by M. J. Lowell
I felt a pang of guilt. The reason I hadn’t responded to Val’s texts was because I’d been busy helping Nico, and Nico and I had agreed we wouldn’t tell her what had happened to him. I hated lying to her, even if was only a lie of omission, but I skipped over my trip to Red Hook.
“Afterward we went on his boat,” I said. “Or maybe it’s a yacht? I don’t really know what the difference is.”
“I don’t know, either, but if it belongs to Rhys Carlyle I think it’s safe to assume it’s a yacht. When did you get home?”
“Uh, about five minutes ago.”
She yelped. “Are you seriously telling me that you, Lucy Aileen Flannigan, spent the night on Rhys Carlyle’s yacht?”
“Uh-huh.”
She let this sink in. “And was the yacht as educational as the opera?”
I giggled again in spite of myself. “Even more so.”
“I am officially jealous. Will you ask him to introduce me to some of his hot billionaire friends? Maybe we can double-date.”
“I thought you were dating Nico.”
“Nico doesn’t have a yacht. Or the same commitment to education. In fact, he’s hardly educated me at all.” She sighed. “So, when is school next in session?”
“He invited me to his country place tonight.”
This was met with a long silence.
“Val?” I asked, wondering if the connection had been broken. “Are you still there?”
“Rhys Carlyle, who has practically never been seen with the same woman twice, spent all of yesterday with you, all of last night with you, and has now asked you to leave town with him. That is historic. Unheard of. It’s like a unicorn sighting.”
“He’s not like he seems in the magazines. He’s—”
“Yes, I’m sure he’s secretly very shy,” said Val wryly. “So where is this country place he’s taking you to?”
“He said he had a cottage in East Hampton.”
“A cottage?”
“That’s what he said.”
I heard Val’s fingers clattering on her keyboard. “Sorry, I just need to Google this, to make sure I get the facts right. Here it is. Lucy, do you think by cottage he means the 12,000 square-foot oceanfront estate he bought for a cool twenty mil three years ago?”
“Twenty mil? As in million?”
“Twenty million dollars,” confirmed Val. “That’s a lot of zeroes.”
I gulped.
“Now, let’s get down to the important stuff,” she said. “What are you going to wear?”
“He said I didn’t need to bring anything,” I told her.
“So you’re basically going to be in bed the whole time,” Val said. She sighed again. “That sounds perfect.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” I agreed.
“If I didn’t love you so much, I’d have to claw your eyes out.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
I heard somebody calling Val’s name in the background. “That’s Olivia, I’ve got to run,” she said hurriedly. “But I hope you have a very educational time. And I expect to hear all about it when you get back.”
It was already one when we hung up, and Davies had said he’d return for me at four to drive me out to the beach, which gave me only a few hours to get ready and pack. Even if Rhys said I didn’t need anything, I’d still want to bring at least a few things – and to get my nails done and give my hair a real blow-out.
And practice the violin, I remembered. It had been months since I’d even picked it up. Its case glared at me reproachfully from where I’d left it, leaning against the side of the couch, untouched since my father died. I winced at the thought of Rhys listening to me play. A few scales and the Star Wars theme at Ludovisi didn’t count as practice – I’d be miserably rusty. Maybe I should pretend I forgot it.
The violin case stared at me as I ran out to get a manicure, and again on my way back in. It stared at me as I packed a duffel bag, and then unpacked it. It stared at me as I put on and took off three nearly identical black-jeans-black-sweater outfits. Finally, a little after three, I couldn’t take it anymore.
OK, I said to the violin, and myself. Let’s see just how bad you are.
I took a deep breath and marched over to the dusty case and picked it up. And as I did, I heard a rustling noise.
A stack of loose pages had fluttered to the floor. They must have been trapped between the violin case and the side of the sofa.
My heart began to pound. The pages looked like they’d been torn from the type of lined notebook my father had always used for his journals. I snatched up the first page on the pile. It was filled with handwriting. My father’s handwriting.
The page shook in my unsteady hand as I tried to decipher what he’d written. Even if I’d been completely calm and clear-headed, I would have had a hard time making it out – so much of it was scientific notations, formulas and equations that I’d never understand.
But there were drawings, too, sketches of what looked sort of like a contact lens, one as seen from the front, another from the side. There were also a handful of actual phrases – English rather than numbers and mathematical symbols – as if my dad had been trying out different ways to describe his creation.
“Revolutionary technology brings the image directly to the eye,” read one. “…doesn’t simply sit on the eye but triggers the optical receptors,” read another. “To the brain, the image is real and substantive, not virtual,” read a third. “Simulates a live visual experience with uncanny accuracy.”
And finally, “Potentially a transformational advance for people with neurological disorders that lead to blindness.”
My father had died on the side of the couch nearest the violin – my side of the couch. Had he known he’d been poisoned, that he was dying, and stashed the pages here expecting I’d find them? And had he only been trying to preserve the information they contained, protect it from his killer? Or would these pages somehow identify who his killer actually was?
I needed someone who could look at everything and tell me what it all meant. I needed Nico.
He answered his phone right away. “I was just about to call you—” he started to say, but I cut him off.
“I think I found what they were looking for,” I said excitedly. “The guys who beat you up.” I told him about the pages. “But you’re the only person who will be able to make any sense of everything my dad wrote. Can you take a look?”
Nico sounded as excited as I did. “I’m not far from your place now. I can be there in ten minutes.”
I glanced at the clock. A quarter to four. “Hurry,” I urged him.
By the time Nico arrived, I’d already scanned the pages so I’d have them on my laptop. I didn’t want to take any chances that something might happen to them. When I heard the doorbell I ran to let him in.
He looked better than I would have expected given the beating he’d received the day before. A large Band-Aid covered the cut in his forehead, and the swelling around it had receded.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
He shrugged off my concern – he was too impatient to see the pages. I handed the pile to him and he sank into a chair and started studying them closely, one by one. I leaned over the back of his chair to watch.
After a minute he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Lulu, but it’s really hard to concentrate with you looking over my shoulder like that.”
“Oh,” I said, straightening up. “Sorry. But what do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’m going to need more time to really go through everything. Do you mind if I take these back to the lab with me?”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Do whatever you need to do. But will you let me know as soon as you figure anything out?”
“Of course,” he said. I found an envelope for him, and he put the pages inside and tucked the envelope securely into his jacket pocket.
“The second you know anything,” I was reminding him when I heard the crun
ch of tires outside. Through the bay window that faced out onto the street, I saw the Bentley pull up in front.
Nico followed my gaze with his own. “Your ride?” he joked.
“Actually, yes.”
“A chauffeur-driven Bentley?” he said, incredulous.
I flushed. “I’m going away with a friend. That’s his car.”
Nico gave a low whistle. “Do I know this friend?”
I laughed. “I don’t think so. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
I picked up my bag, and after a brief moment of hesitation, I put the violin back in its case and took it with me, too. Nico waited on the top step as I locked the front door. Davies was at the curb, ready to take my things and stow them in the car. When we reached him he looked Nico over, his expression neutral. “Would you like me to drop off your friend on our way, miss?”
I turned to Nico. “Do you want a ride?”
He shook his head, giving Davies a wary glance. “No thanks. I feel like walking. And yes,” he said as I opened my mouth to remind him yet again, “I will call you the instant I decipher anything on these papers of your dad’s.”
He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and took off down the street, his collar up against the wind and his hands jammed in his pockets.
Davies watched him go, then stowed my violin and bag in the front seat and ushered me into the back. A soft cashmere blanket was waiting there, and a down-filled pillow.
“I’m afraid we’re likely to hit some traffic, miss,” said Davies as he slid behind the wheel. “Mr. Carlyle suggested you might enjoy a nap on the way, to rest up.”
His tone was even, and he didn’t say what, specifically, Rhys had said to rest up for – still, I blushed all the way to the roots of my hair. But I was smiling, too.
Chapter Thirty-One
I was asleep soon after Davies turned onto the Long Island Expressway, lulled by the soft strains of Vivaldi wafting over the speakers. Only the change in the Bentley’s steady motion woke me, three hours after we’d left the city. The car had slowed, and as I sat up, we turned off the road, pausing at a tall gate marked “Private.” Davies pressed a button on the dash and the door swung silently open, shutting behind us as soon as we passed.
“Almost there, miss,” said Davies. He chuckled to himself. “Nearly missed the place, I did. Haven’t been here in ages. Not since Miss Es— not in a long while.”
Essex, he’d meant to say. Miss Essex-Jones. Val had said Rhys bought the place three years ago. He must have bought it for Marina. With Marina.
You’re the one here now, I reminded myself, the one he’s no longer playing games with, but I felt suddenly uneasy.
The afternoon light had long since faded, and the tires crunched on the loose gravel as we made our way up a long, narrow lane, banked on either side by a high hedge and lit only by the Bentley’s headlights. We must have gone a mile before we emerged into a courtyard.
Val had been right. This was no cottage. It was a contemporary mansion, its lines spare and modern. A few windows showed light, but most of the building looked deserted.
Davies helped me out and carried my bag and violin case to the front door. He put a key in my hand. “Here you go, miss. I hope you enjoy yourself.” His expression was oddly grave.
“You’re not coming in?” I asked.
“I’ve errands to attend to for Mr. Carlyle. But you can always call me, miss, should you need me for any reason.”
“Thank you,” I said, but something about his somber tone was unsettling, almost ominous.
He returned to the car, waiting until I’d stepped through the front door before heading back down the driveway. I could hear the Bentley’s wheels churning the gravel. It sounded like Davies was driving fast, much faster than he had on the way here. Like he was fleeing.
What is wrong with you? I chided myself. I had to stop looking for mystery everywhere I went – and to stop being haunted by the ghost of Marina Essex-Jones. If our time on the yacht was anything to go by, I should be filled with heady anticipation instead.
And my heart was pounding a bit fast as I stepped into a cavernous foyer with a staircase curving up one wall. A mobile like a starburst was suspended from the ceiling, and oversize black-and-white photos of The Beatles, one in each photo, hung on the walls. The effect was sophisticated, edgy, and very carefully thought-out. Like Rhys himself, I realized.
His accent and his occasional anecdotes indicated a rough, underprivileged background. Was the control he exercised so rigorously – of himself, his environment, everyone and everything around him – something he’d cultivated to escape? Or did it come later, as his successes began to accumulate? The calculated elegance felt like a mask, or maybe a protective shield. If people were sufficiently dazzled by the surface, they might not try to see what lay underneath.
But I’d seen, or at least I thought I had. Last night, this morning, on the yacht, he’d seemed more relaxed, less polished, less contained – yet he still folded his clothes carefully before getting into the shower. None of it fit with his public image, with the devil-may-care adventurer in every magazine.
I heard a phone ring, and an iPhone on the center table came alive. FOR TUESDAY flashed across its screen. I smiled and picked it up.
“Hello?”
“So you’ve arrived,” Rhys said. His voice was a low rumble, and it sent a thrill of anticipation through me. “You’ll find everything you need in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. A driver will be there to pick you up in an hour. Will that give you enough time to get ready?”
“Ready? Ready for what?” I asked, confused.
“For tonight,” he said. “I’m still in the city, taking care of a few things. I’ll meet you there.”
“But— where are we going?”
“Le Masque Rouge. It’s a ball some friends throw every year. I think you’ll enjoy it tremendously.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m looking forward to seeing you there.”
He hung up before I could ask any more questions. I felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment. I’d been expecting a private night together, just the two of us.
Don’t be silly, I told myself. Rhys wanted to take me to a party with his friends – me, not Marina Essex-Jones or Mrs. G or any of the other curvy blondes he must have on speed-dial. That thought chased away the disappointment, filling me instead with an adolescent giddiness.
I ran up the stairs, my feet tapping an excited rhythm. At the top was an L-shaped hallway, with branches leading off at right angles, but there was an open door directly in front of me. A lamp inside cast a soft glow, inviting me in. This must have been the bedroom Rhys meant.
Two of the room’s walls were entirely glass. The one opposite the bed had a view over the ocean, barely visible in the winter night. The one to the left looked out on an expanse of lawn. There was a sculpture there, ringed by a stand of pines, and I went to the window for a better look. But it wasn’t a sculpture. It was a helipad. Because how else would Rhys be able to meet me at a party in an hour when he was still in the city? He must have a helicopter.
Of course, I thought. Doesn’t everyone?
I turned from the window to the bed. The room had white-washed plank floors, but the bed rested on a large deep red Turkish rug and was covered in crisp dark gray linens. A black-and-white photo hung over the headboard, a landscape, its contours a visually arresting contrast of light and shadow.
But it wasn’t a landscape, not at all, I realized. It was two women, lying head to foot, naked and entwined. Each had her head buried between the other’s thighs. The image was disturbing and arousing at once.
I dragged my eyes away. They landed on a garment bag hanging from the back of a closet door. A card clipped to it said merely: Tuesday.
I unzipped it, pushed it open, and stepped back, awestruck.
Inside was a long red silk gown with a gold-beaded clasp circling its Empire waist. A sheer bag dangling from the hanger contained a pair of exquisite mat
ching silk slippers. Another sheer bag contained an embroidered satin corset. All of it had the rarified look of items made painstakingly, expensively, by hand.
I couldn’t believe I was supposed to wear it all. These were clothes for a princess – or at least someone very much not like me. But Rhys’s instructions had been clear, and it wasn’t like there was anybody else going by the name Tuesday here.
I took off my boring black jeans-black sweater uniform and removed the corset from its bag, pulling it on and lacing it up. It only covered the bottom half of my breasts, and there were no panties. Somehow, it made me feel even more naked than I would have felt with nothing on at all.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the closet’s mirrored door. My nipples just peeked out over the top, and the lacings drew the eye down, from my breasts to my waist to my bare belly to the shadow between my legs. I was seized by the urge to touch myself. But what I wanted far more was for Rhys to touch me. I heard his voice in my head. Patience.
I slipped the cloud of red silk over my head, fastening the gold clasp just below my breasts. Then I took the shoes from the bag and stepped into them. The heels were higher than I was used to, and I found myself arching my back slightly for balance. I turned to the mirror.
It was like looking not at myself, but at the version of myself I always wished I would see. Against the silk my skin looked pale and creamy, my cheeks slightly flushed, my eyes dark and shining. I looked beautiful.
Because of Rhys.
But my outfit was not yet complete. On the dresser, a wig stand held a tall Marie Antoinette-style wig in the same crimson color as my dress and a mask patterned in swirls of red and black. There was also a leather jewelry box, stamped in gold with the name Graff, which even I knew was the most exclusive jeweler in New York. Nestled inside was a necklace with a dozen thumbnail-sized rubies strung together in a setting that was elegant in its simplicity, along with two matching ruby bracelets. One of the bracelets alone probably cost more than a city block. There’s no way you can wear these, said a warning voice in my head. You’ll lose them. You lose everything valuable.
