by J. R. Ward
Sitting on the bottom step of the mansion’s grand staircase, he wasn’t going to fulfill his promise to his mother and head home. Not tonight, at least. After the craziness of the evening before, what with the crash landing and the attendant drama, Wrath had ordered the Brotherhood and the fighters to take twenty-four off. So technically, he should have called the ’rents and told his mom to bust out the mozzarella and the meat sauce.
But there was no way he was leaving the house. Not after hearing yelling from Layla’s room, and then seeing her all but carried down the grand staircase.
Naturally, Qhuinn had been with her.
John Matthew had not.
So whatever had gone down apparently trumped the ahstrux nohtrum thing, and that meant…she had to be losing the young. Only something that serious would get a pass.
As he continued to bump-on-a-log it, with nothing but worry to keep him company, naturally his mind decided to make things worse: Shit, had he really slept with Qhuinn last night?
Taking a hard drag off his Dunhill, he exhaled a curse.
Had it really happened?
God, that question had been banging around his skull from the moment he’d woken up out of a hot-as-hell dream, with an erection that seemed to think the other male was sleeping next to him.
Replaying the scenes, for the hundredth time, all he could think was…talk about a plan misfiring. After he’d turned Qhuinn down when the guy had been on his knees, he’d gone back to his room and paced around, a debate he wasn’t interested in having with himself turning his brain to foie gras.
But he’d made the right decision in leaving. Really. He had.
The problem was, it hadn’t stuck. As the daylight hours had worn on, all he’d thought about was the time he’d gotten caught by his father stealing a pack of cigarettes from one of the family’s doggen. He’d been a young pretrans, and as a punishment, his dad had made him sit outside and smoke every one of those unfiltered Camels. He’d been horribly sick, and it had been a year or two before he’d been able to stomach even secondhand smoke.
So that had been the new plan.
He’d wanted Qhuinn so badly for so long, but it had all been a hypothetical, parceled out in fantasies in ways he could handle. Not all at once, not the full-bore, overload, wrecking-ball stuff—and he’d known damn well that in real life, Qhuinn wasn’t going to hold back or be easy. The “plan” had been to have the actual experience, and learn that it was just rough sex. Or hell, find out that it wasn’t even good sex.
You weren’t supposed to smoke all the cigarettes in the pack…and only want more.
Jesus Christ almighty, it had been the first time reality had been better than a fantasy, the absolute best erotic experience of his life.
Afterward, however, the kindness that Qhuinn had shown had been unbearable.
In fact, as Blay recalled that tenderness, he burst up from where he’d been sitting and marched around the apple tree—as if he had somewhere to go.
At that moment doors opened. Not the vestibule ones, however.
The library.
As he glanced over his shoulder, Saxton stepped out from the room. He looked like hell, and not just because, as fast a healer as the male was, he still had some residual jaw swelling thanks to Qhuinn’s attack.
Good one, Blay thought. Way to express disappointment in someone’s behavior: Let them fuck the shit out of you after they tried to strangle your ex.
Soooo classy.
“How are you?” Blay asked, and not in a social way.
It was a relief as Saxton came over. Looked him in the eye. Smiled a little like he was determined to make an effort.
“I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. I’m restless.”
“Would you like to eat with me?” Blay blurted. “I’m feeling exactly that way, too, and the only thing I can do anything about is the need for food.”
Saxton nodded and put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “That is a stellar idea.”
The pair of them ended up in the kitchen at the battered oak table, sitting side by side, facing out into the room. With a happy smile, Fritz immediately flipped into provide-sustenance mode and what do you know. Ten minutes later, the butler provided each of them with a bowl of steaming beef stew, as well as a crusty baguette to share, a bottle of red wine, and a stick of sweet butter on a little plate.
“I shall be back, my lords,” the butler said on a bow. And then he proceeded to shoo everyone else out of the place, from the doggen who were prepping vegetables to the ones who were polishing silver to the window cleaners in the alcove beyond.
As the flap door shut behind the last of the staff, Saxton said, “All we need is a candle and this would be a date.” The male leaned forward and ate with perfect manners. “Well, I suppose we would need a few other things, wouldn’t we.”
Blay glanced over as he put his cigarette out. Even with bags under those eyes and that mostly faded bruise on his neck, the attorney was something to look at.
Why the hell couldn’t he—
“Do not say you’re sorry again.” Saxton wiped his mouth and smiled. “It really isn’t necessary or appropriate.”
Sitting beside the guy, it seemed just as unlikely that they had broken up as it was that he had been with Qhuinn. Had any of the last couple of nights happened?
Well, duh. What had gone down with Qhuinn wouldn’t have if he and Sax were still together. That he was very clear on—it was one thing to jerk off in secret, and that was bad enough. The full bifta? NFW.
Shit, in spite of the fact that he and Saxton had split up, he still felt like he should confess the transgression…although if Qhuinn was right, Saxton had already moved on in one sense of the word.
As they ate in silence, Blay shook his head, even though he hadn’t been asked a question and there was no conversation. He just didn’t know what else to do. Sometimes the changes in life came at you so fast, and with such fury, there was no way to keep up with reality. It took time for things to sink in, the new equilibrium establishing itself only after some period of your brain sloshing back and forth against the walls of your head.
He was still in the slosh zone.
“Have you ever felt as though hours were more properly measured in years?” Saxton said.
“Or maybe decades. Yes. Absolutely.” Blay glanced over again. “I was actually just thinking that very same thing.”
“Such a morbid pair we are.”
“Maybe we should wear black.”
“Armbands?” Saxton prompted.
“Whole deal, head to toe.”
“Whatever shall I do with my flare for color?” Saxton flicked at his orange Hermès kerchief. “Then again, one can accessorize anything.”
“Certainly explains the theory behind dental grilles.”
“Pink plastic flamingos.”
“The Hello Kitty franchise.”
All at once, they both burst into laughter. It wasn’t even that funny, but the humor wasn’t the point. Breaking the ice was. Getting back to a new kind of normal was. Learning to relate in a different way was.
As things settled into chuckles, Blay put his arm around the male’s shoulders and gave him a quick hug. And it was nice that Saxton leaned in for a brief moment, accepting what was offered. It wasn’t that Blay thought that just because they’d sat down together, shared a meal, and had a laugh, all of a sudden everything was going to be smooth sailing. Not at all. It was awkward to think Saxton had been with someone else, and utterly incredible to know he’d done the same—especially given who it had been.
You didn’t downshift from being lovers for nearly a year to doing the pally-pally thing in the matter of a day or two.
You could, however, start forging a new path.
And put one foot after the other on it.
Saxton was always going to have a place in his heart. The relationship they’d shared had been the first one he’d had—not just with a male, but with anyone. And there had been a lot of goo
d times, things he would carry with him as memories that were worth the brain space.
“Have you seen the back gardens?” Saxton asked as he offered the bread.
Blay broke off a piece and then passed the butter plate over as Saxton took a section for himself.
“They’re bad, aren’t they.”
“Remind me never to attempt to weed with a Cessna.”
“You don’t garden.”
“Well, if I ever do, then.” Saxton poured some wine in his glass. “Vino?”
“Please.”
And that was how it went. All the way from the stew through to the peach cobbler that miraculously appeared before them thanks to Fritz’s perfect timing. When the last bite had been taken and the final napkin swipe made, Blay leaned back against the built-in bench’s cushions and took a deep breath.
Which was about so much more than just a filled stomach.
“Well,” Saxton said, as he laid down his napkin beside his dessert plate, “I do believe I’m finally going to take that bath I talked about nights ago.”
Blay opened his mouth to point out that the salts the male preferred were still in his bathroom. He’d seen them in the cupboard when he’d taken his backup shaving cream out at nightfall.
Except…he wasn’t sure he should mention it. What if Saxton thought he was asking the male to come and bathe in his suite? Was it too much of a reminder of how things had changed—and why? What if—
“I have this new oil treatment I’m dying to try,” Saxton said as he slid out his side of the bench. “It finally arrived from overseas in today’s mail. I’ve been waiting for ages.”
“Sounds awesome.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Saxton resettled his jacket on his shoulders, pulled his cuffs into place, and then lifted his hand in a wave, striding out without any sign of complication or strain on his face.
Which was helpful, actually.
Folding his own napkin up, he placed it beside his plate, and as he scooted free of the table, he stretched his arms over his head and bent backward, his spine cracking in a good way.
The tension in him returned as soon as he stepped into the foyer again.
What the hell was going on with Layla?
Damn it, it wasn’t like he could call Qhuinn. The drama wasn’t his own, or anything he was connected to: When it came to that pregnancy, he was no different from the others in the house who had also seen and heard the show and were no doubt just as worried as he was—but had no right to emergent updates.
Too bad his now-full gut didn’t buy that. The thought of Qhuinn losing the young was enough to make him studiously consider the locations of the bathrooms. Just in case an evac order was issued by the back of his throat.
In the end, he found himself upstairs in the second-floor sitting room pacing around. From that vantage point, it was no problem to hear the vestibule door, and yet it wasn’t like he was waiting out in the open—
The double doors of Wrath’s study were pushed wide, and John Matthew emerged—from the king’s sanctum.
Immediately, Blay strode across the sitting room, ready to see if maybe the guy had heard anything—but he stopped as he got a gander at John’s expression.
Deep in thought. Like he’d received personal news of the disturbing variety.
Blay hung back as his buddy went off in the opposite direction, going down the hall of statues, no doubt to disappear into his room.
Looked like things were afoot in other people’s lives, too.
Great.
With a soft curse, Blay left his friend be and resumed his own useless walking…and waiting.
* * *
Far to the south, in the town of West Point, Sola was prepared to enter Ricardo Benloise’s house on the second floor, through the window at the end of the main hallway. It had been months since she had been inside, but she was banking on the fact that the security contact she had carefully manipulated was still her friend.
There were two keys to successfully breaking into any house, building, hotel or facility: planning and speed.
She had both.
Hanging from the wire she’d thrown onto the roof, she reached into the inside pocket of her parka, pulled out a device, and held it to the right corner of the double-hung window. Initiating the signal, she waited, staring at the tiny red light that glowed on the screen facing her. If for some reason it didn’t change, she was going to have to enter through one of the dormers that faced the side yard—which was going to be a pain in the ass—
The light went green without a sound, and she smiled as she got out more tools.
Taking a suction cup, she pushed it into the center of the pane immediately below the latch, and then made a little do-si-do around the thing with her glass cutter. A quick push inward, and the space to fit her arm was created.
After letting the glass circle fall gently to the Oriental runner inside, she snaked her hand up and around, freed the brass-on-brass contraption that kept the window locked, and slid the sash up.
Warm air rushed to greet her, as if the house were happy to have her back.
Before going in, she looked down. Glanced toward the drive. Leaned outward to see what she could of the back gardens.
It felt like somebody was watching her…not so much when she’d been driving into town, but as soon as she’d parked her car and gotten on her skis. There was no one around, however—not that she’d been able to see, at any rate—and whereas awareness was mission critical in this line of work, paranoia was a dangerous waste of time.
So she needed to cut this shit.
Getting back in the game, she reached up with her gloved hands and pulled her ass and legs over and through the window. At the same time, she loosened the tension on the wire so there was slack to let her body transition into the house. She landed without a sound, thanks not only to the rug that ran down the long corridor, but to her soft-soled shoes.
Silence was another important criterion when it came to doing a job successfully.
She stopped where she was for a brief moment. No sounds in the house—but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She was fairly certain that Benloise’s alarm was silent, and very clear that the signal didn’t go to the local or even state police: He liked to handle things privately. And God knew, with the kind of muscle he employed, there was plenty of force to go around.
Fortunately, however, she was good at her job, and Benloise and his goons wouldn’t be home until just before the sun came up—he lived the life of a vampire, after all.
For some reason, the v-word made her think of that man who’d shown up by her car and then disappeared like magic.
Craziness. And the only time in recent memory that someone had given her pause. In fact, after getting confronted like that, she was actually considering not going back to that glass house on the river—although there was a fucked-up rationale for that. It wasn’t that she was worried that she’d get physically hurt. God knew she was perfectly competent at defending herself.
It was the attraction.
More dangerous than any gun, knife, or fist, as far as she was concerned.
With lithe strides, Sola jogged down the carpet, bouncing on the balls of her feet, heading for the master bedroom that looked out over the rear garden. The house smelled exactly as she remembered it, old wood and furniture polish, and she knew enough to stick to the left edge of the runner. No squeaking that way.
When she got to the master suite, the heavy wooden door was closed, and she took out her lock pick before even trying the handle. Benloise was pathological about two things: cleanliness and security. Her impression, though, was that the latter was more critical at the gallery in downtown Caldwell than here at his home. After all, Benloise didn’t keep anything under this roof other than art that was insured to the penny, and himself during the day—when he had plenty of bodyguards and guns with him.
In fact, that was probably why he was a night owl downtown. It meant the gallery was nev
er unattended—he was present after-hours, and his legitimate business staff was there during the day.
As a cat burglar, she certainly preferred to get into places that were empty.
On that note, she worked the locking mechanism on the door, sprang it free, and slipped inside. As she took a deep breath, the air was tinged with tobacco smoke and Benloise’s spicy cologne.
The combination made her think of black-and-white Clark Gable movies for some reason.
With the drapes drawn and no lights on, it was pitch-black, but she’d taken photographs of the room’s layout back when she’d come for that party, and Benloise was not the type of man to move things around. Hell, every time a new exhibit was installed at the gallery, she could practically feel the squirming under his skin.
Fear of change was a weakness, her grandmother always said.
Sure made things easier for her.
Slowing down now, she walked forward ten paces into what was the middle of the room. The bed would be on the left against the long wall, as would the archway into the bath and the doors to the walk-in closet. In front of her were the long windows that overlooked the gardens. Over to the right, there would be a bureau, a desk, some sitting chairs, and the fireplace that was never used because Benloise hated the smell of woodsmoke.
The security alarm panel was located between the entryway to the bath and the ornate headboard of the bed, beside a lamp that rose about three feet from a side table.
Sola pivoted in place. Walked forward four steps. Felt for the foot of the bed—found it.
Sidestep, one, two, three. Forward down the flank of the king-size mattress. Sidestep one to clear the table and the lamp.
Sola reached out her left hand….
And there was the security panel, right where it needed to be.
Flipping the cover off, she used a penlight that she kept between her teeth to illuminate the circuitry. Taking out another device from her backpack, she hooked wires up to wires, intercepted the signals, and with the help of a miniature laptop and a program that a friend of hers had developed, created a closed loop within the alarm system such that, as long as the router was in place, the motion detectors she was about to set off wouldn’t register.
