[Beneath 01.0] Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  Her frown didn’t detract from her traffic-stopping beauty, but it made me want to…comfort her. What the hell? I didn’t have time to question my weird ass reaction when Vanessa started wringing her oven mitt-less hands.

  “I just want you to know that regardless of whether you decide to donate the property or not, I’m going to do whatever I can to help fund more programs to feed these kids. I mean, we already do a lot, but clearly we’re not making a big enough impact. And that’s not right. The foundation can do more. Change more. No kid should be going to bed hungry in this city. We have the resources, we just need to deploy them better.” She looked up at me for a split second, before spinning around toward the fridge. And in that tiny glimpse I got of her face, I could swear her eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

  “Then join us for supper. Meet some of the kids you want to help change things for. They’ll be on…better…behavior.”

  She froze, half-in and half-out of the fridge.

  Her voice was small when she said, “I can’t.”

  After her impassioned speech, it wasn’t the answer I expected.

  “Busy?”

  “Ummm…I just…well…” She took a breath and looked at me straight on. “I just can’t.”

  My hands clenched into fists. “You want to help feed these kids, but you’re too good to sit down and actually eat with them?”

  “No! That’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I just can’t. Okay?” She turned. “I should go.”

  I wasn’t satisfied. For a split second, I’d seen a glimpse of a different woman beneath the layers of polish and ice—one who had a heart that might rival the size of her bank account. She was the woman I wanted sitting down at a table with these boys and me. But apparently what I’d seen was a figment of my imagination—and that pissed me off.

  “You ain’t got a hot date with your boy toy, Simon Duchesne. Because I heard that’s over. And that it never really was what it seemed.” I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since Duchesne had spilled the beans to my receptionist, Charlie, that his relationship with Vanessa had been a cover. Because, according to Duchesne, she might be digging someone her dad didn’t find acceptable. That mystery was one that had kept me up more nights than I’d admit.

  Her look of surprise was priceless. That sinful mouth dropped open just far enough to give a guy ideas. I wondered if I pushed hard enough, would she spill who this unsuitable mystery guy was? You want it to be you, my subconscious taunted. I flipped it the mental bird. There was no way in hell it was me.

  When she stayed silent, I continued, “You think I don’t have my ear to the ground when it comes to you, Vanessa? I know all about your thing with Duchesne. Using him to keep your daddy off your back while you sample men with less-than-perfect pedigrees. So who was it? Some blue-collar guy you’re sneaking around with so your old man doesn’t find out?”

  Her features hardened into the same expression she’d worn as she walked out of my bedroom.

  “You don’t know anything about me, so don’t pretend you do. Except you’re right—I’m not seeing Simon. I think that’s pretty common knowledge. So if you were going for shock value to get a reaction out of me, you missed.”

  Frustration mounted. She was like one of the puzzle boxes I’d gotten from Joy for my sixteenth birthday. I knew there was something cool as hell waiting inside, but I’d never figured out how to solve it. In the end, I’d found a hammer and smashed it—and almost destroyed the St. Christopher medal waiting inside. “Then why? Why won’t you sit down and share a simple goddamn meal with me and some kids?”

  She inhaled sharply and looked away. “I just…I just can’t, Con.”

  My expression hardened into a mask to rival hers as my temper slipped its chain. “You’re not too good to make them dinner—because that’s your daily act of fucking charity—but you’re too good to actually sit down and eat it with them.”

  Her spine stiffened visibly. “If that’s what you think of me, then I’m sure you were never going to donate the property anyway.”

  “Yeah, because let’s not lose sight for a second why you’re actually here: you need something from me.”

  “Why else would I be here?” she asked quietly.

  I just shook my head. “I think it’s time for you to go. Probably just in time, too, because for a second I thought you might actually be more than a stuck-up bitch.”

  She snatched her purse off the counter. “Then I’ll just get out of your way.”

  “You’re kissing that property goodbye.”

  “Like I said, we both know you were never going to give it to me anyway.”

  Her skirt flared as she turned on her flip-flops and headed for the door. It was an exit to rival the last notable one she’d made out of my life.

  And just like the chump I’d been then, I once again followed at a discreet distance behind her and made sure she got home all right.

  Preview of Ruthless King

  Book One of the Mount Trilogy

  Get ready for the darker and dirtier side of New Orleans with a brand new alpha romance trilogy from USA Today bestselling author Meghan March.

  New Orleans belongs to me.

  You don’t know my name, but I control everything you see—and all the things you don’t.

  My reach knows no bounds, and my demands are always met.

  I didn’t need to loan money to a failing family distillery, but it amuses me to have them in my debt.

  To have her in my debt.

  She doesn’t know she caught my attention.

  She should’ve been more careful.

  I’m going to own her. Consume her. Maybe even keep her.

  It’s time to collect what I’m owed.

  Keira Kilgore, you’re now the property of Lachlan Mount.

  ONE

  Keira

  Are those footsteps?

  I freeze outside the door to my locked office and stare at the handle like it’s tainted with anthrax.

  My younger sisters wouldn’t dare. They know my office is off limits. My parents are 700 miles away in Florida living it up as retirees on the monthly payments I make from the dismal profits of the distillery. It’s barely hanging on, even after four generations of clinging to life making Irish whiskey in New Orleans.

  This basement isn’t haunted. This basement isn’t haunted.

  I repeat that truth like a chant until my heart slows to a semi-normal pace. My dead husband’s ghost better not be inside, or heaven help me, I’ll kill Brett again myself.

  Summoning the same iron will it has taken to dig this company out of the trenches, I grasp the handle, yank it open, and fling myself inside, attempting the element of surprise. Or false courage. Or… something.

  “Trying to make an entrance?” The deep voice that comes out of the dark chills me to the very marrow of my bones.

  I’ve only heard it once before, through the battered wood of the same locked door I just barged past, but it had been delivering threats I didn’t understand, not asking a question in that cool, controlled manner.

  There’s no way I want to be in the dark with this voice.

  He’s not a ghost. He’s worse.

  He’s the friggin’ boogeyman.

  Whispered about in the shadows, but never mentioned in polite company, almost as if saying his name will make him appear—and no one wants that.

  I’ve never said it.

  I don’t even want to think it now, but my brain conjures it anyway.

  Lachlan Mount.

  I fumble around, slapping the concrete wall to find the switch, but when I flip it, nothing happens.

  Oh Sweet Jesus, I’m going to die and I won’t even see it coming.

  My antique desk chair creaks just before the dim glow of my lamp clicks on.

  I see his massive hands first, then darkly tanned forearms with white cuffs rolled up. The light doesn’t reach his face.

&nb
sp; “Shut the door, Ms. Kilgore.”

  Swallowing back the saliva pooling in my mouth at the fact that he knows my name, my hand moves as though directly responding to his command. I grope for the handle behind me, when all I really want to do is turn around and run.

  To the police.

  Maybe they could… I don’t know. Save me?

  I glance over my shoulder, clutching the knob as the door creaks shut, the urge to flee growing as the dim light of the hallway disappears from sight.

  “Take a step in that direction, and you’ll lose everything.”

  My feet freeze to the cracked cement floor as a bead of sweat rolls down my chest. Normally I would attribute it to the sauna-like conditions produced by the stills, but not tonight.

  “What do you want?” I whisper. “Why are you here?”

  The chair groans as he rises to his feet, those wide fingers refastening the button on his suit, but his face never coming in to the light.

  “You owe me a debt, Ms. Kilgore, and I’m here to collect.”

  A debt? My mind scrambles to think of how in the hell I could owe him money. I’ve never met him before. Hell, I’ve never seen him before, only heard his voice while I eavesdropped. My kind doesn’t mingle with his kind, well, at least most of my kind. A few rumors have circled that he kept Richelle LaFleur, a girl from our church, as a mistress until she went missing a year ago. I shut that path of thinking down completely.

  “What are you talking about?” Somehow I manage to form the question.

  Two fingers push a document titled Promissory Note across the scarred wood of my desk into the watery pool of light. My eyes rivet on the papers, but I’m too terrified to step any closer.

  Oh sweet Jesus, Brett. What did you do? My heart slams against my ribs.

  “Don’t you want to know how much your husband was willing to risk to save this place?”

  “How much?” I ask, inching his way against my will.

  “A half million dollars.”

  I suck in a shocked breath. “You’re lying.”

  With both hands on the table, he leans down, exposing his face in the dim light. Hard features carved from granite, piercing eyes, and an unrelenting stare contrast with the relative civility of the suit that fits him to perfection.

  “I never lie.”

  A half million dollars? No way. “I would’ve known if Brett had sunk five hundred thousand into the distillery, and let me tell you—he didn’t.”

  He shrugs as if the information means nothing to him. And maybe it doesn’t.

  “His signature says that he did, and this debt is overdue.”

  My eyes zero in on the papers on the desk. If he really did this… The effects would be catastrophic.

  Four generations of Kilgores had dedicated their hopes, dreams, and fortunes to keeping this legacy alive. It couldn’t end with me.

  “I don’t have the money.”

  “I know.”

  His response throws me back on my heels. “Then why—”

  He moves out of the light and comes toward me. I shrink back against the wall as he advances.

  “Because there’s something I might be willing to take on trade.”

  It takes everything I have to keep my voice steady. “What?”

  He stops a foot from me, and his full lips form a single word.

  “You.”

  Welcome to the darker and dirtier side of New Orleans. Mount is coming October 17, 2017 to claim what he’s owed. Now available for preorder by tapping here.

  Acknowledgments

  I owe thanks to so many people who helped bring Beneath This Mask to life. To my family, for your unending support and patience. To my beta readers—Angela Smith, Serena Knautz, and Megan Simpson—thank you for your time, your thoughts, your friendship, and for loving Charlie and Simon as hard as I do. You ladies are amazing. This book wouldn’t be what it is without your input. To MCL, for helping with the technical twists. Any errors that remain are my own. To my editor, Madison Seidler—you answer my zillion questions and provide invaluable, no bullshit feedback. I’m so glad I found you! To Katie Spillner-Goodale for polishing it until it shone. To Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations for creating the gorgeous cover. To Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing for the beautiful formatting. To Christine Estevez of Shh Moms Reading for arranging the promo, and all of the book bloggers who took a chance and gave it a read. And finally, my biggest thanks goes out to all of the readers who plunked down their hard-earned money to buy a story that grew out of a fleeting thought at 30,000 feet on a flight to New Orleans. I hope you enjoyed the ride, and I can’t thank you enough for joining me on it. Con’s story is next! Stay tuned for Beneath This Ink!

  Connect with Meghan March

  Connect with Meghan

  Website: www.meghanmarch.com

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  Also by Meghan March

  Standalone

  Take Me Back

  Bad Judgment

  Beneath Series:

  Beneath This Ink

  Beneath These Chains

  Beneath These Scars

  Beneath These Lies

  Beneath These Shadows

  Beneath The Truth

  Flash Bang Series:

  Flash Bang

  Hard Charger

  Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:

  Dirty Billionaire

  Dirty Pleasures

  Dirty Together

  Dirty Girl Duet:

  Dirty Girl

  Dirty Love

  Real Duet:

  Real Good Man

  Real Good Love

  Real Dirty Duet:

  Real Dirty

  Real Sexy

  Mount trilogy

  Ruthless King

  Defiant Queen

  Sinful Empire