скачать книгу бесплатно
“I know she’s been taken. I know who has her. Where she’s been taken, I do not know that.”
“Does Søren know anything?”
“Søren knows more than you and I combined. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know where she is, either.”
“But you know who has her?”
“Oui.”
Kingsley turned around and started to leave the room. Wesley raced after him and grabbed the back of his long coat. Before he knew what had happened, Wesley found himself with his back planted hard into the wall and Kingsley’s face inches from his own.
“Young man, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Kingsley held Wesley immobile. “I used to kill people for a living. I never officially retired.”
“You don’t scare me.” Wesley hoped the pounding of his heart against his rib cage didn’t betray him. Kingsley dressed like someone off a romance novel cover but Wesley discerned genuine danger in the Frenchman’s eyes. Nora worked for this man? Called him the Frog to his face? She was braver than Wesley had ever given her credit for.
“You’re more attractive in person than you are in your photographs,” Kingsley said, giving Wesley’s face a close inspection. “I’m still not quite sure what she sees in you, however. Unless she lied to me about wanting a child of her own.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Not quite a man yet, either. Don’t worry. You will grow up quickly in this house. Peut-être …” Kingsley moved an inch closer to Wesley’s face and stared deep into his eyes. “She sees in you what I see in you.”
“What’s that?”
Wesley attempted to wrest himself out of Kingsley’s grasp. Kingsley didn’t let go.
“Everything she doesn’t see when she looks in the mirror.” With that, Kingsley released him and Wesley wrenched himself away. He felt a wave of nausea as if his brain bashed against his skull. But he didn’t give in to it. He breathed through his nose and stood his ground.
“I want to see Søren. Now,” Wesley said.
Kingsley straightened his jacket and smoothed his vest.
“Answer two questions first. Then I’ll let you see him.”
“Whatever. Fine. What?”
“Question one—is it true that you are affianced to her?”
Wesley narrowed his eyes at Kingsley, who stood waiting, tapping the toe of one of his stupid boots against the floor.
“Yes. Right before she got kidnapped, we went horseback riding. I asked her to marry me. When we got back to the stables, she said yes.”
Kingsley nodded as he rubbed his bottom lip with his fingertip before raising two fingers.
“Second question. Did you ask her to marry you before or after your head injury?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?” Wesley asked, coming up to him again. Cautiously this time, however. If Kingsley pushed him into the wall again, Wesley knew he’d lose whatever nothing was in his stomach for sure.
“Oui. But only once. I made sure they never said it again. Come along. You want to see the priest? I’ll show you the priest.”
Kingsley started up the stairs and Wesley had no choice but to follow. He noticed Kingsley wincing slightly as they turned a corner and headed to the third floor. Was he injured? Had someone attacked Kingsley, too?
“Are you all right?” Wesley asked, his loathing temporarily giving way to his better instincts. Kingsley might be the asshole of the universe, but Wesley hated to see anyone in pain.
“It is safe to say I’ve been better.”
“Did someone attack you, too?”
“I wouldn’t call it an attack.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“I’d call it one of the better nights of my life.”
Kingsley said nothing more as he led them down a hall to a room on the right.
“I’m afraid le prêtre won’t be much good to you.”
“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”
“If you insist.” Kingsley opened the door to a room at the end of the hall. Wesley’s eyes widened when he took in the scene. On the floor, at the end of the biggest red bed he’d ever seen in his life, sat Søren, his blond head bowed, his eyes closed. “Talk away. He may not talk back, however.”
“What the hell …?”
“He threatened to call the police,” Kingsley said matter-of-factly. “The police, the church and all city, state and federal authorities. I couldn’t allow that. For his sake.”
“So you …”
“Sedated him. And handcuffed him. He’ll be out another hour at least with the shot I gave him.”
“You drugged Søren?”
“I have a very well-stocked medicine cabinet in case of emergencies.”
“You’re crazy.”
Kingsley gave a shrug so nonchalant it could only be described as French.
“Turnabout is fair play, non? His turn to wear the handcuffs.”
Wesley could only stare at Søren on the floor. Even unconscious he had a certain broken nobility to him in his black clerics and his white collar. The one time Wesley had spoken face-to-face with the man, he’d been wearing secular clothes.
“He’s a priest,” Wesley said as the reality of Søren’s profession finally sank in. He knew, of course. He’d known from the beginning. Nora never hid that from him. But seeing the collar …
“He is. And possibly the finest priest in America if not the world. And if he wants to remain a priest and get his lover back, then it’s for the best we leave the authorities out of this. I can only protect his secrets so much. He’ll thank me later.”
Kingsley closed the door and started back down the hall.
“Kingsley, we have to call the police. I don’t care what happens to Søren or you or even me. We’re wasting time. We don’t even know where she is.”
“You call the police if your car gets stolen. You don’t call them for anything that matters. I know who has your fiancée, and believe me, if you value your beloved’s life at all, you will trust me—calling the authorities would equal a death sentence for her.”
The truth of the words shone in Kingsley’s eyes. As much as Wesley didn’t want to believe him, something told him that whatever happened to Nora, it wasn’t some kidnap for ransom, wasn’t some prank or game.
“The woman who has your fiancée is willing to kill. She’s done it before. She’s also willing to die. Something else she’s done before. A dangerous combination. We raise the alarm, the siren sounds, Nora dies.”
“How do you know this person’s willing to die?”
“Because, mon petit prince, she pissed me off. That is a good indictor she had a death wish.”
Kingsley’s brash words failed to give any comfort.
“They’re going to kill Nora, aren’t they? The words on the walls …” Wesley whispered, his heart clenching as he remembered the fear upon seeing the French words, even not knowing what they meant. “Søren said they mean ‘I will kill the bitch.’“
“If it comforts you at all, ‘the bitch’ is not your Nora. I’ll leave the story for the priest to tell.”
“No way. You knocked him out so now you’re going to tell me.” Wesley stared Kingsley down. Kingsley might be strong and dangerous, but he was also in pain and pain made him vulnerable. Wesley wouldn’t back down this time. “And you’re going to tell me now.”
Kingsley exhaled heavily through his nose before shrugging again.
“Those words—I will kill the bitch—were uttered thirty years ago by the woman the priest married at age eighteen. His wife, Marie-Laure … my sister.”
“Thirty years ago … Søren was married to your sister?”
“Yes. A marriage of convenience. That was what it was supposed to be. That is what he told her it would be. She wanted more, more than he could give.”
“She was in love with him?”
“Oui, or whatever she had in her heart that passed for love. Obsession would be a more accurate word. When she found out he loved another she said those words as a threat. For whatever reason she waited thirty years to carry out her threat.”
“Nora would have been four years old then. She didn’t even meet Søren until she was fifteen, which is bad enough. No way could Nora have been the other woman at four years old.”
“Exactement. That’s why I say you can take some comfort in that threat. That’s why I know she’s alive and safe … for the time being. Le prêtre was in love with someone else at the time. But your fiancée was not the bitch my sister meant.”
“Who was she, then? Maybe we should talk to her.”
Kingsley turned on his booted heel and gave Wesley a gallant mock bow.
“You already are, mon ami. The bitch … at your service.”
4 THE ROOK
As soon as she got to the hotel, Grace Easton decided she’d stay only one night. What was the point of such a beautiful room with a view of the ocean if she didn’t even have Zachary with her to share it? She stared out the window onto the beach and saw two birds dancing at the edge of the water, dancing and biting each other. A mating ritual, perhaps? Or fighting? Or both? Nora would say both, wouldn’t she? Grace smiled as she dug her phone out of her purse and called Nora’s number. When voice mail picked up, Grace left a quick message.
“Nora, it’s Grace. Zachary had to fill in for someone at a conference in Australia. I’m all alone in Rhode Island on holiday. Thinking of coming to the city. I’d love to get into some trouble with you.”
Grace knew such a message would surely get Nora’s attention. That woman had been threatening Grace with all sorts of scandalous fun if Grace ever dared cross into Nora’s territory again. Nora had said she would introduce Grace to Søren if she was feeling up to the challenge. Hopefully Nora would call back tonight so Grace could make some new plans. Nothing more depressing than staying alone in a honeymoon suite at a New England ? and B. Why had she come, anyway, other than habit? She and Zachary had vacationed here almost every year of their marriage. It was the one time Zachary could see his best mate Jason from university who’d moved here ten years ago. But now Zachary was trapped at a conference and Jason and his wife had canceled on them because of a family emergency. Grace was trapped alone on holiday in America. What would be better than getting into a little trouble with the one and only Nora Sutherlin? Maybe … maybe Nora was the reason she’d come without Zachary. Nora had practically dared her to take a walk on the wild side with her. Grace did love a challenge.
With a jet-lagged sigh, Grace pulled away from the window and dug through her carry-on bag. From it she pulled out her eReader and stretched out on the bed, deciding to read until she heard back from Nora. She’d gotten to the good part of the book right as her plane had landed.
“Harry?”
“You can do better than that,” came a voice from behind him. Blake turned around and saw Harrison sitting cross-legged on the floor. He’d laid down a plaid blanket and had a lantern sitting by his knee. The light from the flickering wick cast a golden shadow across his face. During the day at school all anyone saw of Harrison were his black retro glasses and the books that never left his hands. But Blake saw past the glasses, past the books.
“Better than what?”
“You’re really going to call me ‘Harry’ down here? While we’re alone together?”
“What am I supposed to call you? Mr. Braun? Sir?”
“I wouldn’t stop you if you did.”
“I’m not calling you ‘sir.’“
Harrison shrugged as he turned a page in the textbook in front of him.
“Suit yourself. You’re the one who started this.”
Blake considered turning around and leaving. This was the stupidest idea ever, anyway. He’d never forgive Mr. Pettit for forcing him and Harrison to write that paper together. One late night on Harrison’s bed arguing about the morality of Machiavelli’s political philosophy had brought him here to this moment.
“Me? You kissed me, remember?”
“You were begging for it.” Harrison glanced up at Blake over the top of his glasses. “Three chairs in my room and you sit on the bed next to me?”
“Why do you have so many fucking chairs in your room, anyway?” Blake sat down on the blanket across from Harrison.
“To see if you’d sit in them or choose the bed.”
“You were testing me?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I failed the first test.” Blake ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.
“You sat on the bed next to me. I kissed you. You kissed back. Hate to tell you this, but you passed.”
Blake stared at Harrison and willed himself to hate him. It should have been easy to hate Harrison. Captain of the academic team, every teacher’s pet, only a junior but already he had scholarship offers from two Ivys. On top of that he was the one guy at their Catholic school who’d come out as gay. He’d done it on purpose, practically daring the school to expel him, expel the straight-? student, captain of the debate team, smartest fucking kid in school who’d won as many academic awards as Blake’s team had brought home soccer trophies. He wanted the fight, the publicity, the day in court. The more the other guys at school taunted and tortured him, calling him a “fag” and shoving him into lockers, the quieter, calmer and more determined he seemed to endure it with dignity. He always introduced himself as “Harrison” but everyone who hated him called him “Harry” just to be petty. Harrison didn’t blink, didn’t cry, didn’t act like he noticed the hate hurled his way.
It was Harrison’s noble stoicism in the face of torture that first caught Blake’s eye. That and that perfect fucking face of his that he hid behind those hipster glasses.
Harrison slammed the book shut and Blake jumped.
“Look, it’s 8:13 already.” Harrison took off his glasses and for the first time Blake saw his naked face. God fucking dammit, why did he have to feel this way for another guy? “They lock us up at nine. You came to me. You said you couldn’t stop thinking about me. You said you’ve never done anything with a guy before but you had to know for sure and maybe could we hang out and talk and … remember all that?”
“I remember.”
“Was that a lie? Or are we playing a game?”
“This isn’t a game to me,” Blake pledged.
