Love in the Shadows

by Dylan Madrid

  Synopsis

  Quintin Pearson, an American living in London, has spent the last two years working as a magazine staff writer and nursing a broken heart. Craving a change in his quiet life, Quintin accepts an invitation to an exclusive party hosted by Regina Bremington, the U.S. ambassador’s glamorous wife. At the party, terror takes over when the electricity suddenly goes out and the ambassador is assassinated. In the safety of a dark bedroom, Quintin meets a mysterious stranger named Luca, an Italian spy. Even though the two men can’t see each other, a spark is ignited that soon becomes a mutual lust. Within days, Luca arranges for them to meet again at a remote seaside town in Belgium. There, Luca confesses his true identity and convinces Quintin they must team up to bring the ambassador’s killer to justice.

  Love in the Shadows

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  Love in the Shadows

  © 2014 By Dylan Madrid. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-018-8

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: January 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Greg Herren and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

  By the Author

  Mind Fields

  Love in the Shadows

  Acknowledgments

  Love in the Shadows could not have happened without Cindy Cresap, Greg Herren, Len Barot, Sheri, and Stacia Seaman.

  I offer my deepest gratitude to:

  E.G. Daily, for a song that made this novel sing. The Plastiscines, for “Barcelona.” Deluka, for “Come Back to Me.”

  Mallory Nardin, for being the best Italian teacher a writer could ask for.

  Linda Wread-Barnes, who faithfully reads every word I write.

  My parents, Samuel Barnes, Jr. and Nancy Nickle, and my brothers Jamin, Jason, Andy, and Jaren, for allowing me to be the writer in the family.

  For their wonderful words of encouragement: Andrea Patten, Brandie Kirby, Elizabeth Warren, Eric Andrews-Katz, Frankie Hernandez, Glen McGuire, Jenna Reimonenq, Jerry L. Wheeler, Jessica Daum, Jill McMahon, Joyce Luzader, Kaitlyn Ballenger, Keshia Whitmore-Govers, Kimberly Greenberg, LaKisha Moody, Lesléa Newman, Lisa Nanette Allender, Lisann Valentin, Lou Sylvre, Lynda Sandoval, Maire Gardner, Marisa Villegas, Michelle Boman Harris, Mindy Morgan, Nance Haxton, Nita Manley, Pamela Phelps, Pasara Thamphan, Patricia Abbott-Dinsmore, Rebecca Noonan, Rena Mason, Riley Barton, Santiago Charboneau, Selena Ambush, Stacy Scranton, Stephanie Gomez, Susan Madden, Tara Henry, Terri Dean, Therease Logan, Trish DeBaun, and Todd Wylie.

  My students, for teaching me more on a daily basis than I could ever dream of teaching them.

  My grandmother, Dorothy Helen Nickle, for my childhood of soap operas and imaginary tea parties.

  Edward C. Ortiz, for the wonderful life and love we share.

  God, for everything.

  To all of my friends and readers in Europe: This one’s for you.

  For my favourite British girls:

  Joanne Church, Leean James, and Mandy Miller.

  I never would’ve survived Greece without you.

  “In this world, full often, our joys are only the tender shadows which our sorrows cast.”

  —Henry Ward Beecher

  The Assassination

  Quintin Pearson knew he would feel out of place at the fancy party. It just wasn’t his scene. He was a staff writer at a magazine for senior citizens that no one really read. He had no business socializing with politicians and the members of high society. They’d see right through his façade and probably throw him out on his broke ass within seconds of his arrival.

  He convinced himself of this as he drove to the palatial Bremington estate in the decade-old car he’d bought with the last bit of his savings. The Tudor castle–like mansion could be seen from miles in every direction: a golden, wealthy beacon taunting and teasing those who were barely getting by, struggling through the drudgery of day after day in London.

  It was flattering Regina Bremington remembered him. She’d kept true to her word and sent him the invitation she promised. Quintin assumed she’d long forgotten their chance meeting over three months ago at a long-winded charity event attended by a bevy of Botoxed British faces. He wondered what he’d said during their brief conversation at the coat check that left such a lasting impression on the ambassador’s blond wife.

  The Bremingtons had been in London for less than a year. Already the British press had unofficially crowned them American royalty, especially the always-glamorous Regina, who they followed and stalked and adored. She was the type of woman who was born to be photographed. She looked and moved like a movie star, a film-noir femme fatale from an era long gone by.

  “You’re an American, too,” she’d said to him, as if it were rare to meet one in London. Her voice was sultry, a low and suggestive tone. Her lips were glossy. Quintin couldn’t help but stare at them while she spoke, mesmerized.

  “I’ve lived here for over two years,” he explained.

  “For work?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, and because he sensed he could trust her, he added, “but now, I’m trying to mend a broken heart.”

  She placed a palm on his sleeve just as he’d slipped into his black pea coat. Quintin’s glance darted down to the gesture, to the smooth softness of her too-tan-for-London skin. Her nails were painted a pale shade of pink. Her wedding ring was a blinding assault on the eyes. “Never let them have the upper hand,” she offered. “That way they can never destroy you.”

  Without asking, Quintin understood the secret message coded in her words. Someone had broken her heart once, too. The edge around her words suggested she was still determined to see the unnamed son of a bitch pay for what he did.

  Quintin had considered telling her about a morning not so long ago when he woke to find his lover of nearly two years had slipped out in the night, never to be heard from again. Hell, with her power and prestige, Regina Bremington could’ve probably ordered a search for Kevin, dragged him back to London from whatever Siberian cave he’d crawled off to, and demanded answers with threats of severe punishment.

  Instead, he’d said, “Thank you for the advice.”

  “I’m Regina Bremington.”

  Quintin grinned. “I know,” he said. “I’m Quintin Pearson.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me for being so forward, but you have the most beautiful eyes,” she said. “I’m sure people must tell you that all the time.”

  Quintin blushed a little and said, “Thank you.” He knew his green eyes were his best feature. In fact, they were the only thing he liked about his physical appearance. His dishwater-blond hair was boring. He felt his nose was too big. His ears stuck out a little. And he had little muscular definition to speak of. It was always his eyes that got him attention. He could count on them.

  “What is it that you do?” Regina asked.

  “I’m a staff writer for the Pensioner Weekly.” She gave him a blank look. Qu
intin was used to getting this response whenever he mentioned the publication by name. “It’s a magazine for senior citizens.”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “Neither is anyone else.”

  Regina Bremington laughed a little before locking eyes with Quintin. “I’m having a party this summer,” she said. “You should be there.”

  “Send me an invitation and I will be,” he said.

  She glanced back at him, over her shoulder. Her platinum-blond bangs fell into her eyes and, for a brief second, she was a dead ringer for 1940s actress Veronica Lake, who starred in one of Quintin’s favorite classic films, The Blue Dahlia. “It’s a date,” she’d said.

  Then Quintin and Regina had gone their separate ways.

  When the invitation arrived nine days ago, Quintin was convinced it had been given to him in error, certain the new mail clerk with the cute crew cut and dimples dropped the envelope on his desk by accident. He checked the front again to make sure his name was on it. But there it was in decorative script: Quintin Pearson. When he slid the gold-lined envelope open, his lungs were punched with the invisible fist of a familiar, powerful perfume. French, probably, he thought, and very, very expensive. He held the crème-colored paper to the tip of his nose and inhaled. Indeed, it was the same distinctive scent he remembered Regina wearing during their brief encounter. Her signature scent.

  He spent the next week agonizing over what to wear to the event, desperate to escape the choirboy look that had plagued him for most of his life. Since those words had been used to describe him a month ago by a drunk woman at a pub, he worried the reason he was single was because he appeared too boring and plain. He’d prompted the whiskey-shooting old broad to be more specific. “Bloody hell,” she slurred in a thick English accent, “you’re either a missionary or a tax collector.” Quintin was neither, but his mundane childhood in a small town in Illinois was apparently very difficult to shed. He was ashamed to admit that since Kevin decided to disappear five months ago, his routine life had returned in full force. Once again, he lacked spontaneity. He had no wild stories to tell over drinks, no wicked tales of a rebellious youth to shock and impress with, no nights of hot passion to brag about to his coworker Fiona during their weekly Thursday-night dinners. And that, really, was why he decided to attend Regina’s party. If anything, it would be worth it to spend the evening inside a famous home that was centuries old.

  The invitation indicated the dress code for the affair was upscale. Quintin let the word roll around on his tongue while he tore out the contents of his shoebox-sized closet in his tiny fifth-floor flat in Ladbroke Grove. Upscale was hardly the word someone would use to describe his daily wardrobe, which consisted mostly of boring button-up oxfords and pleated khakis. For special occasions, he only owned two suits. Finally, he settled on the navy blue. He took the slacks and sports coat to the dry cleaners on Wednesday. But on Friday—with only hours to go before the party was scheduled to start—the manager of the store apologetically explained Quintin’s clothes were temporarily lost, accidentally sent to a location twenty-nine miles away. He rushed home, ironed a pair of khakis and a white button-up oxford, threw on a periwinkle-blue tie and some half-shined black loafers, and hoped for the best.

  It was raining and the windshield wipers on his miserable Capri-blue Fiat Seicento weren’t cooperating. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, peering through the violent drops drumming against the little car, a symphony of angry fingertips. The stone-built mansion loomed in the distance like an ominous secret warning, backlit by the half moon.

  Quintin turned right off the country highway and pulled onto a private road shrouded in eerie darkness. He slowed the car down and clicked on the high beams. A graveled corridor led to the curtain walls surrounding the estate. The bumpy road was lined by hovering pines, doing their best to block out any star shine or moonlight. Their branches looked like heavy hands reaching toward the car, threatening to pull Quintin into their arms and devour him in one bite.

  The dull blades wheezed and screeched across the wet glass as he reached the end of the road. Quintin’s breath caught in his throat. He braked at the sight of the opulent home standing before him. He wondered if he’d stumbled back into some previous epoch of British history and was arriving at the king’s palace. He was half expecting to see knights approaching from behind, waving their lances while braving the storm on galloping horses. Instead, he caught the faint glow of the London skyline flickering in the rearview mirror. Nervousness rattled the edges of his heart as he inched the car forward.

  In the center of a circular driveway sat a massive stone fountain. A statue of a cherub towered above the fountain, blowing a water stream out of his trumpet up toward the evening sky. The driveway was lined with expensive cars. Ignoring the frantic gesturing of a dark-haired valet attendant whose only shelter from the downpour was a black-and-white polka-dotted umbrella, Quintin squeezed his sputtering Fiat in between two Bentleys, turned off the engine, checked his reflection one last time in the rearview mirror, and emerged into the stinging rain. The valet tried to be a gentleman, rushing to Quintin’s side and holding his umbrella above them both. The attempt did little to shield them from the weather.

  “I’m fine,” Quintin assured the valet attendant. He moved quickly, almost slipping once his shoes touched the wet cobblestone. He dashed up half a dozen gray brick steps and ducked beneath a wooden awning extended above the massive double-door entrance to the castle. Quintin wiped his damp palms on the sides of his rain-spattered pants and reached for the illuminated doorbell.

  Someone on the other side pulled the thick door open with such force, the tip of Quintin’s tie lifted up in the gust, brushing the bottom of his chin. He looked into the tired eyes of a tight-faced woman who was dressed in a traditional black-and-white maid’s uniform. This is like something out of a movie.

  “Hello,” he began, cringing at the sound of his voice cracking with apprehension. “I’m Quintin Pearson. I’m a guest…of Regina…um, Mrs. Bremington.” Quintin reached for a front pocket of his khakis where he’d shoved the folded invitation earlier. “I have an invitation.”

  “Follow me,” the stoic woman said without a change in her expression and avoiding eye contact. Quintin obeyed and stepped inside. Immediately, a sudden sense of calm rushed over him, enveloping him like an invisible embrace that slid across the checkered marbled floor and crept up his legs until it reached his torso. Gentleness soothed him, washing away the anxiety of his journey. He sighed and lifted his eyes up to a glittering chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling of the foyer.

  There was no time to stand around and marvel at the exquisite architecture and décor. The maid was already on the move. Quintin half sprinted across the slick marble floor to keep up. She led him through a dizzying maze of narrow hallways—left, right, left again, then a sharp right—until he found himself standing in the open double doorway of an elaborate, brightly lit ballroom. The room was a swarm of cocktail glasses and tuxedoed wait staff carrying silver serving trays of skewered shrimp and stuffed mushrooms. Quintin was temporarily blinded by the sea of jewels glittering around him like dizzy fireflies. On instinct, he scanned the ballroom for a familiar face, reminding himself he was a stranger in this universe. He had stumbled into a wonderland he clearly did not belong in. He gave a quick sigh of relief when he spotted the blond hostess in a red floor-length Valentino dress. She was surrounded by a circle of disciples who weren’t nearly as attractive as their queen. She raised her eyes and a glass in Quintin’s direction. She slipped away from her entourage and floated through the waves of her tipsy guests to reach him. Gliding across the black-and-white checkered floor, she was the central figure in a human chess game.

  “Hello, Quintin. I didn’t think you’d come,” she said. Her breath was sweet and sticky. “But I’m so glad you did.”

  Quintin cleared his throat before he spoke. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Bremington.”

  Sh
e leaned in and Quintin stole a quick glimpse at the tear-shaped diamond pendant dangling between her breasts. “To tell you the truth, I can’t stand the people in this room,” she confessed in a whisper meant only for his ears. “You’re the exception.”

  “I’m flattered,” he said, “and also terribly underdressed.”

  She laughed a little and then inspected his ensemble with a disapproving but sympathetic glance. She nodded, reaching and touching the sleeve of his white shirt. “Go upstairs,” she said. Her tone was still hushed. “First door on the right. You’ll find a decent sports coat there. Maybe even a tuxedo.”

  “In my size?”

  She smiled and Quintin recognized Regina Bremington’s ability to seduce. Was she flirting with him? It certainly seemed so. “I’m always prepared,” she answered before taking a delicate sip of her champagne. She rolled the fluted glass between her fingers like a rose. Quintin had read enough press about Regina to know she was a very intelligent woman. Surely, she was smart enough to know he was gay.

  “Did you put all of this together yourself?” he asked.

  She placed a hand across her chest, pawing at the pendant. “Guilty,” she said. “With the help of twenty caterers and a staff of a hundred.”

  “It was well worth it,” he told her. “I’ve never seen something so…”

  She leaned in again, even closer. Quintin was aware the ambassador’s wife was touching him, her fingers were tracing the outline of his left nipple. It stiffened beneath his shirt. She grabbed his tie and gave it a gentle tug, bringing his ear to her mouth. “I’m a woman who knows exactly what she likes,” she breathed. “When I really want something, I don’t take no for an answer.”