by Luna Doerr
My father has to fuck everyone over, doesn’t he? Couldn’t even give it a rest when he was dying. He has no interest—none—in apologizing to anyone, not even some poor girl he tried to drown as a teenager. Just because she “bugged” him!
No, this whole thing is about fucking with his only son again. Weston White knows that I wouldn’t risk my sister’s inheritance. What satisfaction does he get from this? He’s not even going to be around to see the aftermath. It is so fucking pointless.
I look at the envelope lying on the passenger seat. I pick it up and rip open the seal. I dump the papers into my lap, then pick up one of the newspaper clippings. The paper is brittle between my fingers, yellowed and dry. I carefully unfold it and skim over the lines of black type.
Yup. Someone had tried to drown an eight-year-old girl in 1980. The girl was pulled, unconscious, from the water and transported to the hospital where she was revived. She had been staying with her aunt, who worked as a teacher in a local school. And no, the person who tried to drown her was never found.
God, my father has to be the most worthless piece of shit in the world. I’d always assumed that my father had developed his vile ways as an adult. But apparently, he’d been a psychopath as a child. If it had been anyone else, I would have a hard time believing it. But my father? Barely out of character.
My eyes drift back up to the lead. I had skipped over all the names in the article. The swimmer who spotted the girl, the lifeguard who pulled her out, the EMT who administered CPR, the doctor at the emergency room, the mayor who was shocked-just-shocked that such a thing would happen in his town.
I search out the girl’s name. I need that if I’m going to find her, and I am. Because as much as I hate my father, I won’t cause my sister to lose her inheritance. She deserves it for staying behind and dealing with the monster.
Her name, her name. Where was it? Half the town is mentioned in the article, practically. Ah, there it is. Deborah Schwartz, 8, from ... Greencastle, Pennsylvania.
Dizziness swarms around me like raging wasps. Please. No. Greencastle. Schwartz. Please let there be no connection.
I grab my phone from the cup holder and hit the web browser. It takes my shaky hands four times to finally type in the name and town without any typos. I squint at the small screen as search results spit out. I scroll through them with my thumb.
An obituary link jumps out at me. Caterine had said her mother passed away recently. I hold my breath as I tap the link and read through it. Deborah Schwartz, 47, of Greencastle, Pennsylvania … that was too young to be Caterine’s mother, wasn’t it? … self employed as a massage therapist and Reiki healer … that was too offbeat. Caterine seems too practical to have a mother like that … a graduate of Greencastle Area High School and Wilson College … yada yada … survived by … fuck.
I close my eyes. When I open them, it will say something different. It has to.
I need it to.
Survived by one daughter, Caterine Schwartz, 24, also of Greencastle.
I scream as loud as I can, a great primal roar of frustration and anguish, anger and defeat. I don’t care whether anyone can hear the sound outside the confines of my car. When my lungs are out of air, I shove my hands roughly into my hair and pull at the roots. I need physical pain to counter the torture clawing at me from inside.
My father tried to kill Caterine’s mother when he was a teenager.
I release my hair to pound on the steering wheel.
If I want to preserve my sister’s inheritance, I have to apologize for the attempted murder to Caterine.
Paging Scylla and Charybdis.
Weston White had always possessed a sixth fucking sense when it came to ruining lives. How the hell am I going to tell Caterine that my father nearly killed her mother? But how the hell can I tell Kristin that I’m tossing away her fortune?
What I howl next is unprintable, even in an Alaric White book.
11
Alaric
I roll down the window of the BMW as soon as we hit the Maine coast and inhale the sweet smell of the ocean and pine. It’s been a long two days of driving. The longest two days of my life, perhaps. Fortunately, Caterine has spent much of the drive reading my latest book, the one I signed for her at the bookstore the day we met. I am so ripped up inside by the connection between my father and Caterine’s mother—and my father’s asshole blackmail request—that I know it’s safer not to talk much.
What the hell am I going to do? If I tell Caterine and make the apology, she’ll leave. She’ll quit as my assistant, as Erica. I will never see her again. And my book will be toast. I’ll have to abandon it. Even if I find another Erica—and after a year of fruitless searching, that’s a mighty big if—I would still want Caterine. I won’t be satisfied with any other woman as my assistant.
Of course, I could just not tell Caterine, and my life could proceed as usual. I’ll finish the book, go on tour, make my money. Caterine will have a big chunk of change in the bank. But my sister will be out her inheritance.
I can be a selfish bastard, I freely admit that, but I’m not that selfish.
I sigh.
“Everything okay?” Caterine turns her sweet face toward me.
My book is in her lap. I wish I could lay my head in that lap and go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up, I’ll find the last few days have all been merely a dream.
“We’re almost there, aren’t we?” she says.
I force myself to smile. “A few more hours yet. How’s the book?”
She laces her fingers together. Her legs are crossed primly at the ankles. Her blonde hair is restrained in an elegant ballet bun. I’ve been the perfect gentleman on this drive, even though I badly want to just bury myself in her and forget forget forget.
We stayed in separate rooms in New York. I made not one move on her. Not even a friendly kiss hello or goodnight. To her credit, she’s following my cues and behaving as if the night in Virginia never happened.
Damn, it’s killing me.
“It’s making me a little nervous.”
“How so?” Though I can guess how so.
“Some of the scenes … I know you said you didn’t want your assistant to be too experienced, but—”
She is biting her lip, which reminds me of the way I’d made her lip bleed. I hadn’t intended to, but the chain of events leading up to that—well, let’s just say the memories are still vivid in my mind. I’ve been spending way too much time shoving those memories out of the way.
“But what, Caterine?” I keep my voice soft, understanding.
“Well, there are things I didn’t even know people do.”
I reach over and tug her left hand free. I gently enfold it in my own. “That book was a little more extreme. That’s why I hired Annabeth for it. There was nothing that woman wouldn’t do.”
I feel her stiffen next to me. Shit. Wrong choice of words.
“This book isn’t like that. Not at all. Believe me when I say that you are absolutely perfect for it.”
I take my eyes off the road to shoot her a reassuring look. She doesn’t look that reassured.
“But Sim …”
“It is going to be so much fun watching Sim actually make love to a woman for a change.”
Fun? What the fuck? The knuckles of my free hand are white on the BMW’s fine leather-wrapped steering wheel.
She seems to consider that idea for a minute. “Can you tell me a little more about the book, now that I’ve signed the paperwork? I know you don’t want to tell me everything, but—” She takes a deep breath. “Knowing a little more would make me less nervous.”
I’m surprised, actually, that she waited this long to ask for more details. She is wonderfully trusting. Dangerously so.
“I will tell you a little more.” I caress her hand. I need her to trust me. That’s the only way this arrangement will work. Yes, I want her nervous, a bit uncertain of what lies ahead—because that was true for Erica, too—but I don’t want her de
bilitatingly so. I’m already worried that a woman like Caterine will be struck dumb by a man like Sim Toro.
“This book is a big departure from my previous books,” I begin. “It’s a historical, for starters, so I really will need you to do research for me. You’re going to learn more about the Regency period in England than you probably ever wanted to know.”
“Will your fans be okay with that? Something different?”
“We’re going to find out, aren’t we? I suspect that if the sex is hot enough, they’ll overlook a lot of transgressions on my part.”
She’s blushing hard again. It would be so nice to pull the car over and push her head into my lap. My groin twitches at the idea. Her mouth had felt so fucking good on me. I might write a few more of those scenes into the book.
“The main characters are Frederica—Erica for short—and Charles. Charles is a marquess, Frederica is his wife. Only at the beginning of the book, they don’t really know each other well. Charles left for war the week after they married. He wanted to wait until he came back—in case he didn’t come back—but Erica’s father was in a hurry to get her married. He told Charles he couldn’t guarantee that Erica would still be available.”
“I’m guessing she didn’t have a say in any of this.”
“No. Women generally didn’t. Marriages weren’t about love. They were more practical arrangements between families. Often a means to acquire land or money. And produce heirs, of course.”
“So after I do that, I’m off the hook?”
I laugh softly. “In real life, probably so. The best way to avoid knocking up your wife was to visit a house of ill repute instead. But my books aren’t real life, sweetheart.”
“So not off the hook?”
“No. You probably won’t want to be off the hook, either.” My voice drops into a deeper register. “Sim was born to be Charles.” Unfortunately. “Charles did not consummate the marriage before he left. He didn’t want Erica stuck with a child if he was killed in battle.”
“Thoughtful of him. So she is a virgin?”
“Yes. That’s why I said I don’t want you to have much experience.”
“But he has experience?”
I nod.
“Those houses of ill repute, I suppose.”
I laugh, enjoying the way she’s putting all this together.
“So then what? I’m sitting at home, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for my husband to return.”
“Then Charles returns, alive but injured. He now walks with a limp and his face is half ruined.”
“So beauty and the beast?”
I shrug. “Similar themes.”
“And how much of this do you have written?”
“Just the first chapter, where he arrives home and they see each other for the first time in months. She is shocked and saddened by his appearance, of course. And he understands that, even though their marriage was not a love match, he is no longer the man she married.”
“And then?”
“And then I’m not going to tell you anymore. I will tell you the rest as we go. I don’t want you practicing or rehearsing ahead of time. Sim may try to get you to do that, but please don’t. I’ve been doing this long enough to know what works.”
“And the sex scenes?”
“Aren’t anything extreme. They’re more extreme emotionally than physically. If it helps, Sim is going to be pushed out of his comfort level on this, too.”
Sim is going to have to be gentle with Caterine, treat her like a loving husband, let her take the lead in the early scenes. I hope this works. I’m far more worried about Sim than Caterine. And I really really do not want Sim giving Caterine any additional experience. My stomach burns at the thought of Sim and Caterine together at night, in the carriage house.
Well, there is one way to prevent that. I can put Caterine in one of the guest rooms in the main house. In the past, my assistants had always bunked in the carriage house just because I don’t want someone else around 24-7 in the main house. And I didn’t much care if they and Sim fucked each other’s brains out all night long.
Caterine will be too much temptation for Sim. Simply asking him to leave her alone would never work, not with Sim. I’ve known him too long to believe otherwise. I can’t put her at the mercy of Sim Toro. Sim’s libido is merciless.
12
Caterine
It’s nearly dark when the car turns into a long driveway that winds its way through increasingly thick trees before popping suddenly out into the open.
“Here we are,” Alaric says. “Home sweet home.”
I stare in awe at the large shingled house as he pulls the car around to a portico on the side. All I can think of is how much my mother would have loved this house. There is an imposing majesty to it, like that of an old hotel or inn.
Wow. I’m going to be living here?
I am so stunned by the beauty of the house that I don’t notice the tall man walking toward the car until he’s leaning in through Alaric’s window.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone home, you old scalliwag.” He grins at me, his teeth bright white in the gloaming. “Hi darlin’. I’m Sim.”
I had already guessed as much. The cellphone photos Alaric showed me did not do justice to the reality that is Sim Toro. He’s bigger than I expected, for starters. His broad shoulders fill the driver’s side window and his large hand swallows mine when he holds it out for me to shake. The power in his grip is unmistakable.
“I said I might be,” Alaric replies.
“You just didn’t want to get my hopes up.” Sim is still grinning at me, but it isn’t entirely a friendly expression. I may not have much experience with men, but I recognize a predator when I see one.
“You wear out her mouth or something?” He socks Alaric in the arm.
Sim Toro’s hair hangs down to his shoulders, dark and straight, framing a tanned face composed of strong features. High cheekbones, a long straight nose, firm lips. He makes Alaric look positively delicate in comparison. I try to imagine him as a Regency dandy and can’t.
But a beast? That’s easy to see.
Another thought forms in my head. Oh my god. I am going to have sex with this man.
I watch, mesmerized as he comes around to my side of the car. Despite his size, there is a feline grace to his movements He doesn’t walk around the car so much as glides around it. He tugs open the car door and gently pulls me out.
“Hello, beautiful. You must be Erica.” A small gold hoop hangs from his ear.
All of a sudden Alaric is next to them. “Sim, this is Caterine Schwartz. Caterine, Sim.”
Sim looks me over from head to toe. I glance at Alaric, who is radiating tension. He’s been tense all day in the car, but I assumed he would relax once we got to his home. Some people don’t like long car rides or highway driving or travel in general. But he’s no more relaxed here than he was two hours ago.
“Are you okay?” I mouth to him. He gives no response.
“Welcome to Maine, Caterine. I’m sure we’re going to enjoy working together.” Sim turns to Alaric. “I was just heading out to grab a pizza. I’ll bring back enough for three.”
I watch Sim Toro sink into a two-door Mercedes while Alaric roughly yanks our bags from the trunk. Without a word, he stalks off toward the side door of the house. I hurry to catch up, feeling Sim’s eyes on me from behind.
“Well, that was Sim.” Alaric stands just inside the door, in the kitchen. “He’s not always so well behaved.” He inclines his head toward a staircase at the back of the kitchen. “Come. I’ll show you your room.”
The guest room is spacious and primly furnished with antiques. Alaric hefts my suitcase up onto the four-poster bed. “Closet there. That door next to it is the bathroom. It should be fully stocked but let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
There are two large windows on the exterior wall and I wander over to one of them. I pull back the ecru lace curtain and peer out into th
e fading evening light. A large green lawn slopes down to the water, dark at this time of day. Off to the side sits a small cottage.
Alaric stands behind me, his hands settling firm and warm on her shoulders. “That’s the carriage house, where Sim stays.”
“You’ve banished him to an outbuilding?” I joke.
Alaric rests his chin on my hair, my head nestled into the curve of his neck. The heat of his body warms my back. He’s been so distant since we parted in Virginia. Not that I’m reading more into the night we spent together at the hotel than I should, but it was a different Alaric who showed up at my house in Pennsylvania. Alaric, the employer.
This sudden renewed familiarity surprises me.
“I wouldn’t get much sleep if I had to listen to Sim all night.” He kisses my hair. “Though sometimes the carriage house still isn’t far enough,” he murmurs into my hair.
The low rumble of his voice vibrates down my spine and skitters across the backs of my legs. He isn’t referring to snoring, I guess.
“It’s too dark to see,” Alaric pulls one lace drape further to the side. “But over there are the gardens, behind the carriage house. I’ll show them to you tomorrow.” He spins me around in his arms. “Are you okay, Caterine? I know he can be a lot to take in.”
I nod as he works my bun loose with his fingers. “I like it better this way,” he says, tucking the bobby pins into the back pocket of his jeans. He places a hand on my back and guides me toward the door. “Sim should be back in about twenty minutes with dinner. Let me show you my office in the meantime. That’s where you’ll be spending most of your time.”
Alaric’s office is on the first floor. It’s large, too, befitting a grand old summer home on the coast. The walls are a rich wood, the floor a neutral berber carpet. A broad mahogany desk sits off to the side, its top empty of the usual office implements. No desk lamp, no cup filled with pens and pencils, no books or pads of paper. One wall is lined with built-in bookcases, filled floor to ceiling with books. It’s a masculine room.
