by M. J. Lowell
“What’s the other part?”
He didn’t answer at first. I was beginning to think he wouldn’t respond at all when he said, “Do you remember at Ludovisi, how you played the Star Wars theme?”
“Of course. Why?”
“I couldn’t get it out of my head. I tried. I tried everything. Every diversion. But nothing worked. I left New York to get away from that song.”
His eyes locked on mine. I was startled to see naked desire there, and my head swam with the answering force of my own desire. But I also thought I saw something else, something beyond desire. Could he mean, could he be saying—?
No, it was my own smoke and mirrors again, a pathetic attempt to convince myself of what wasn’t there.
“Why do you hate the holidays?” I asked, trying to distract myself from my own thoughts.
Rhys frowned and gave a slight shrug. “My family – what there was of it – fell apart one Christmas. I did something, made a choice. It was the right choice, the only choice at the time. But it changed my life, changed a lot of lives. And nothing’s been the same since.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I hadn’t been expecting that, hadn’t been expecting such a real answer, or such a cryptic one.
Rhys shook his head, as though trying to sweep away the past. “But that’s more than you need to know, and certainly more than you bargained for. I’m going to go back inside.”
“Don’t,” I said without thinking. Only minutes ago I’d been rejoicing in my new freedom, and in the desire I’d used Rhys to unlock. Now I didn’t want him to go.
I took a step toward him and pressed my hand against the front of his tuxedo pants. Immediately I felt him stiffen in response.
“Tuesday?” he asked. “What exactly are you—”
“You should have at least one good holiday memory,” I told him. Brazenly I ran my hand up the length of him, feeling his cock swell and harden through the silky wool. “Besides, you need something to help get that song out of your head.”
This was the new me. A me who could walk away from the destructive, corrosive things in my past and move forward. A me who was strong and complete in myself.
“Here?” Rhys asked, his voice husky.
“Here,” I affirmed. Dropping the mink to the ground as a cushion, I slid down his body to kneel before him. “Now.”
I rested my cheek against the growing bulge and heard his sudden intake of breath. A me who could conquer as well as be conquered.
My cold fingers fumbled over the small buttons on his fly, catching on the fine fabric, making me impatient with anticipation. I wanted to touch him, see him—
“You’ll drive me mad,” he growled, pushing my hand away and releasing himself with fingers that were far steadier than mine.
His cock was gorgeous, massive and smooth and warm and thick, and I felt myself growing wet at the sight of it.
I licked it, tentatively at first, then with more confidence and curiosity, wondering what would happen if I traced that tantalizing vein on the underside with my tongue. Rhys let out a small moan by way of answer. When I glanced up, he was gazing down at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before, an unguarded mix of pleasure and wonder.
It electrified me. I held his gaze as I moved my tongue up to the tip of him, licked my lips, and then sucked the top inch of him into my mouth.
Watching him watch me as I held him there was indescribable, setting off a fire deep inside me. I felt powerful, and I wanted more. I took him in another inch, and then another, and then I ran a wanton finger from the base of his cock up between his ass.
He let out another low moan.
Oh, Rhys, I thought, thrilled with my own power. I’m going to give you such a treat.
I tried to relax my neck and opened my mouth yet wider, to take in more of him, until I felt his shaft at the back of my throat. I let it slide in and out of my mouth, using the same short, short, long pattern he’d used when he’d plundered me.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed, reaching down to stroke my hair. “You have to slow down. You have to or—”
I didn’t. I kept playing him with the same rhythm, short, short, long, I moved my fingers to cup his balls and then brought both hands to the base of his shaft, wrapping them around its thickness, squeezing softly at first and then with more force as I moved them up and then down and up again, echoing the motion of lips and tongue.
“Good Lord, Tuesday. What are you—” Rhys’s hands tightened in my hair and he gave a strangled cry as his cock bucked uncontrollably. I could feel the convulsion pulse through his legs, his arms, rolling up the full length of him as he emptied himself into my mouth, filling me to overflowing. I gulped, swallowed, reveling in the taste of him, and in my victory.
His hand dragged my head away. “Squeeze it,” he said. I did and three pearly drops appeared on the tip. I licked at them slowly, deliciously. Then I wiped my mouth and stood up, retrieving the coat from the ground and shaking it out.
“What was that?” he asked, the words a hoarse whisper.
I wasn’t about to tell him that I’d wanted to own him, possess him as completely as he’d possessed me, or how satisfying it had been. “That was my way of saying it was nice to see you again.”
He chuckled and reached for me. “I can’t wait to see how you wish a bloke a Happy New Year.”
“I should get back to my date,” I told him, dancing just outside his grasp.
The blue eyes hardened. “I see. Well then. Don’t let me keep you.”
The old Lucy would have waited another beat, waited for a sign he wanted to resume where we’d left off, that the game was back on.
Instead I turned and went back inside to join the conga line, leaving Rhys alone on the terrace.
Chapter Twenty-Five
My phone telling all the lonely girls to leave their umbrellas at home woke me on January 2nd. I squinted at the clock. 9:38 a.m., and I’d forgotten to change Val’s ringtone yet again.
“How could you not tell me things with Rhys Carlyle were back on?” Val demanded when I picked up.
“They’re not, but Happy New Year to you, too, my dear best friend who was too busy texting me photos of her and Nico doing— what was it exactly the two of you were doing yesterday?”
“We were at the photo booth at the arcade next to the movie theater. To which, I’ll remind you, you were cordially invited.”
I sat up part of the way, trying to figure out what was poking me under the covers. “I don’t think saying ‘We’re going to the movies and you’re welcome to join us but don’t be surprised if we’re making out next to you’ counts as a real invitation.” I reached down and unearthed a pair of headphones from under my hip. I’d fallen asleep working on a new mix.
“Apparently you could have brought Rhys Carlyle to make out with while we were making out,” retorted Val.
Now I sat all the way up and realized my computer was still on my lap. “What are you talking about? Why do you keep saying his name?”
“Because when I arrived at the office this morning, a huge box from Bergdorf’s was waiting for Tuesday Granite, with the compliments of Rhys Carlyle.”
I was stunned. And in spite of all my New Year’s resolutions about not waiting around for Rhys Carlyle and forging my own destiny, I had to admit I was ecstatic, too. “What’s in the box?”
“I’m so glad you asked. The suspense has been killing me.” I heard a rustling in the background and then she gave a low whistle. “Wow. Just….wow.”
Val was rarely at a loss for words. “What? What is it?” I asked.
“An unbelievably gorgeous Saint Laurent mini dress and a pair of insanely hot long black leather gloves. All of which I’m keeping if you say anything about sending it back.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I’m not. Is there a note, too?”
“Let me look.” I heard more rustling, and Val let out another whistle. “No note. But there’s a ticket for the Metropolitan Opera.”
<
br /> I sat forward, barely catching my laptop before it slid to the floor. “The opera?”
“I had a feeling that would pique your interest. And it’s for today’s matinee at Lincoln Center.”
“Today?”
“Today,” she confirmed. “Gounod’s Faust. Isn’t that the one about the guy selling his soul to the devil?”
“Sort of.”
“I’ll restrain myself from the obvious Rhys Carlyle-slash-devil comparisons.”
“I appreciate that,” I said dryly.
“But before I forget, Aunt Breezy called with an urgent message for you, because I seem to have turned into the Lucy Aileen Flannigan Answering Service and Package Center.”
“What did she say?”
“Wait a sec – she made me write it down.” I could hear papers rustling as she searched for the message on her invariably cluttered desk. “Here it is: ‘Remind Lucy that The Magician likes to dress as The Emperor.’”
“I don’t suppose she told you what that means?” I said.
“Maybe she’s trying to warn you about a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
I laughed. “Rhys Carlyle’s definitely not trying to pass himself off as a sheep.”
Val sent the box via messenger, and it arrived a little before noon. She’d also enclosed a note of her own:
Finally heard from my guy at the Patent Office. Your father’s application was rejected because someone else applied to patent the identical formula two weeks earlier. Am trying to get copy of successful application and name of applicant. Have fun today.
CALL ME AFTER AND I DON’T MEAN MAYBE.
I sank onto the couch, my head spinning.
“There’s no reason to kill someone for something that doesn’t work,” Nico had said.
But my father’s invention had worked – he’d just been scooped. We’d all been wrong – my father, Nico, and me – to think the patent was denied because the formula was a failure. In this case the obvious answer hadn’t been the right one. And maybe the reason my father’s new tests hadn’t worked was because he was trying to tweak a formula that didn’t need tweaking.
And then I remembered what Nico told me weeks ago, about my father’s concerns that someone had broken into the lab and his strange behavior before he died, his paranoia. Maybe it hadn’t been paranoia at all – maybe someone really had broken in and stolen the formula for CF-64.
I dialed Nico but the call went right into voice mail. I started talking mid-thought, mid-sentence, the words spilling out in a rush.
“Someone submitted an application for something just like CF-64 two weeks before Dad. That’s why the application was rejected, because somebody else beat him to it. But they must have stolen the formula when they broke into the lab. My father wasn’t being paranoid. He was right. And do you see what that also means, Nico? I don’t know what went wrong with the new set of tests he ran, but the invention did work. Which made it a perfect motive for murder. My father didn’t leave us. He was murdered.”
And suddenly I realized what else that meant, and for a moment it took my breath away. When I spoke again, it was slowly, in a more measured tone. “If I’m right, all we have to do is find out who does hold the patent. Then we’ll know exactly who killed—”
But I ran out of time before I could finish. “Your message has been sent,” announced the mechanical voice.
I didn’t care. I was euphoric. The awful emptiness that hadn’t left me since I’d accepted my father’s death as a suicide was gone.
Except in the next moment I realized what else that meant: Rhys Carlyle was a suspect again. A suspect with impeccable taste, I thought as I looked at the gorgeously cut black mini dress and over-the-elbow gloves.
And now the game was back on in more ways than one.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine what Rhys had in mind for this afternoon’s “session,” but I’d have to keep my wits about me if I was going to figure out whether he’d had anything to do with my father’s death.
Not that I had any idea how I was going to go about it. “Filed for any good patents lately?” wasn’t exactly casual opera chat. I’d just have to wait and hope for the right opening, I told myself. At least we’d be in a public place. That should make it at least a bit easier to stay focused.
I took care getting ready. The dress was pure understated simplicity, while in contrast the gloves were crisscrossed with elaborate buckles and lacings. Together, they created an image of elegant chic I’d only ever dreamed of projecting. And there was no way I was going to ruin it with my down parka. I put on the fur, giving mental thanks to Mrs. G.
I was rushing out the door when my phone rang. The call was from a blocked number. I answered without thinking, hoping it was Nico.
“Hello?”
“Ask about Emmy,” a voice whispered on the other end. It was low and hoarse, and I couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.
“Emmy?” I said in confusion. “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”
“Ask him. I dare you,” the voice rasped.
“Ask who?” I asked.
But the line was dead.
I headed out the door again, but the call had left me spooked. As I ran down the steps to the sidewalk, I had the eerie feeling I was being watched. I glanced around but saw only the familiar old brownstones lining the street, a mother with a toddler in a stroller, an old man carrying a baguette from Brooklyn Boulangerie. I shook my head to clear it, laughed to myself.
But I couldn’t quite shake the sense of someone’s eyes on me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I’d always wondered what it would be like to see the opera from a box, and it was everything I’d imagined. Better.
I inherited my love of music from my dad, and he used to take me to Lincoln Center as often as he could, but a professor’s budget didn’t stretch for even the least expensive seats more than once in a blue moon. This afternoon, though, the usher definitely hadn’t led me to the cheap seats, and I’d been glad for my elegant outfit. I noticed heads turning as I followed him through the well-heeled crowd and up a small staircase I’d never dared approach before, tucked off to one side of the inner lobby.
The usher had stopped at a cream-colored door framed in a gilded molding, giving a discreet knock before pushing it open. I’d stepped across the threshold and the door closed behind me with a soft whoosh, leaving me in a small but luxuriously appointed room with a chaise and two armchairs and a breathtaking view of New York’s most dazzling stage.
I was captivated by the view, but not so captivated that I wasn’t immediately aware of Rhys’s presence. He emerged from the shadows to come and stand next to me at the railing. “Like having your own private theater, isn’t it?” he said.
I nodded. “It’s….” I searched for the right word “Magical.”
He smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I thought you’d like it,” he said. “The boxes sell out months in advance so I had to twist a few arms for the tickets, but it was worth it.”
“I hope you didn’t hurt anybody,” I said.
“I don’t shy from violence if it gets me what I want, but I prefer to apply my physical energy to sport, on the water. Or” – he eyes swept over me appreciatively – “to other types of play. You look stunning.”
Heat streaked through me, tracing the path his eyes had taken, but I couldn’t help noticing that he seemed somehow different today. Impersonal almost. “Thanks to you.”
“It’s a pleasure thinking of ways to dress you. You’re so different from—”
“—the other women in your rotation?” I supplied.
“Rotation?” He repeated, bemused. “I never thought of it like that.”
I still couldn’t put my finger on what was missing. He was as smooth as ever, the heady attraction I felt just as intense – his hand brushing against mine as he took my coat was enough to make my knees suddenly weak – but it was as if he’d closed off a part of himself.<
br />
His phone buzzed on a side table and he glanced at it.
“A member of your rotation?” I asked.
Rhys shook his head and pressed a button on the phone to silence it. “No. A friend. I’m considering investing in something he’s developed, but business with friends can be tricky. And he’s very…eager.”
“Isn’t eager good?”
His eyes met mine, and I thought I glimpsed a crack in the reserve, but the moment was gone so quickly I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t imagined it. “On occasion,” he said obliquely.
This time it was my phone that buzzed. I dug it out of my purse and checked the screen. Nico. Whom I very much needed to speak to. Except not here, not now.
“A member of your rotation?” Rhys asked. His tone was even, mild. Controlled.
“No. More like a brother,” I said, bouncing Nico to voice mail and returning the phone to my purse.
“Even more protective than a boyfriend, then.”
“Is that what Joff’s like?”
I said it in an offhand way, but Rhys tensed. “Who told you about Joff?”
“You did,” I said, deciding to leave out my conversation with Davies, and Mrs. G’s comment about whose type I was or wasn’t. “At tea.”
He relaxed slightly. “So I did. But as you can see, I’m the one who’s protective of him.”
I heard the whispered voice, pressing me to ask about Emmy. I tried to sound casual as I asked, “Is it just the two of you? No sisters? I thought I read about an Emmy Carlyle somewhere.” Or maybe it was Emmy Stewart, I thought to myself.
“No, there’s only Joff,” he said. “It would’ve been nice to have a sister, but I wouldn’t wish our childhood on anyone else.” If the name Emmy meant anything to him, it wasn’t apparent. Either he had an excellent poker face or the mysterious call really was a wrong number. Or it had nothing to do with Rhys, and the “him” I was supposed to ask was someone else entirely.
“You don’t like to talk about your family,” I observed.
“No,” he said flatly, a note of warning in his tone. “I don’t.”
From below we could hear the orchestra warming up, tuning their instruments. I moved closer to the railing.
