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SOPHIE STOOD IN the south faced library that looked out onto the lawns, the Willow-Blossom tree, and Morgan patrolling. The early morning sun bathed Morgan’s peaceful face as she tilted it up to the sunlight, eyes closed.
Yes, it had been a surprise how receptive Morgan was. It had been a few days since she’d caught Morgan beneath the Willow-Blossom and her mind constantly replayed how Morgan had parted her lips and her eyes had deepened. Such sweet supple skin. Such juicy lips. She would be so much fun to play with.
Too much fun.
Sophie scowled to herself. She’d changed. She’d left that behind her. She needed to shut it out; ignore the urge, the hunger, the tantalizing lips parted as if waiting for her.
“Sophie,” Edwina muttered from the doorway. “Detective Inspector Wood called and would like you to return it this time.”
Which she wouldn’t. The woman called more than a lover, and she was in no mood to be more acquainted.
“You are unsuitably outspoken these days.” She trailed her gaze over Morgan’s hand as it slid through her silky blonde hair. She hadn’t tied it back today. “Need I remind you that you are the servant?”
Edwina sighed. “No, ma’am.” She thunked something onto a table nearby. “The mail needs attention.”
Sophie raised her eyebrow. Morgan glanced around as if she could feel someone watching.
“Your full attention,” Edwina snapped.
Sophie fixed her with a glare. “My patience wears thin.”
Her growl echoed through the room and Edwina cowered.
“Morgan has shown that she’s loyal to you. She didn’t run when you terrified her.” Edwina furrowed her brow. “And yet . . .” She waved at the window. “And yet you still eye her like she is meat.”
“Perhaps she is.” Wasn’t that what her family did? Wasn’t that what the De Breton and Haye dynasty thrived on? Wasn’t she supposed to be as cold?
“Morgan deserves more.” Edwina dropped her gaze to the mail. “She deserves the chance to turn her life around. You know as well as I that if she has to leave, it will crush her morale.” She stuck out her chin. “She pines for someone who clearly is blind to the fact she is grieving for her body.” She met Sophie’s eyes, resolute. “I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”
Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Maybe I don’t see weakness or disability but strength.” And her tone was far softer than she’d meant.
“It would be a relief to know you see her as a fellow human being who is trying desperately to put her life back together.” Edwina stepped back, turned to the door, then stopped. “It would be nice to see a softer side to you . . . if it exists.”
Sophie laughed: hollow, angry. “I am a Haye. Such places do not exist.”
“Your father had a soft side.” She glanced away. “Henry did.”
Sophie darted forward, flipped the mail onto the floor with a snarl, and Edwina scurried out.
Who was Edwina to lecture her? She turned back to Morgan now chatting with one of the guards. He seemed delighted to listen to her. He didn’t notice the metal hand either or he made a point of ignoring it. Not one of the staff, even the children, had cast more than a fleeting glance at the prosthesis.
Outside the walls, perhaps people were different; Inside the grounds, the staff stuck together. At least something useful came of their dislike of Sophie.
And her, she was drawn to the hand. The way it moved at will and was fused into Morgan’s arm. Its wires threaded through Morgan’s elbow, metal rungs framing their connection. It had a skin coloured cover that matched her golden glow to perfection but Morgan wore it rarely . . . and, Sophie preferred the feel of the cool, hard metal on her shoulder as Morgan held on, or on her waist, or holding onto her hand. Yes, the cold of the smooth metal stirred something too deep to describe.
Morgan glanced her way and their eyes met through the glass. A look of fear, wonder, attraction, arousal poured through the pale green irises. How could anyone ever think Morgan was less than stunning?
She turned away, ignoring the urge to tease Morgan. Instead, she scooped up the bills from the floor, stalked into her office, and took a seat at her desk. She picked up the letter opener and tapped the sharp blade to her chin.
Focus.
She pulled open the drawer to her desk—her grandfather’s pistol was in place once more as was a new pay-as-you-go phone—or a burner cell as The Recluse had liked to call them. Easier to hide from the police.
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“Sophie, we should really be getting back,” Eugenie whispered, her voice soft, so soft, the rustle of the trees around them almost drowned her out. “Henry will wonder where I am.”
“He’s busy drinking. He won’t miss us.” She smiled and took Eugenie’s hand, leading her off the pathway.
Eugenie slowed and glanced over her shoulder. “I . . . Sophie . . . we shouldn’t.”
Sophie pulled her close. Eugenie could protest all she liked, the desire echoed in her eyes. “No . . . but that’ll make it so much sweeter.”
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Sophie closed the drawer. She had been trouble and Eugenie had adored her for it; loved the risk and the thrill. Eugenie always said that “playing with fire” didn’t really summarize how it felt with her. She’d said that fire only burned, Sophie did far worse.
She sighed and dialled a number from memory. She hadn’t dared to call it in years.
“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” The soft Australian burr was filled with that teasing. Yes, she could almost taste The Recluse’s glossy lips.
“I’m enquiring as to whether you’ve been caught yet.” And now she had the excuse to call. Had she really needed one before?
“Close enough to pick up a few beauties.” Scars, of course. “Wouldn’t be much of a thrill otherwise, would it?” And there was that arrogant laughter. “You heading my way for company or do you need me to come and remind you why you love a little bit of trouble?”
If only she could head back to The Recluse. Not for love, she wasn’t foolish enough to know they were capable of such things but it had been close to it. As close as she’d ever tread anyway. “My back feels exposed.”
“Not from this direction, darl.” That soft laughter came again. “I’ve got you covered even when you’re being boring.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.” Tiresome was a better word.
“If you need me to sweep in, you just call. You know where to find me.” And it would come with that sheer thrill, that risk . . . too much risk with an estate on her shoulders.
“Same here.” Although more true in spirit. How could she sweep anywhere?
The laugh sounded once more and the line cut.
She pocketed her phone and pulled a letter off the top of the pile. Richard Bright was writing to her to offer money for her lawn. She shredded the letter with the opener then stabbed the pile for good measure. No, there was no thrill, no risk allowed now. She had overgrown builders, heckling staff, bills, and police to deal with.
Tiresome. Yes. It was.
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THE SECURITY GUARD chatted away to me but I was too busy staring at the window. You ever get the feeling you’re being played with?
Sophie had been watching me. I’d felt her watching me and I’d tried to ignore it. I’d been successful for days at avoiding her and I had a handle on it . . . or I thought I had until I met her eyes: hungry, intense . . . then lonely . . . so lonely and pained that I had the overwhelming urge to run to her and let her do whatever she needed to make herself feel better.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: I was a complete idiot. And, yes, I’d read the book on her; and before you start, I know the way she was toying with me, seemed very familiar, but was it an M.O. for murder though? Hmm?
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Eugenie was the kind of beautiful woman all men loved. It took one meeting between the young Henry and Eugenie for him to fall desperately in love at a gathering of the highest social standing. Eugenie, with her long brown hair and voluptuous form, found the young Henry charming and agreed to date him.
Eugenie travelled several thousand miles to stay at Hayefield and felt pity for the introverted Sophie, deciding that she would help bring her out of her shell and help her to find a handsome bachelor of her own.
However, staff became concerned as Eugenie’s effort to help Sophie grew more intense and Sophie was noted as showing the same cruel mindset of her ancestors.
“You could see it happening,” one former staff member said. “Bit by bit, Eugenie went from completely smitten with Henry to following Sophie around. Little glances when they thought no one was watching, that kind of thing. Henry didn’t have a clue.”
This continued for some time, even after Henry proposed to this wonderful woman he’d fallen for. Until Sophie had the opportunity to strike.
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Cutting away the journalistic melodramatics, Sophie and Eugenie had an affair before they disappeared and I agree, it was hearsay, but the little voice at the back of my brain said there was a pattern. On the surveillance footage, Salisbury had gazed up at Sophie with awe, it sounded like Eugenie had, and I wasn’t exactly immune to her when she locked me in place with her intense gaze.
But seducing women was one thing and probably not the most moral way to earn peoples’ trust but it didn’t make her a killer, did it? Neither did being ethereal or was I just discounting it because she’d gotten to me? So, was I an idiot, like you were thinking, or was I a complete idiot who fancied a suspect?
“ . . . you’ll really love it. It’s team building,” the security guard said like we’d been having a conversation.
Team building? “Er . . . yeah, right.” I flicked my gaze back to him. “Let me have a think about it.”
He puffed out his pigeon chest. “Yeah? My mum will love that. Let me know and I’ll swing by and pick you up.” He grinned enough that his biker moustache twitched. “I can show you around before.”
Ever get the feeling that you just agreed to something you shouldn’t have?
“Ma’am,” Jimmy called from the driveway. “Ma’am, you can’t just—”
Yelp.
Raquel strode on with a twinkle in her eye as Jimmy hopped about rubbing his shin.
Saved by the cantankerous one. I hurried over to her and dodged the stick attack. “You’re fencing my staff again, I see, ma’am.”
“You look far too pleased to see me.” Raquel looked me up and down, then flicked out her stick and caught Biker Moustache on the knee.
“I’m always eager to test my shin pads, ma’am.” I fell into step with her, enjoying the feeling of stretching my legs out.
“Good. I want an escort to that awful niece of mine.” She winked at me and strode closer.
I eyed the stick and hoped it covered me tensing.
Raquel slowed, scouring over me. “You hesitate?” She charged into the service entrance and stopped next to a black suit of armour with the De Breton crest on it. “You haven’t done that before.”
I forced a smile. “I . . .”
“She bedded you yet?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
I stared at her. Sex was not a topic of conversation in polite society, was it?
“I’m on duty, ma’am,” was all I could manage.
“What does that have to do with it?” Raquel had a rakish grin on her face. “Has she?”
“No, ma’am.” The blush prickled through to my ears.
“Yet.” Raquel strode down the wood-panelled corridor with brass and bronze busts and statues in white stone. “Why are you hesitating then?”
“I . . .” How did I explain without my cover crumbling like my resolve? “She scared me.”
“Hmmm . . . sounds like gossips have bent your ear.” Raquel flicked her stick out again.
I dodged it.
Maybe Raquel would open up. I’d built a rapport with her. Maybe she could give me some inclination of whether I was being swayed by a killer or that I needed to stop reading.
“She really scares me a lot.” I shrugged and flexed my hand. Interviewing techniques all quoted how offering small information should technically persuade Raquel to offer something in return. Didn’t always work in practice. “She looks . . . when she’s angry . . . she looked . . . inhuman.”
Raquel nodded. “Of course she did, she’s a Haye.” She pursed her lips. “You scared of a dressing down?”
We reached Frank’s empty desk and I sighed. Be honest. “It’s just that . . . she really didn’t look human at all . . . she looks ethereal most of the time but . . .” I sighed again. “I know it’s stupid but she looked so predatory that I swear she could have had fangs . . . or was a spook.” Or a psychopath in full swing but if I kept it to something more abstract, Raquel might miss that I was asking if Sophie was a killer.
“She is far more dangerous than that.” Raquel held my gaze and rapped on the door of Sophie’s office with the handle of her walking stick.
“She is?”
“Oh yes,” Raquel whispered, eyes serious as she leaned closer. “The most dangerous, mysterious, captivating, and deadly creature of all . . .”
Her gaze intensified.
I leaned closer. “And that is?”
Thwack.
Pain shot through my left shin and I yelped.
Raquel bellowed out a triumphant laugh and winked at me. “A woman, dear girl.” She howled louder as I shoved open the door to Sophie’s office, my poor shin throbbing. “A woman.”