by Liliana Hart
Tess’s lip curled in disgust. “But then I’d have to stick my hands all up in the turkey. And that’s disgusting.”
“You have to stick your hands all up in the turkey to get the giblets and neck out anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” Tess asked. “What are giblets and necks?”
Miller closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. “How about I make the turkey for Thanksgiving?”
“Why are we talking about turkeys instead of this depressing ending?” Tess asked.
“It’s not the only ending,” Miller said, rolling her eyes. “My hero and heroine fell in love and lived happily ever after.”
Though she didn’t confess what a struggle that had been to put on the page. Mostly she’d wanted her heroine to stab the hero, who shared entirely too many characteristics with Elias, in the neck with a fork.
“That’s true,” Tess conceded. “I just think it stinks that Solomon and Sheba didn’t get their happily ever after too.”
“Real life rarely works out as well as fictional life,” Miller said.
“Are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you?” Tess asked. “I know you love him. You can’t hide that from me.”
Miller sighed and didn’t bother to swipe away the tears this time. “I just didn’t think it would hurt this bad. I knew he’d break my heart from the start. I thought I was prepared for it, and I’d take what I could get for as long as I could get it. But the worst part isn’t that I love him. It’s that he loves me too, and still chooses not to be with me.”
“If it makes you feel better,” Tess said, “he looks a hell of a lot worse than you do.” There was a knock at the door, and Tess went to answer it since she was already up. Tess rarely sat. She was always full of energy.
“That makes me feel only slightly better,” Miller said. “That’s probably the UPS man. He’s a glutton for punishment. Scare him a little and send him away.”
Tess laughed and left the room, and Miller snuggled down in the couch, pulling the throw that hung across the back of it over her. Maybe she was going to crash sooner than she thought. She wasn’t worried about Tess. She’d been coming and going as she pleased for as long as she could remember, and she’d leave when she was ready.
Her eyes were heavy, so she closed them, and listened to see who was at the door, but she couldn’t hear any conversations. The floors creaked as footsteps grew louder, and she wanted to groan in protest.
“Tess, you were supposed to send him away, not invite him in. The last time he was here he brought me a finger in the mail.”
“I’d like that back, by the way,” her brother said. “We can give it a proper burial.”
Her eyes snapped open and landed on Justin. He still looked worn and gaunt, but he was alive, and he seemed glad for it.
“That’s sick, man,” Elias said. “I’m not going to a funeral for your finger.”
Her gaze went to the man who stood beside her brother, and seemed to catch there. She felt the emotion deep in her chest, and the pain was just as real as it had been the last time she’d seen him. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t pretend like everything was as it was. She couldn’t be friends and act as if seeing him wasn’t like having her guts ripped out.
She looked at Tess in a panic, but Tess wasn’t meeting her gaze, so she tossed off the throw and put her feet flat on the floor.
“Don’t get up,” Elias told her. “We can all see you’re exhausted.”
“Good grief, get on with it,” Justin said impatiently. “Tess is having trouble finding ways to look natural while you beat around the bush.”
“Remember our agreement,” Elias said. “You don’t want to interfere right now.”
Justin put up his hands in surrender and took a step back, so he stood next to Tess, but his smile held both good humor and warning. There were obviously undercurrents going on that Miller had no clue about. Actually, she had no clue about anything at the moment other than she hurt in ways she never thought possible, though now it was compounded by an audience.
She had some time before she needed to start her next book. She’d get a solid twelve or so hours of sleep, and then she could pick up and leave. It was time to expand her comfort zone. Maybe Tahiti or Australia. And it was definitely time to expand the distance between her and Elias.
“Uh-oh,” Tess said. “You’d better hurry. I recognize that look on her face. She’s about to run.”
“Thank y’all so much for all the help,” Elias said sarcastically. “But maybe we can have a few minutes of privacy?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Justin said. “You broke her heart once. I want to make sure you fix it.”
Miller was suddenly very aware that something was going on and she wasn’t privy to whatever it was. Her stomach was in knots, and emotion rolled through her when Elias seemed to find his resolve and moved in front of her, kneeling down so he could look her in the eye.
Her hands were freezing and gripped tightly together, but he pried them apart and gave her a comforting squeeze.
“I should probably start out by telling you that I’m a jerk,” he said.
Tess snorted, and Justin said, “That’s an understatement.”
But though his lips quirked, Elias kept his gaze on hers. She was having trouble breathing, and her brain wasn’t processing what was happening. Why would he come and reopen the wounds? To apologize? To clear his conscience?
She wanted to say something, but her throat closed. She shook her head as tears filled her eyes. This was a kind of hell she never wanted to experience again.
“But I’m a jerk who loves you,” he said. “Loving you is worth every risk, and I realized that letting myself love you the way you deserve to be loved is the only thing that can set me free. I can’t promise that it will be an easy life. At least not for the next five years. But I can promise to love and protect you with every breath in my body for as long as we both shall live.”
The tears fell freely now. She couldn’t help it. And when a sob escaped, she buried her face against their joined hands. He leaned his head against hers and she felt the shudder run through his body.
“Please, love me,” he whispered, so only she could hear.
She nodded against him, and somewhere in the background she heard the front door close.
“I do,” she told him. She’d never let herself love anyone like she loved him. She lifted her head because what she wanted to tell him needed to be said to his face. “I’ve lived my entire life on my own, holding a part of myself back out of fear. I lived, but I didn’t know what it meant to really live.” His thumb stroked her cheek, wiping away her tears. “I can love you and still survive without you. I’d already resigned myself to doing so. It would be easy to move on and live a full life. Even a happy life. But I’d much rather experience the joy of knowing what it is to belong to you. And for you to belong to me. There’s faith in a commitment of that magnitude, and it’s one I’d never planned on. But I want to be with you.”
Elias cleared his throat, and she realized how humbling it must be for a man as strong as he was to kneel at her feet and lay himself bare. And she loved him all the more for it.
“My job has long, unreasonable hours,” he warned her.
“Mine does too,” she said, noticing the twinkle in his eyes.
“And my boss can be a real bitch.”
“I’ve heard that,” she said. “But I’ve already got my revenge planned. I’ll send her a copy once the book is out. Maybe she’ll recognize herself.”
Elias laughed and pulled her into his lap on the floor. “I’d love to read it. I’m partial to happily ever afters.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ll admit that this was the most difficult book I’ve ever written, not because of the book itself, but because of what was happening in my personal life. I’m so blessed and honored to have a group of people around who support and encourage me, talk me through the hard times, and carry me through the
really hard times. This book wouldn’t have been possible without these people.
A huge thank you to my editor, Lauren McKenna, for seeing something in this book when I couldn’t see anything, and for fighting for me. I couldn’t have done it without her. And thank you to Marla Daniels and the entire team at Pocket for being so amazing to work with. I’ve enjoyed every step of the process. I also want to thank my agent, Kristin Nelson, for always having a game plan and being the calm in the storm. Thank you to Jillian Stein, whom I adore, because she is the best social media person on the planet. And to Chas and the team at RockStar PR for making my life so much easier. I also want to give a special thanks to my friend Chermaine Stein who helps me put the pieces of myself back together again, a little bit at a time. She also gives me love, encouragement, and a friendship I’ll treasure always. I’m blessed.
On the home front, I have to thank my children for their patience and unconditional love. And because they don’t mind eating take-out every night while I’m on deadline. I also want to thank my husband, because he sees to the smallest details of life so it’s possible for me to write books. He’s my hero.
Keep reading for a sneak peek excerpt from the next mysterious, riveting installment in the Gravediggers series
Say No More
Available Summer 2017 from Pocket Books!
CHAPTER ONE
Nice, France ~ 2015
There were some men who wore elegance like a second skin. Dante Malcolm was one of them.
He guided the cigarette boat through the black water like a knife, sending a fine spray of mist into the air. The moon was full, the stars bright, and the night crisp and clear. The smell of sea salt and lavender perfumed the air. It was the perfect night for a party. And an even better night for a burglary.
His tuxedo was hand-tailored and silk, his bow tie perfectly tied, and his shoes properly shined. His black hair was cut precisely, so that it would fall rakishly across his forehead instead of appearing windblown.
There was something about wealth that had always appealed to him—the glitter of jewels, the smell of expensive perfume, the not-so-subtle way the elite bragged about their latest toys or investments. It was all a game. And he’d always been a winner. But a small thorn had been growing in his side—or maybe it was his conscience—over the past few months.
Liv Rothschild. He was in love with her. Every stubborn, vivacious, persistent, gorgeous inch of her. And that was turning out to be more of a problem than he’d anticipated. Love had never been in the cards for him. Not until he’d crossed paths with a woman whose beauty had literally stopped him in his tracks. Her stunning features had lured him in, but her intelligence had kept him coming back for more.
She knew the world he was accustomed to—the world of the titled and wealthy British elite. Her father had been a prominent member of society, and he’d married an American actress who preferred the drama in her life instead of on the screen. Liv had a sister—a twin—and though he’d only been thirteen at the time, he remembered the news coverage when Elizabeth Rothschild had gone missing.
The guilt Liv carried from that day her sister vanished was what had forged her future. She’d never stopped looking for her. The investigations had turned up no clue to her whereabouts, and even Dante’s searches in the MI6 database had returned nothing. Not a hospital visit or a fingerprint taken. The assumption was that Elizabeth Rothschild was dead. He tended to agree.
But Liv had never lost hope, and Elizabeth’s disappearance had motivated Liv to go into law enforcement and ultimately join Interpol so she would have the resources she needed to find her sister. What had been a surprise to Liv was that she was a damned good agent. What had been a surprise to him was that he’d started looking forward to their paths crossing from time to time. Fortunate circumstances had combined their efforts on this case.
Which was why they were meeting at the Marquis de Carmaux’s château in the south of France. He enjoyed working with Liv, and if he had his way, they’d continue to work together. And play together. In his mind, life couldn’t get any better. He could have it all. And he did.
La Château Saint Germain was lit like a beacon atop the rugged cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, a pink monstrosity with towers and turrets and more than fifty rooms that rarely got used. Expensive cars lined the narrow road that wound up the mountain, headlights beaming for as far as the eye could see as their occupants waited for the valets to take the keys. He checked his watch, noting that Liv should already be inside.
Dante eased off the throttle, and the boat coasted up to the dock. He tossed the rope to the valet, who tied it to the mooring, and then he stepped up onto the dock, adjusting his cuffs and bow tie.
The pathway from the dock led all the way up to the château, the grounds divided into three steep tiers. The wooden steps were lined with hanging lanterns, and the trees were decorated with lights. Once at the top, Dante sauntered along the stone-paved walkway toward the house and retrieved his invitation from the inside of his jacket pocket to present to the doorman. It was time to work.
The Marquis de Carmaux had terrible taste in wine and women, but his art was exceptional. His personal collection was going on loan to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City for the next year, so he’d decided to throw a farewell party so the social elite could not only praise him for his generosity, but be envious of something they’d never be able to get their hands on.
Dante had been fortunate enough to be born into the British upper crust where wealth was passed from one generation to the next, easily accumulated with buying or selling real estate, and easily squandered on a whim. He was titled, a lord no less, and he’d been educated at the best schools, one of his classmates being the future king of England. He also had an unusual talent for math—he could solve any problem in his head, no matter how difficult. It gave him a natural aptitude for winning at cards.
He had many other talents as well—an ease with languages and the ability to see patterns amid what seemed to be nothing but random occurrences—which was why MI6 had wanted him so badly. To a wealthy young man of twenty-two who had multiple degrees in mathematics and was quickly getting bored of the party life that all his contemporaries seemed to live for, becoming an intelligence agent for his country had seemed like the right choice.
It had been around the same time that he’d met a man by the name of Simon Locke.
Simon had introduced him to the art of stealing. He’d given Dante something that no amount of money could provide, that seduced him as no woman had, and that international espionage couldn’t satisfy, though it came a close second. Simon had given him an adrenaline rush that was more intense than any drug and just as addictive.
Simon Locke had given him a purpose. Dante felt no remorse when it came to taking things that belonged to others. Because he only took from those who could afford to lose what he stole, from those who had taken what wasn’t rightfully theirs. His jobs always had a mission. He would collect the item that didn’t truly belong to the current owner, and he’d take a second piece of his choosing as his commission.
He’d met Simon in a Belgian prison while on assignment. MI6 had set up Dante’s arrest so he could get information from Simon’s cellmate, who was suspected of being part of a terrorist organization and supposedly had information about recent bombings in Brussels. Simon had been brought in after the police had done a sweep of drunk and disorderlies. He’d been neither drunk nor disorderly, but in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The cell was no bigger than a small closet, maybe eight by eight feet, and metal-frame bunk beds that had been bolted into the floor sat against one of the stone walls. The mattresses were paper-thin and dingy, and it was best not to think about what was on them. There was a metal hole in the floor for a toilet and a barred window that overlooked the guarded courtyard below. The cell was shrouded in darkness, but every twenty-seven seconds the spotlight from one of the towers scanned across the window, giving lig
ht to the shadows of the cell.
Simon stayed quiet while Dante drew information from their third cellmate, who had been drunk and disorderly, but fortunately was also loose-lipped. And when the man had passed out and was snoring obnoxiously in a corner, Simon had looked over and said, “It’s good to know British intelligence hasn’t changed.”
Dante had been speaking in flawless French to their other cellmate, but still Simon had known. And then he’d said something that piqued Dante’s curiosity.
“I was like you once.”
In his twenty-two-year-old arrogance, he’d responded, “I beg your pardon, but there’s no one else like me.”
Locke had smiled at him and moved into the light. He wasn’t a big man—maybe five eight or five nine—and his hair was slicked back and tied at the nape of his neck. Even in the holding cell, his black slacks were precisely pressed and his expensive shirt only slightly mussed. There was a nonchalant cockiness about him that Dante could appreciate. He wasn’t screaming about injustice like many of the others down the long hallway. He was calm and cool, his hands in his pockets.
St. Gilles Prison was overcrowded, its nineteenth-century cells never meant to accommodate so many prisoners. The holding cells were in the east tower. MI6 had assured Dante he’d be released early the next morning, but that was still hours away.
“Are they planning your release for the morning, Mr… .”
“Malcolm. I’m sure someone will post bond for me in the morning,” Dante said vaguely. “And you? Will you be released in the morning? I didn’t catch your name.”
Simon smiled again and jangled some change in his pockets. Dante was surprised they hadn’t confiscated the man’s belongings when they’d brought him in.
“You can call me Locke,” he said.
“The jailers are getting lax,” Dante said, nodding to his pockets, making Simon grin again.
“Not so much. My pockets were empty when I came in. I tend to travel light.”
Dante wasn’t sure how Locke could have acquired a handful of change, but he was getting tired of the man’s vagueness.
