GRIPPED (Romance Mystery & Suspense Box Set)

by Abbott, Alex

  I gather the Brits regarded her as a total joke and they used the title only ironically. Which hardened my resolve to do what I’d come to do. “I—I don’t think I’ll be staying. But I was wondering if I might go on up to my mother’s room. I’d like to feel close to her. I wasn’t even on the same continent with her when she passed. I feel as if I need to touch something of hers to make it real.”

  It was a highly irregular request; the kind of request that the highly private Kenyon family would probably refuse me. But the butler had a heart, and I could see it softening. In a rich baritone he abandoned all hope of enforcing protocol and said, “Of course, Miss Ashton. I’ll see you upstairs, then arrange for some refreshments after your travel.”

  “Oh, I can see myself up,” I said, abandoning my bags in the entryway and heading toward the stairs before he could stop me, counting on the fact that he’d be too polite to shout after me.

  Even if he thought I was a crass American with a lot of nerve to bust into my stepfather’s mansion like I belonged there, he’d never say it. I was counting on that. And I counted right. Not a peep was uttered as I dashed past the huge Greek statue, then up the spiral staircase to the room my mother called her own.

  I took a deep breath, the sight of all mom’s things causing a burning pain in my chest. I’m not sure what I expected—crime scene tape? But I expected it to look somehow different. It ought to somehow reflect that she was dead. Instead, her room looked just the same as it always did, or at least the way I remembered it. A room with white and grey floral wall paper, a gilded white bed, and white carpeting with a grey fur throw rug—which I think my mom thought was the height of elegance.

  Never mind what she did with her lover on that gilded bed, on that gilded chair, or what she probably even did hanging from the crystal chandelier overhead. That was definitely not elegant. And I didn’t want to think about it. Really didn’t. But even if she’d been a shitty mom, she’d been my mom. The only one I’d ever get. And I was determined to do right by her in the end. Which meant finding any evidence she’d left behind of her mysterious lover.

  Her illicit, jealous, possessive young lover.

  The man she was having an affair with.

  The man who probably killed her.

  ~~~

  I started my search with the bedside table, a whitewashed antique with gilded trim that I was afraid to touch. Not just because it looked like it was two hundred years old, but also because one look in the drawer and I was confronted by the private stuff she wouldn’t want anyone to see.

  Her anti-aging creams, her little keepsakes from home, and, of course, her sex toys. Someone should’ve gotten rid of these for her, I thought. Then I realized that someone was going to have to be me.

  The only good news was, I thought, that it probably meant that my stepfather hadn’t found the nerve to go pawing through her things yet. He had people for that, though. Why hadn’t he sent them?

  Maybe he really was so broken up about my mom’s death that he was leaving everything the way it was. I doubted it, but I guess anything was possible when you were super rich. And I couldn’t even be that resentful about his wealth, because I’d been a recipient of some of it. I’d been sent to the finest boarding schools on the continent. I was about to graduate with a degree in psychology from a top university, and I’d always had spending money. But now that mom was dead, I doubted I’d see another pound, euro, or dollar.

  Eyes on the prize, I reminded myself as I rifled through the bedside table. And the prize wasn’t money. It was evidence of my mother’s infidelities, and I was pretty sure a vibrator didn’t really count.

  What I really needed to find was…what? How do cheating wives risk exposure? Diaries and letters were pretty old school. What I needed was her cell phone. She might have her mysterious lover in her address book. It’d have a record of mom’s texting, or—God Help Me—sexting. Because mom wasn’t too savvy when it came to technology; I’d be shocked if she knew how to delete her history.

  But I remember telling her once—between lectures about how gross it was that she was having an affair and how stupid she was being for jeopardizing her marriage with His Lordship—that she should at least use a different, secret cell phone.

  She’d said she would.

  She might’ve been telling me that to shut me up, or she might have actually done it. If she did, where would she hide it? It wasn’t in the drawer. It wasn’t under her pillow. And as far as I could reach, it wasn’t under her mattress. Which left, oh, only about ten thousand more places for me to look.

  Sigh.

  I guessed I’d better start in the grand walk-in closet. It was the kind that was illuminated and organized to perfection, in a way my life never was. It even had hatboxes on the top shelf and a ladder to get to them, though I was pretty sure my mom had a servant to do that for her. By instinct, I reached for the nearest blouse and brought the sleeve to my nose, inhaling her scent. With it came memories that nearly bowled me over, bringing tears to my eyes. Tears I didn’t have time to shed. Get ahold of yourself Kate. You don’t cry. You never have. You never will. No matter what the psychology textbooks say.

  Shaking it off, I took another look around. Ok. A hatbox seemed like the place I’d hide a secret cell phone if I had one…or if I had hats. So I started up the ladder to search them.

  I was halfway up the when I heard someone jiggle the handle to my mother’s bedroom door and come in. Shit. Was that Albert already with tea and scones or whatever? No. The butler was too well mannered to enter any room without knocking. It was someone else. My stepfather? If so, I’d make up a story about wanting to find my mom’s Easter bonnet, to bring back childhood memories that didn’t really exist.

  But whoever it was didn’t call out for me.

  Instead, I heard the opening of drawers.

  Probably the maid putting clean laundry away, I thought. Then I rolled my eyes at myself. Nobody was doing the laundry of a dead woman. Which meant someone was looking through my mom’s things just like I was. And maybe for the same reason.

  The thought made my blood run cold, sending a little shiver down my spine, and making me grateful to be hidden in a closet. You see, Mom had never told me the name of her mysterious lover or how it was she managed to get away so often to bed him.

  But maybe she hadn’t had to go far.

  Maybe the man had access to the house. Maybe he lived here. Maybe he was right on the other side of the door, returned to the scene of the crime. Returning to the very place where I was sure he killed her, to see if he’d left any evidence of his guilt behind.

  Maybe I just had an overactive imagination. But if I was right, he’d be dangerous to confront, and my heart started pounding in my chest at the thought he might find me here. But no matter how scared I was, I had only one real choice.

  I had to open the door.

  ~~~

  I saw him from the back, crouched down by my mother’s lowest drawer in the bureau where she kept her underthings, and my heart fell. It was her lover. It had to be. Because even from the back, I could see that he was just as hot as my mother bragged he was, judging from the shape of his broad shoulders beneath that dark, well-styled hair. Under his shirt, the way his torso cut inwardly toward his waist was a perfect vee.

  In short, he had a great body

  Maybe he was the gardener. Or the pool boy. Or the masseuse.

  Either way, he looked strong enough to choke the life out of me.

  Nevertheless, I was closer to the bedroom door than he was and could make a break for it. Besides, I knew I had the element of surprise. So I curled my hands into fists and shouted, “Hey!”

  I’m not sure I could’ve shocked him more if I’d bashed him over the head with a vase. He startled, leaping to his feet and spinning around, hair mussed, dark eyes wild.

  And when I saw that handsome face, I sickened.

  Truly, sickened.

  Because it wasn’t a gardener, a pool boy, or a masseus
e. It was my smoking’ hot stepbrother, Jeremy. Tall, dark, and British.

  My whole world was spinning as my mind refused to admit the horrifying possibility that my mother had been fucking her stepson. Or that Jeremy could be the possessive, jealous freak I was convinced brought about my mother’s demise. But instead of looking ashamed of himself for rifling through my mother’s belongings, Jeremy fastened those dark eyes on me, and barked, “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

  So much for politeness, I thought. I cocked a hip. “I flew in for my mother’s funeral. You remember my mom, right? She’s only been dead a few days…”

  My sarcasm was meant to put him off balance. It only seemed to piss him off. “Christ, Kate. I know why you’re in London. I’m asking what you’re doing here in this house, in this room?”

  Shouldn’t Jeremy be expressing his condolences instead of interrogating me? Everything about his demeanor seemed suspicious. Which is why I wasn’t going to let him put me on the defensive. “I wanted to be near my mother’s things. What’s your excuse?”

  Jeremy ran a hand through his dark hair, and then settled back against the dresser, his knuckles going white at the edge. And he seemed shaken to be on the other end of the question. “I was looking for something.”

  “For what?” I asked, my heart still thumping in my throat. Please tell the truth, I thought. And please let that truth not be as creepy as my suspicions…

  “A book,” Jeremy finally said. “I loaned it to your mother and I was coming to fetch it.”

  He was lying. And it was a shitty lie, too. Because my whole life long, the only “book” my mother was interested in was Vogue magazine. And even if she had been reading a book, why would she keep it in her underwear drawer?

  “What kind of book?” I asked. Because I was pissed. Also, possibly a bit insane, because taunting someone you suspect of murder isn’t the brightest idea.

  Jeremy shrugged in answer.

  So he wasn’t even going to bother to answer. Didn’t think he needed to. Which was pretty much how rich billionaire bad boys behaved. I’d met enough of them in boarding school to know. And I usually knew how to handle them. But Jeremy was a special case, both because he was devastatingly sexy and totally aloof. He just glowered and said, “If you’re worried about the inheritance, you should be.”

  Inheritance? My mind whirred a few more times and came up blank. As far as I knew, my mom didn’t have any money except what His Lordship gave to her. I wasn’t expecting an inheritance. And even if I had been, I wouldn’t have been worried about it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right,” Jeremy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Oh, this wasn’t good. I suddenly got the feeling I was in a situation even more screwed up than the one I was imagining. “Why don’t you enlighten me?” Asshole. That was what I wanted to tack onto the end of that statement, but didn’t. Because I desperately wanted to know what he was talking about.

  Jeremy crossed his arms. “There was a pre-nuptial agreement that if your mother pre-deceased my father, he would owe…never mind. I’m not going to play this game. I know you’re searching for anything that might endanger your inheritance and that’s the only reason you’re here. So you need to leave. You shouldn’t be here.”

  To mimic him, I folded my arms over my chest, which had the added bonus of hiding the fact that I was shaking. I didn’t want to look intimidated. Even if I was. “The way I see it, nobody has more of a right to be here than I do. I’m having a moment, trying to remember my mother, so why don’t you leave?”

  There was a long pause, and then Jeremy said, “We sent a driver for you. We arranged for a room at The Lanesborough. That’s where you should go. Because you’re not—well, I’m sorry to say, but you’re not welcome here.”

  Oh, fuck off you impossibly handsome but possibly murderous pervert, I thought. And I was about to say it, too. When someone else piped up from the doorway with a crisp British accent that could only come from a member of the peerage. “Rubbish. Don’t listen to my son, Kate, who seems to have forgotten his manners. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

  I turned to see my stepfather, Thaddeus Kenyon, His Lordship himself, returned from whatever errand had taken him from the house. Though I might not have recognized him on the street, for he was stooped as I’d never seen him, his elderly shoulders hunched beneath his snowy white hair, as if broken by grief. His eyes were bloodshot. His skin was papery and pale.

  But his expression was about twenty-degrees warmer than its usual frostiness when he added, “I’ll have—I’ll have Albert bring your bags up to your usual room.”

  This was unexpected. Totally unexpected. And it obviously startled my stepbrother so much that he couldn’t think of a response. But I had one ready. “Thank you, sir. That’s so kind of you. But actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here in my mother’s room.”

  “Of course,” the old man said. “I loved your mother, Kate. Truly I did. More than I can ever say…” And with that, his eyes took on a rheumy quality, and he drifted away.

  Chapter Two

  JEREMY

  Jeremy had somehow forgotten how beautiful Kate was. Or maybe he’d simply blocked it out. Because lusting for your stepsister was kind of dodgy. Even for a man of his admittedly edgy sexual tastes.

  He’d wanted Kate desperately from the first moment he met her, when their parents married in London. But the plain fact was, every time he saw her since—which was about once a year for the past seven years—he was always struck anew by her natural beauty. By the undeniable authenticity that broke through her casually stylish blue jeans and leather jacket. And by her take-no-shit attitude, which was now on full display.

  Normally, he’d have found it sexy as hell.

  But at the moment, Kate’s presence in the house—much less in Gloria’s room—was a headache he didn’t need. Worse, he was stumped by his father’s invitation to her.

  The miserable old rotter had never liked having his stepdaughter around before. Hell, he’d never even liked having his own children around, which is why Jeremy and his older brother Lane darkly sniped that they were unfortunate byproducts of their father’s desire for an heir and a spare.

  But the old man had taken Gloria’s death hard.

  Truthfully, Jeremy hadn’t seen his father so unraveled since…well…since the death of his own mother.

  Maybe the old man wanted to turn over a new leaf and be kinder; or maybe he wanted Kate near because she reminded him of Gloria. It was hard to say. On the other hand, Jeremy understood Kate’s motivation perfectly.

  She undoubtedly knew about the prenuptial agreement that guaranteed her an income if her mother should predecease his father. Provided, of course, that Kate’s mother never engaged in any extramarital affairs…

  Which she had. As Jeremy had good cause to know.

  To be frank, Kate’s mother was a cheating slut. Not that Jeremy had anything against sluts—but Jeremy had a strong suspicion that Kate knew what her mom had gotten up to. And an even stronger suspicion that Kate was here to find and destroy the evidence of her mother’s infidelities.

  But if there was any evidence left in this house, Jeremy intended to find it first. Because it was the kind of evidence that could send a killer to jail…

  Unfortunately, his first order of business would have to be looking after Kate. Which is why he went to confront his older brother.

  Jeremy and Lane weren’t close. In fact, one could describe their relationship as loving but tortured. All they had in common was money, a mutual resentment of their father, and a very secret painful past. A secret past that Jeremy had tried to forget. Had tried to forgive. But now it was all coming up again.

  Jeremy found his brother in the den, with a phone to his ear as always. Whereas Jeremy was a slow but steady riser in Kenyon Industries, heading up the public relations department, Lane was already in charge of a number of their father�
��s companies—Lane was the first-born heir who was supposed to take over the Kenyon Empire when the old man died. But Lane hadn’t liked waiting for his turn. He also hadn’t paid any attention at all to the old man’s insistence that he get married and produce some heirs. Instead, Lane had added to the family fortunes and built an empire of his own. Which was great for Lane. But it did nothing to help the tensions between the brothers, since everything between them felt like a competition and always had.

  “Lane.” Jeremy shot his brother’s name out like a bullet.

  Lane held up a hand to wave him off while he finished his call, but Jeremy stood his ground. “Did you know Kate was here?”

  “I’ll have to continue this later,” Lane snapped at whoever was on the phone, and then ended the call, looking quite annoyed. Turning to glare, Lane removed the eyeglasses he often wore to look like he was older and should be taken more seriously and asked, “What are you on about?”

  “Kate. She’s here. In this house.”

  “What of it?”

  Jeremy took a deep breath, not sure what exactly he’d planned to say, but it all boiled down to one thing. “Leave her alone.”

  Lane quirked a brow. “Feeling proprietary, are we?”

  “Lane. I’m telling you—”

  Lane drew closer, his eyes narrowing. “What? What are you telling me? What’s your interest in Kate Ashton?”

  Protecting her, Jeremy thought. And that was true. He’d have wanted to protect any woman coming into a house where a killer might be on the loose. But he felt something more for Kate and always had. Something he always fought down along with all his other natural impulses when it came to women.

  Lane stared, obviously waiting for an answer from Jeremy, but when he didn’t get one he said, “Perhaps you ought to be the one to stay away from Kate. Yes. Steer clear of her. She’s only here for the funeral. Let her pay her respects, put her mother to rest, and go on her way. She’s an innocent in all this, and was always too good for the likes of this family anyway.”