“I could have done them all,” Xan grated out, forcing his voice. His throat felt like rocks were grinding his flesh in there. “We shouldn’t have cancelled them.”
“You’ll feel better in a few days,” Jonas said. “The whole East Coast leg will go better if you rest.”
Xan walked away, his frock coat costume billowing behind him as he strode over the asphalt and between the cars to the black sedan waiting in the back of the lot. The chrome handle chilled his hand when he grasped the back door’s latch.
He looked back. The tour bus, black and anonymous to confuse the fans who didn’t do their research, hulked under the lights, and the other members of Killer Valentine filed off and staggered into the hotel after the long drive from the last venue and the vicious shouting match on the bus.
Xan Valentine opened the car door, slid into the back seat, and disintegrated into a thousand dark fragments.
Cyberstalking
Georgie
Saturday morning, after Georgie had practiced her piano for three hours in the dark, deserted music building and then had run twelve miles in under two hours and showered and was still panting but clean and cold, she lounged on the couch in the study room of her cozy college dorm room, engaging a little harmless cyberstalking.
The laptop resting on her knees showed a video of a beautiful blond woman, her bright green eyes snapping with happiness on her wedding day.
Georgie smiled at the image, wishing that somehow her own smile could be transmitted through the ether and that Flicka would feel her best wishes. These pictures were almost-real time, taken about an hour before, but Flicka was at her wedding reception at the Louvre in France, and Georgie was sitting on a stiff couch in a college dormitory room in the Southwestern U.S. while the morning desert sun beat through the old windows onto the political science, sociology, and pre-law-type textbooks stacked on her desk.
Six years had passed since Georgie had hugged Flicka good-bye at Boston’s Logan airport, when Flicka had flown back to her Swiss boarding school and Georgie had returned home to Connecticut, where in ten hours, overnight, her whole life had broken apart like a sinkhole had gaped under her and swallowed everything.
Georgiana Oelrichs had been destroyed in those few, terrible days. Georgie Johnson had arisen to take on her responsibilities and debts, and they were legion, in the long months and now years that followed.
Her cup of black coffee steamed beside her. The bitterness of dark-roasted brew lingered on her tongue and filled the room with a comfortable scent. She had a different life now, a smaller life, but it was good. Everything she wanted and needed was growing around her. Slowly, it was growing slowly, but she was creating her own salvation.
Someday, she would make amends to everyone.
Georgie—stronger now, harder now—could forgive the baffled teenage girl she had been, but older-wiser Georgie knew that she was the only one who would forgive that brainwashed little twit, so she stayed away, hid in the Southwest under a new name, and cyberstalked people who had been her friends, desperately hoping they were happy.
Flicka’s sparkling grin certainly looked happy as she caught the dark eye of her new husband, Pierre Grimaldi, Prince Pierre, the presumptive heir to the princely throne of Monaco.
Wow, the two of them were gorgeous together. They would probably make beautiful little prince and princess babies.
Flicka had married her prince, and Georgie smiled at her from thousands of miles away. When they had met, Flicka hadn’t mentioned to Georgie for two weeks that she was a princess, Her Serene Highness Friederike, Prinzessin von Hannover und Cumberland, et cetera, probably because they had been hanging out in the dorms and strolling the sun-drenched wildflower fields that smelled like lavender around the Tanglewood Music Center, so busy dishing about Chopin and Rachmaninoff and Bach and reminiscing about the radiant tones of great pianos they had played.
And learning. And playing their pianos. And learning more. And practicing. And studying. And living deep in music.
Music had been Georgie’s whole life back then, and Flicka’s whole life, and just seeing Flicka’s shining face on the laptop screen was enough to make Georgie’s fingers dance on the rough couch upholstery beside her leg.
Her fingers picked out Chopin, of course. They had both worshiped Chopin, though Georgie now tended to prefer Rachmaninoff.
Indeed, Georgie almost closed the laptop to go back to the music department to practice more, which she still did every day out of some deep-buried longing, when another couple behind Flicka and Pierre caught her eye.
Oh, God.
No, no.
In the dim light of the wedding reception, the young woman’s fiery auburn hair flowed around her shoulders, and the camera’s light flashed off the man’s bright blond hair and startling blue eyes.
Oh God, no.
Georgie swallowed down a sour taste on her tongue as her two worlds began to slam into each other like planets colliding.
If her college suitemate Rae Stone and their employer—whose real name she didn’t even know due to the unusual structure of the business—were at Flicka’s wedding, Murphy’s Fucking Law was about to kick Georgie’s ass.
Naive little Georgiana Oelrichs would have scurried away right then and hidden, changed her name again in shame, and cried herself to sleep.
Georgie Johnson swallowed hard and gripped the sides of the laptop, firming her courage, before she opened a text app on her phone.
She knew that Rae was in Paris, and Rae had texted from her phone’s new number so Georgie could get in touch with her if anything went wrong.
This sure as Hell counted as something going terribly, horribly wrong.
Georgie slid her thumb over the screen, texting, Did I just see you on TV at that freaking royal wedding in Paris?!?!?!? W/ The Dom? WTF?!?!?!?!?
A small part of her deeply believed that Rae would text back that she didn’t know what Georgie was talking about, even though that woman in the picture was definitely Rae, and Rae was in Paris at that very moment.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
Rae: U have passport?
That wasn’t an answer. There was nothing to be panicking about yet.
Georgie swiped through the wedding pictures on the laptop, looking for more.
She found more.
Lots more.
Rae smiled in all of them, sometimes a slightly terrified smile, sometimes a real laugh when she looked at the blond man beside her.
The blond man wore his usual closed expression, somewhat serene, somewhat cold in his dark blue eyes.
Her skin prickled with chill. Georgie set the laptop aside, held her phone more firmly, and walked to the bedroom, shutting the door behind herself so that no one walking on the sidewalk outside could see how pale she was through the windows.
Rae had asked about a passport.
Georgie sat on her twin bed and typed with shaking fingers, Yah.
And she waited, hoping that Rae wouldn’t say that she was at Flicka’s wedding but afraid to ask again. She stared at the framed prints on the walls, not really seeing the pastels, wanting to crawl under the bed and stay there.
On the other side of the door, in the study room area, a door-slam echoed, and a woman’s voice rang out, “Georgie!”
That raspy little shout sounded like Lizzy, her roommate.
Georgie prayed that Lizzy’s return meant something good, because otherwise she was going to shake the shit out of her. Lizzy had gotten herself involved with a creepy, creepy, creepy-ass Creepster McCreepakuddy, and that did not begin to convey the revulsion that Georgie had built up over the many years for Mannix fucking Bonfils. No matter what Georgie had told Lizzy, she wouldn’t even try to escape his creepy clutches.
Her phone buzzed her palm again.
Rae had texted, Throw some clothes in overnight bag. Get a cocktail dress or 2 from the DH. NOT SLUTTY. Plane tix will be at Lufthansa counter for 8PM flight tonight.
No way. No fu
cking way was she going to Paris and risk seeing Flicka and all those people.
She had to get out of this somehow.
In the back of her mind, Georgiana Oelrichs whispered, Run.
Georgie thumbed the phone. Have class next week.
Rae texted back, Will be home Monday morning.
Fuck.
“Georgie! Georgie!” the woman outside the door yelled.
Georgie stood and went to the study room. Dealing with Lizzy would give her some time to think. She opened the door. “Just a sec!”
She stole a glance at Lizzy, barely looking away from Rae’s texts on her phone. Thank God, Lizzy was wearing normal khaki pants and a blouse instead of that indecent, half-naked lingerie crap that Bonfils insisted that she wear everywhere to break her down yet some more, the creep.
Georgie said to her, “Tell me that you finally left Mannix fucking Bonfils.”
Lizzy ran across the tiny dorm room and flung herself onto Georgie, pushing her back against the door frame even though blond little Lizzy was an elf of a person and might weigh eighty pounds if her backpack was stuffed full of books. She would never get used to how demonstrative Lizzy was at the slightest provocation.
“Whoa, there,” Georgie said, blanking her screen and tucking it in her pocket. “Did you leave him?”
Lizzy nodded and burst into tears.
Georgie grabbed her more tightly. “Good God, Lizzy! What the fuck happened? Do we need to call the police?”
Lizzy shook her head while she slobbered on Georgie’s shirt, soaking the fabric and chilling her skin underneath. She kept repeating, “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay. What the hell happened?” Georgie wrapped her other arm around Lizzy’s shoulders and guided them both backward to the couch. She hoped Lizzy wouldn’t feel how she was quivering.
“I’m okay, but I fucked everything up,” Lizzy said.
This, Georgie could deal with. This was just another thing. “We’ll figure it out. The most important thing is that you’re back, now. We can get tutors to catch you up in your classes. I have some essays that we can edit for you to turn in if you need to. We’ll get you through this semester somehow.”
“That’s not it,” Lizzy sobbed on her front, her blond hair bobbing just below Georgie’s chin. Her hair smelled like her usual strawberry shampoo that filled their bathroom when she showered because she used handfuls of it on her short hair.
“Then what the hell is wrong? Your parents? I have all the phone numbers of the reporters who called. Most of them want you to tell your side of the story.” There was a lot going on in Lizzy’s life, and they would deal with all of it later, just as soon as Georgie stopped freaking and could figure it all out.
Lizzy ran her hand through her short hair and ended up pulling it straight up in tiny platinum spikes. “I’ve just fucked everything up.”
“If your version of fucking everything up involves getting away from Bonfils, then you didn’t fuck up. You finally got it right.”
“That’s not it. That’s partly it, but just because I did it stupidly and now he’s after me. Crap.”
“He’s after you?” Georgie glanced at her phone, but Rae hadn’t texted back yet. She dreaded it and was dying to know. “Yeah, I can see that happening.”
“And I screwed everything up with Theo and it feels like I ripped my own heart out.”
“At least you aren’t denying it. That’s a refreshing change.” Georgie typed Lizzy is here at dorm. Can’t leave her. on her phone to Rae.
There. Now she couldn’t go to fucking Paris.
Lizzy said, “And men were shooting at me. I’ve been shot at twice in the last week, and Theo thinks it’s this Santiago drug dealer guy but Mannix said that they were Russians, and shit! I forgot to tell Theo that I think it’s Russians, not his drug dealer.”
Russians?
Georgie looked up from her phone. “Why would Russians be shooting at you?”
“My dad was in the Russian mob, and I think they’re trying to force me to go back to Pajari Gym, and I don’t know!”
Oh, crap. Georgie was found. She was so found. Everything was crashing and burning around her.
She raised one eyebrow, trying to look unruffled and like she wasn’t panicking-stupid inside. “Do you really think your parents would put a contract out on you to scare you back to work for them? That seems illogical. If they kill you, you can’t work for them.”
“I don’t know! People shot at me! Twice!” Lizzy’s blue eyes rolled up in her head.
Georgie’s phone buzzed again, and Rae had texted, Will be tix for her, too. Get her butt on that plane b4 she gets stupid again.
Shit. If the Russian mob was after Lizzy, they would notice Georgie soon enough, too. She had to get out.
Paris might be far enough away, even if it meant Georgie had to hide in a hotel room for a couple days. Or she could just get Lizzy someplace safe—away from Russians who were shooting at her and Mannix fucking Bonfils—and then she could melt into the night in Europe.
She asked Lizzy, “Do you have a passport?”
“Do I have a fucking what?” Lizzy’s hands curled into grasping fists.
Georgie’s phone was hot in her hand from all her frantic texting. “A passport. If you think Bonfils is after you, let’s leave the country.”
“But, class! You have class on Monday!”
“We both have class on Monday, Lizzy. Evidently, we’ll be home Monday morning.”
Lizzy cried out, “What the hell is going on?”
Georgie pursed her lips. “While Rae didn’t actually say where she is, I know that she was in Paris a few hours ago, so I’m betting that she’s still somewhere in France.” She held the phone up. “Here is everything that I know.”
Lizzy squinted at the tiny screen, reading the texts, and frowned. “I’m not stupid.”
Georgie rolled her eyes. That was what Lizzy took away from this whole conversation? “Of course you’re not. Get your passport.”
“What’s going on?” Lizzy still looked scared.
Georgie sighed. “How am I supposed to know? Group Dom-date? Maybe that kinky fucker is into menage now.”
Lizzy held up her tiny, squirrel-paw hands. “I am so not down for that. Not now. Not ever.”
They had to leave now. If the Russian mob was coming, even if there was only a chance that it was one of the Russian bratvas, they had to get in a goddamn car and leave right the hell now. “So we’ll ask her when we get there. Get your damned passport and pack some clean underwear. If they’re buying last-minute plane tickets, we’re going to have to go through all kinds of ass-probe security before they’ll let us on that plane.”
“I don’t have any clothes here,” Lizzy protested.
Georgie pulled her to her feet and shoved her toward their bedroom a little. “So poach some of mine. We’ll just pin up the pants and waists. Let’s go.”
Lizzy ran into the other room.
Georgie held her head in her hands.
Rae was somewhere with Flicka. The Russian mob was here, hunting either Lizzy or herself. Everything was going to shit.
Georgie texted to Rae, her heart thumping hard the whole time: K. Wanna tell us WTF going on?
She waited, staring at the phone and praying the whole time. She was whipping through a rosary in her head when Rae texted back: Tell you when you get here. Secret!
Snarky little minx.
Georgie went to tell Lizzy to get a move on because they needed to snag some clothes at The Devilhouse and get the hell out of Dodge.
The Devilhouse
Georgie
Georgie drove her white Lexus down the long driveway to The Devilhouse, glancing at the wrought iron fence that contained the park-like waste area in the center of the long driveway. In the early spring, flowers bloomed in there, but now they were drooping and spent, their dying petals blowing in the hot spring breeze.
Lizzy cowered in the passenger seat, peekin
g out her car’s windows.
Damn, Bonfils had done a bang-up job of fucking up Lizzy’s head in just a few weeks. He was good at that, though. He was a goddamn natural.
Maybe getting her to Paris would help her break free of him.
But first, they needed to make a quick raid on The Devilhouse for clothes.
You would think, from its name and its business description, that The Devilhouse should look like a dark and glowering Gothic castle, someplace with nine levels of torment and subjugation, maybe with sunshades blocking out the sun and forcing a perpetual gloom so that bats flew twenty-four hours a day.
Instead, fluted Doric columns ringed the porch of the huge plantation-style house. Sunlight glared off the fresh white paint, nearly blinding anyone who came here during the day. At night, spotlights glowed on the pristine exterior and clean windows.
After all, a business devoted to satisfying more extreme appetites, especially sexual appetites, had to look respectable in all other appearances. She had heard that they paid their taxes early and in full.
Georgie had worked there for a few years and had eight regular clients. With paperwork and promo, she worked usually fifteen hours a week and had been making more than enough money for room, board, and tuition, plus socking fat stacks away for law school expenses, plus beginning to make restitution.
Her duties ranged from drinking games while watching baseball to high tea to cuddling during horror movies, with very little, occasionally, more. Her clients were all so grateful, so sweet, and so fragile.
The man who owned The Devilhouse, known only as The Dom, was none of these, and that was whom Rae was vacationing in Paris with. Georgie and The Dom respected each other’s emotional reserve, and to some extent, Georgie was more comfortable around him than around a lot of people because she knew that he wouldn’t ask prying questions that left her only the options of snapping back a sarcastic answer or lying, and he relaxed around her for the same reason.
[Billionaires in Disguise 01.0] Every Breath You Take Page 4
