder yousound like hell.”
“How kind,”Luciandrawled.
“I mean, you’ve only loved himall your life,” Clark continued like Lucian hadn’t spoken. “Telling him that and giving him all those presents you keep locked in your bedroomcloset would take a tollonanybody.”
Lucian sat up too quickly and regretted it. “Maxwell, I’d hate to make my most
valuable informant an experiment in pain and suffering, but I’m not above it.”
“Do you need anything at all in this matter, sir?” Clark asked, and byallthings increationLucianhated it when Clark went all submissive and thus impossible to murder inhis sleep.
“Only for you to give your considerable attentions to the murders and realize they take precedence over your idiotic interest in my private life. I’ll meet you Monday. Call Melody to schedule it. Good day, Clark.”
Lucian hung up, grateful that Clark didn’t even try to get the last word in edgewise. He moaned, tossing the phone aside and cradling his head in his hands. The memory of Shea rubbing his shoulders and scalp to ease the pain after exams in college shot a sharp stab of greedy want through his core. Lucian was dying to call Shea and ask for such a favor. So close and yet the man was still beyond Lucian’s touch, kiss, or needs. He’d gotten the man to agree to a date. He didn’t dare push his luck. So little in Lucian’s world revolved around good luck, after all; best to savor it and encourage it to flourish.
Determined not to be utterly useless for the next two days until the charity ball, Lucian got up and headed for a shower and pharmaceuticals.
***
“We’re here, sir,” said Aaron. The mammoth body guard sat on the bench seat in the limousine, across fromLucian.
“Yes,” Lucian said, adjusting a pearl cufflink. “I see that.”
“Door,” said Cale, the other member of Lucian’s security detailthat accompanied himto public functions. It was a habit he’d learned from Hendrick. When one grew up worried about getting kidnapped or shot at because one had the misfortune ofbeinga long-standing mob-connected mayor’s son, self preservation ceased to look like overkill.
Cale got out of the vehicle and walked around to the other side to clear a path for Aaron and Lucian. “Whenyou’re ready, sir,”Aaronsaid.
Lucian made a non-committal noise and eyed the red carpet leading to the grand front entrance of the Palace. It was one ofthe city’s oldest buildings and was once a private residence. Now it was a meeting center, wedding site, hotel, and often the host of city balls, galas, and functions. Restoration committees had preserved its German architecture and some of the original antique furnishings in the interior lounges and rooms. The Vegas-style stone fountain was new, however, as were the gardens and private golf course attached to the Palace’s grounds.
“Once more into the breech, then,”Lucianquipped, and Aaronopened the door.
The Children’s Hospital Charity Gala was not that big of an affair, but some of the more powerful and wealthy members of New Amsterdam’s elite were supposed to attend. Cameras clicked from the small gathering of press, and Lucian walked swiftly to the entrance and got inside. He tolerated the metal detectors, nodded to his bodyguards as they explained where they would be for the night, and headed toward the largest ballroom. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead and rich carpet and ornate tile rushed by beneath his feet. He took a flute of champagne at the first opportunity and even had a chance to sip it before the first ofmanymeet and greets began.
Lucian combed through the crowd and tried to keep track of pleasantries while endlessly searching for a certain man. It was still early, and Lucian didn’t expect Shea to show untilwellpast fashionably late, but that didn’t stop Lucian from double-checking every large-framed individualina tuxedo twice.
“Lucian,” said a vaguely familiar voice, and Lucian turned to see Jonathan White, CEO of Phoenix Financial, coming closer. His thick, once-dark hair was now entirely white, though his eyebrows were still black. Jon’s large, brown eyes were warmand creased about the edges with laugh lines, and his smile was wide.
Lucian relaxed and extended his hand, genuinely pleased to see Jon. The manwas honest, intelligent, and kind, and Lucian valued all three of those commodities, though he could typically only mimic one of them. “Jon. Good to see you.”
“Saw you making the rounds and had to sneak in,” Jonanswered, squeezingLucian’s hand.
“I’m happy to make time for men such as yourself at these affairs,” Lucian said, looking Jon over. “And that tuxedo is perfection in its cut. Henry Poole? It must be.”
Jon laughed. “It is! Had it refitted after finding it hiding in the back of my closet two months ago. Leave it to you to know every tailor’s stitch on Savile Row by heart.”
“One ofmylesser talents.”
“But one no less usefulthancrackingthe whip inthe political hemispheres,” Jon said with a straight face that even Lucian had difficulty reading. Only the twinkle in Jon’s eye indicated the gentle tease.
“Far more family friendly, too,” Lucian conceded and was reminded of Clark’s side note from their chat two days ago. “Though speaking of whip cracking, I’m inthe market for a personalaccountant.”
“Finallygot rid ofBassett?”
“The firmdidn’t meet mystandards,”Lucianreplied coolly. “I’m sure someone who came with your recommendation would have a far better chance at matchingme.”
Jon looked momentarily uncertain but nodded. “I’ll get some names to your office.”
“I would consider it a personalfavor to be repaid in kind.”
“Isn’t everything?”Jonasked witha quick grin.
Lucian chuckled, shook Jon’s hand again, and gracefully departed to the next cluster of important personages. He was on his second flute of champagne and getting impatient with the missing Shea when suddenly accosted by a flurry ofhorrific lavender taffeta and silver sequins. Amatronly brunette woman wearing a ten-year-old mother-of-the-bride gown wrapped Lucian in an embrace and tried to suffocate him before lettinggo and smackinghimonthe arm.
“Lucian Edward Gray,” the woman trilled at a volume that made guests, plants, and possibly outdoor wildlife take note. “It’s been months since you called me or deigned to stop by so I can feed your skinny behind some decent food, and that is entirely unacceptable behavior, youngman!”
“Mrs. Ollivander, it’s so--”
“Don’t you dare!” Shea’s mother smacked Lucian again, and he stopped himself fromrubbing the forming bruise. “It’s ‘Mom’ or ‘Ginger’ if you have to, you idiot.”
“Sorry,” Lucian said, a grin cracking his face. “Mom.”
Ginger harrumphed in mock offense and linked her arm through Lucian’s, dragging him toward a tray of hors d’oeuvres and helping herself. “That’s better. Practically raise your butt, and you have the nerve to callme ‘missis’ anything. Honestly.”
“I assure you it won’t happen again,” Lucian said solemnly, an odd kind of contentment welling up inside him. Ginger Ollivander managed a thirty-thousand acre dairy farm, a horde ofkids, and a husband who thought bull riding was a relaxing pastime at sixty. Lucian and his reputation paled in comparison, even in his own mind.
“Then I’ll see you next week for barbeque.” Ginger sighed. “Maybe you could even find my wayward son and tellhimto come see me, too.”
“Shea’s not been home?” Lucian asked politely, though Clark had told him that Shea had avoided all familyand friends since quittingthe economics position.
“No, the dirty rat has not been home to see his mother. Not even for Thanksgiving. If I don’t see him this Christmas, I’mgoingto hogtie himmyself.”
“Now that I would love to see,” Lucian said, being thoroughlyhonest.
Ginger cackled. “I just bet you would. Haven’t managed to do it yourself for some unearthly reason. Remind me again why you aren’t married to my boy and raisinga gaggle ofgrandkids?”
“Childrengive me hives.”
“People give you hives. And Shea would take care of them. I remember how you are with children. Probably let them play with knives and somehow think it’s a lessoninsafety.”
Lucian violently cleared his throat in protest, but Ginger stared him down from the corner of her eye. “Right. You do make a point. I’ll see if I can talk Shea into the idea of settling down.” Lucian was proud when he managed to say the words without stammering. It
was a near thing.
A honey-gold gaze just like Shea’s peered up at Lucian, the intelligence as keen and even more forthright. “Seeinghimsoonare you?”
Lucian started to answer and lost alltrain ofthought when he saw Shea shoving a path through the crowd. Lucian’s heart tripped a faster beat, his mouthwent dry, and Lucian took in every detail of the poorly-fitted tuxedo, the untamed brown curls, and the irked scowl marringShea’s handsome features.
“You look like someone just hit you in the mouth with a wet fish,” Ginger remarked, standing on tiptoes and scanning the ballroom. “Who are you meeting -- oh mysweet Lord!”
Ginger made it to Shea before Lucian could get there. The woman trotted like a pony in her two-inch pumps and flungherselfaround Shea’s neck.
“Oof.” Shea chuckled and hugged his mother tightly, picking her up off the floor and setting her back down. “Mom, what did we say about not making a scene the next time we see each other?” Shea asked, but the fond tenderness in his eyes was easy to see, and the crude cadence of his voice was gone in the face of family.
“You didn’t tell me it’d be years in between sightings, you rat!” Ginger retorted, making a fist and punchingShea inthe bicep.
“Ow!” Shea grinned without actually flinching. “Hey, I called, and it’s only been three years. Didn’t Cousin Vicky leave and move off to God knows for five before she evengot intouch?”
“Cousin Vicky isn’t my son.” Ginger tapped her foot at Shea, one hand onher ample waist.
“She makes a point,” Lucian interjected, grabbing champagne offa passingtrayand offeringit to Shea.
“This isn’t basketball, Lucian.” Shea accepted the glass and instead of sipping it properly, he swallowed it like soda. “I’d have a chance at basketball.”
“Easy on the booze, dear,” Ginger cautioned, and Lucian wanted to roll his eyes with Shea. “Now tell me why on earth you choose to show up here instead of at our Sundaydinner table?”
