“No,” he said, smiling, “but she would sell it to me for five grand.”
Regan laughed, shook her head. “I’m going to fire that girl. She swore to me—”
“Everyone has a price, yes?”
She sighed.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t want me to find you,” he said. “You put the name ‘M. Regan Le Fay’ on your mailbox downstairs.”
“You caught that joke, did you?” Morgan Le Fay was King Arthur’s half-sister, his enemy and his lover.
“I’m the smart one in the family, remember?” He grinned and her blood temperature shot up to a steady boil. She’d been happy here in Montmartre, painting, living alone, being herself. Happy and lonely, which she never knew could go so well together until she’d started using her loneliness in her art.
“I’m a Godwick, too,” she said. “You’re not the smart one in the family anymore.”
“May I come in?” He was standing right on the threshold. She’d kept the door cracked for better ventilation. He hadn’t broken in, not really. He probably would have if it had come to that, she thought.
“Yes, you may come in.”
The urge to run into his arms and kiss him was nearly overwhelming but she held back. She’d left to heal, to escape the prison she’d made for herself. She’d also left to break whatever spell she’d cast over Arthur, so that he’d see they shouldn’t be together for more reasons than she could count. Six months had passed. That should have done it. He should have been long over her by now.
Well, she should have been over him, too, and yet here she was, heart stampeding through her chest like a horse that had escapes its pasture.
He came to her and stood before her.
“You cut your hair,” he said.
“Like it?”
“Love it. It’s you.”
“You cut your hair, too.”
“Had to. Like it?”
“Hmm…not bad. I liked it better longer.”
He laughed. “It’ll grow back when I get out.”
“So…are you in Paris for your leave? Taking a holiday?”
“Honeymoon.”
“Brat.” It wasn’t easy to sound annoyed while one’s heart was dancing, but she managed to do it. “Did I or did I not order you to never ask me to marry you?”
“You did say I couldn’t ask you to marry me. I’m not asking, though. I’m telling you—we’re getting married. Never give a Godwick a loophole.”
“Or any other hole, so I hear,” she said.
Ignoring her, he said, “I’ve made Charlie my heir. I’ve already told him. It’s as official as these things can be.”
She stared at him. He meant it. She could tell he meant it. His voice was serious, his eyes earnest.
“You did?” Her voice came out strangely hoarse. She cleared her throat. “That’s not…you can’t offer that to someone, then take it back.”
“I won’t take it back. Best thing I’ve ever done. It’s changed his life,” Arthur said. “You were right about him feeling worthless since he was the ‘spare.’ Soon as I made him my heir, it was like he grew up almost overnight. He’s started at the London School of Economics for Lent Term. He’s already planning changes to make the Godwick trust an ‘international philanthropic arts foundation.’ Whatever that is.”
“I’m happy for him,” she said. “He’s not a bad kid. Just…lost. Very glad he found himself.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me berating you.”
“I needed it,” he said. “And I even liked it. But you liked it, too.”
She shook her head. She had to put a stop to this. “Arthur, you know we can’t get married. You’re being ridiculous.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “That…” he said, pointing at her easel, “is going to look perfect hanging in our home—right over the fireplace. And eventually in the morning room at Wingthorn.”
Regan was too shy with her art to employ a model, so she’d done what artists had been doing since the mirror was invented and had painted a self-portrait. A simple portrait of a woman painting herself, but if anyone looked closely, they’d see it was full of symbols. On the side table in her painting lay a strand of pearls, a wristwatch, her plait, all discarded. She called it A Portrait of an Artist.
“‘I paint flowers,’” she said, “‘so they will not die.’” She smiled at him. “Frida Kahlo said that.”
“You’re not going to die. I won’t let you. Eventually, yes—when you’re a hundred and seventy-three. Not a day before.”
“You are living in a dream world,” she said.
“Yes, and you’re going to live in it with me. Ready?”
“You want children, don’t you?”
“No,” he said, “I want you.”
“Don’t you want someone you can grow old with?”
“You’re wasting time. I’m in the army. I could get my head blown off tomorrow, you know.”
“I’ll make a terrible wife for you. Look at me. I’m covered in paint, look a mess, never want to wear high heels again…”
He reached past her and picked up the bowl of blueberries she’d been snacking on that morning and put it into her hands. Then he dropped to his knees and looked up at her, waiting.
She felt like Eve in the Garden, about to feed the forbidden fruit to Adam and about to make the whole world fall.
Ah, who was she kidding? She wasn’t Eve and he wasn’t Adam. She wasn’t Morgan Le Fay and he wasn’t King Arthur. But she was Regan Ferry and he was the man she loved.
She popped a blueberry into his mouth.
He swallowed it and smiled. The next thing she knew she was on her back with her pants round her ankles and his cock was out and pressing hard against her stomach. She reached down and grasped the thick shaft, stroked it and held it firmly.
“You belong to me,” she said into his ear.
“Only you.”
She wanted him beyond words. Her blood rushed through her veins, and her cunt throbbed in anticipation of being entered. He pushed up her shirt, yanked down the cups of her bra to bare her breasts. He sucked them until they were hard and tender. She moaned as he lifted her and thrust into her, impaling her. Regan gave a cry, shameless, for all the world to hear. His cock split her and filled her. She’d never been so wet, so slick and open so that it felt like he pounded right into the deepest core of her. Her moans were loud and anguished. He grunted in her ear with his rough thrusts, an animal sound. He held her hard against his chest and the fabric of his shirt abraded her nipples. Regan wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him. And when her climax came and shattered her, she was too broken to stop herself from crying out his name, from crying out that she loved him.
He gasped at her words and came inside her with thrust after thrust until he was empty, until she was full again.
After that final, savage orgasm, they stayed bound together, her legs around his hips, his arms around her back.
“I always wanted to make love in Paris,” she said.
He lifted his head and looked down at her. “You love me?”
“Of course I do, Brat,” she said as if it were as obvious as two plus two. She left the tangle of his arms reluctantly, stood up and pulled herself together. “Why do you think I left you? I wanted you to be happy more than I wanted me to be happy.”
“Guess what? There’s a way we can both be happy…”
Before she knew it, he was standing on his feet, and she was thrown over his shoulder.
“Would you rather get married in Cyprus or Gibraltar?” he asked. “Both are good for eloping.”
“Put me down, Brat.”
“Is this painting acrylic?”
“What?” She glanced at her painting—it even looked good upside-down. “Yes. Why?”
“Just making sure it’s dry. We’re taking it.”
She was laughing so hard it hurt, which made it very difficult to properly yell at him as he plucked the painting o
ff the easel and carried it and her to the door.
“Cyprus or Gibraltar?” he said. “I’m leaning toward Gibraltar, but Lia’s in Cyprus right now. Want to meet my sister?”
Regan was going to throttle the man blue when he finally put her down. She tried punching him on the back, but it was like throwing cotton balls against a brick wall. While attempting to make a dent in him, she glimpsed the tattoo on her wrist, no longer covered by her watch because she no longer wore a watch.
He was going to regret this. Maybe. Or not. What did she know? What was it that Evelyn de Morgan’s daughter was famous for saying about her parents? All artists are fools? Maybe she was right.
“Gibraltar,” Regan said, catching her breath.
“Brilliant. We can spend a few days in Spain, too, if you like. You can meet Lia at Christmas.”
At that he put her on her feet and kissed her. But it wasn’t a long kiss. That would come later.
First she had to pack a bag, find her passport, change her clothes. She did it all in record time, and soon they were in a taxi on their way to Charles de Gaulle Airport. She did convince him to leave the painting behind to dry thoroughly, but only after promising she would ship it to Wingthorn after their honeymoon. Her last wedding had taken months to plan and this one was rushed, hurried—mad, mad, mad, but that was as it should be.
Art might be eternal, but life was short.
They didn’t have a moment to lose.
16
The Pearl
There was no art in Hell.
That’s why it was Hell.
Hell is a place of destruction while art is the act of creation. Destruction and creation repel each other and so when Malcolm knew he could bear Hell no longer, he did the only thing he could do to free himself.
He created an artist.
For decades he’d kept an eye on his “children.” When he’d discovered his illegitimate great-granddaughter had taken a wrong path and gotten married instead of pursuing her art career, well, he realized he could kill a whole brace of birds with one stone. All he had to do was set her on the right course again, turn her back into the artist she was meant to be. The moment Regan signed her name to the first canvas she’d finished painting in ten years, Malcolm had been spat out of Hell like Jonah from the belly of the whale.
He’d found a perfect match for Arthur, got Charlie back into the family’s good graces, and reunited the two halves of the Godwick family, divided just long enough that there would be no negative consequences to bringing them back together again. As for their future together…Malcolm had reason for hope.
Hell was, quite frankly, hellish. The devil’s favorite torment was showing the damned all the agony their loved ones are and would suffer in the future, including their deaths, if they were early or painful. That’s how he knew Regan would make it, because although Old Scratch had shown Malcolm visions of an arduous cancer battle—Arthur at her side the entire time—Satan had not shown him a vision of her tragic too-soon death. That meant she’d recover. She’d live and love and make art for a very long time.
So. Praise the Lord and pass the pretty girls, Malcolm Godwick was a free man again. Well, a free man with some stipulations. He wasn’t whisked away into Heaven. No, he’d been sent back to Earth, given a second chance. He was even allowed to choose where he could start his second life.
Really, he thought as he glanced around The Pearl’s smoking lounge, it didn’t look much different from his day—a hundred years ago. Same dark paneling. Same old chairs and sofa. Same musty, dusty leather-bound books on the shelves no one could be sodded to read. A new painting was hanging in the lounge, however. Must have been a purchase by Regan, the future Countess of Godwick. The painter was the magnificent Lilla Cabot Perry, and the painting was of an elegant young woman in fine dress, holding a single pearl between her finger and thumb. Appropriately, it was called The Pearl.
Malcolm sat down with The Times and a cigar. Nice to see that politicians were still as daft and corrupt as they’d ever been, that the papers still printed the same rot and gossip they always had. The women, however, were even more beautiful now than they’d been in his day. The vote had been very good for them. Wonder if he could convince a young lady today to give him her vote of confidence. Now, in fact, would be a good time.
He closed his paper and tossed it aside. Snuffed out his cigar and left the smoking lounge.
Immediately, he saw a girl walking toward the lifts, blonde with big blue eyes. Her red coat suited her nicely, but would suit his bedroom floor even more nicely.
At the lifts, he caught up with her. “Pardon me, miss,” he said, “but do you work here?”
“I work for the boss, Lady Ferry,” she said.
“Oh, but you don’t…” he lowered his voice, “work here.”
She looked him up and down. Ah, he adored these modern girls who weren’t afraid to treat a man like a piece of meat.
“Dunno,” she said. “Maybe I do work here. Do you have the cock of a horse and the body of a soldier?”
Liberated women. Legal prostitution. Reliable contraception. Lord Malcolm Godwick was going to love the twenty-first century.
“Yes,” he said.
“Eat cunt on command?”
“No, but I will if you ask nicely. Twice if you beg.”
“You like spanking?”
“That would be the understatement of the century, my dear.”
That comment arched one lovely blond eyebrow. He always did enjoy a bit of rough before lunch.
“All right, so I suppose I do work here then.”
“I’m called Malcolm. And you are?”
“Zoot,” she said. “Well, that’s just a nickname. It’s really Greta.”
“Ah, you do belong here then. Did you know the name Greta means ‘pearl’?”
“Does it? Never knew that.” She smiled broadly. “Not a pearl of great price, promise you that. I’m very reasonable.”
“I like you more and more every second,” he said.
“You want to see my room? I have a pet raven.”
“I’d rather see your clitoris.”
She blinked, then grinned. “You can see that, too.”
They stepped into the lift. The doors closed slowly and for a brief moment they surrounded Lord Malcolm Godwick so that he appeared to be standing inside a gilt portrait frame, a wicked smile on his wicked face, with lovely Greta, a pearl of not-so-great price at his side.
The whole world was his oyster.
The End.
Acknowledgments
It may take only one madly determined and stir-crazy author to write a book, but it takes a village to edit one. Thank you from the bottom of my heart (and the heart of my bottom) to Jenn LeBlanc, Bethany Hensel, and Kira Gold for their eagle eyes and brilliant brains. The Pearl is a much better book thanks to them. Thank you to my handsome genius of a husband, Andrew Shaffer, for the beautiful cover and all the many hours of work he puts into every 8th Circle Press title. Thank you to my readers for embracing the Godwicks series. They do so love to be embraced, those naughty Godwicks. Among other things.
About the Author
Tiffany Reisz is the USA Today bestselling author of the Romance Writers of America RITA®-winning Original Sinners series from Harlequin’s Mira Books.
Her erotic fantasy The Red—the first entry in the Godwicks series, self-published under the banner 8th Circle Press—was named an NPR Best Book of the Year and a Goodreads Best Romance of the Month.
Tiffany lives in Kentucky with her husband, author Andrew Shaffer, and two cats. The cats are not writers.
Subscribe to the Tiffany Reisz email newsletter and receive a free copy of Something Nice, a standalone ebook novella set in Reisz’s Original Sinners universe:
www.tiffanyreisz.com/mailing-list
More Books by Tiffany Reisz
The Godwicks—Standalones
THE RED
THE ROSE
Gothic Romances—Standalone
s
THE BOURBON THIEF
THE HEADMASTER
THE LUCKY ONES
THE NIGHT MARK
The Original Sinners—Series
THE SIREN (Book #1)
THE ANGEL (Book #2)
THE PRINCE (Book #3)
THE MISTRESS (Book #4)
THE SAINT (Book #5)
THE KING (Book #6)
THE VIRGIN (Book #7)
THE QUEEN (Book #8)
THE PRIEST (Book #9)
The Original Sinners—Standalones
THE AUCTION (previously published as DANIEL PART TWO)
THE CHATEAU
THE GIFT (previously published as SEVEN DAY LOAN)
THE LAST GOOD KNIGHT
LITTLE RED RIDING CROP
A MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM
MISCHIEF
THE MISTRESS FILES
PICTURE PERFECT COWBOY
THE RETURN (THE CHATEAU sequel)
SOMETHING NICE
A WINTER SYMPHONY
The Original Sinners—Collections
ABSOLUTION (Australia exclusive; out of print)
THE CONFESSIONS
MICHAEL’S WINGS
SUBMIT TO DESIRE/IMMERSED IN PLEASURE (duology)
WINTER TALES
Men At Work—Standalones
HER HALLOWEEN TREAT
HER NAUGHTY HOLIDAY
IAN’S FORBIDDEN DREAM GIRL (ONE HOT DECEMBER prequel)
ONE HOT DECEMBER
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads—Standalones
MISBEHAVING
SEIZE THE NIGHT (out of print)
Malcolm Godwick Haunts ‘The Red’
Mona Lisa St. James made a deathbed promise that she would do anything to save her mother’s art gallery. Just as she realizes she has no choice but to sell it, a mysterious man offers to save The Red…but only if she agrees to submit to him for the period of one year.
The Pearl Page 22
