by Lily White
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Wishing Well: Copyright © 2018 by Lily White
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, distributed in any printed or electronic form or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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A Romantic Suspense by Lily White
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Other Books by Lily White
Her Master’s Courtesan
(Book 1 of the Masters Series)
(Available on Smashwords and www.lilywhitebooks.com)
Her Master’s Teacher
(Book 2 of the Masters Series)
Her Master’s Christmas
(Novella in the Masters Series)
Her Master’s Redemption
(Book 3 of the Masters Series)
Target This
Hard Roads
Asylum
Four Crows
Illusions of Evil (Illusions Duet, Book One)
Fear the Wicked (Illusions Duet, Book Two)
The Director (A Dark Exclusive
only available on Smashwords
and www.lilywhitebooks.com)
Rules of Engagement
Crazy Madly Deeply
CHAPTER ONE
They are far too bleak, these places with their metal bars and razor wire, these holes where doomed men are tossed, awaiting the day when their numbers would be pulled and they would be walked down long halls to a room that would forever remember their last breath.
Even the sun couldn’t penetrate the low hanging dark clouds, the sky a grey haze welcoming Meadow Graham to Faiville Prison, the hole that held a criminal who had taken everything she had left.
Seeing him would shred what remained of her barely beating heart, but she made her way up the long winding sidewalk regardless. In the distance she could hear the muted shouts of men, both criminal and security. She could see the rigid, cement buildings, could smell the taint of violence and fear that doused the grounds in misery.
How long had this man - this monster - been chained? Three days remained for him, seventy-two hours that he’d set aside for one interview, one meeting where he would explain the reasons for his crimes. Approaching the outermost gates of the high security institution, Meadow was unsure why Vincent Mercier had allowed this last conversation, why he’d chosen her out of numerous investigators, journalists and rabid fans, to hear his tale of a life lived in luxury, elegance and decay. If anybody would hate him most, it would be her, yet one month prior, she’d received a note inviting her to the prison to record his last confession.
Smiling at the guard, she withdrew her identification and journalist credentials, allowing him to inspect the materials she’d brought to record the interview that many had requested but been denied.
Apologetically, the guard explained, “Given Vincent’s antics while in the facility, we can’t allow you to take much inside the interview room. Only a tape recorder, your tapes, and that’s it. Even these pens can be used as weapons. You’ll have to leave them with me until the day’s end.”
She wasn’t surprised. From what she knew of Vincent, he could create havoc in any place he roamed. “I understand,” she answered, forcing another smile, even though she felt like screaming. A month hadn’t been enough time for her to prepare her heart for this meeting, had been too little time for her to adequately steel her spine.
After flitting his fingers over an electronic keypad, the guard used a physical key to unlock the large, iron gate, the pneumonic hiss that of a serpent welcoming Meadow to Hell. Ignoring the chill that coursed down her spine, she brushed her long, brown hair away from her face, wondering why she’d chosen to wear it down rather than up and out of the way. It wasn’t that she wanted to impress Vincent with her appearance, it was that she wanted him to remember her face - to remember the face of his last victim before his incarceration.
The guard led her down a maze of halls, his steps regular, yet lethargic, his shoulders squared and his head balding at the top. Meadow would have aged him at least in his late forties, but she surmised he could be younger and that a life around violent men had stolen his youthful appearance, replacing it with a menacing resolve.
Approaching another set of ominous gates, two guards stood at the ready, their expressions hardened, their hair clipped close to their heads. They wore the standard slate grey uniform, their belts heavy with the tools of their dreary trade.
Snatching a set of keys from his belt, the older guard unlocked the gate, the younger entering a small booth to tap in the electric key, the gate opening with the same hiss as the first.
Meadow’s escort approached the men. “Ms. Graham is here for her interview with Vincent Mercier. Is he secured already?”
“Interview room three,” the older guard answered, confusion riding his tone. His eyes lifted to hers. “Although I have no idea what you would want with him. He’s worthless. A no good sadist that deserves the needle. Why give him the time to brag?”
Understanding filtered through Meadow’s bones. It was true that a man like Vincent would enjoy the theatrics of such an interview. His crimes weren’t solely physical, his cruelty wasn’t restrained to death of the body alone. He enjoyed imparting his control over the psyche of those around him. Knowing this, Meadow had attempted to prepare, but how does one ready themself for a man as refined in his games as Vincent? However, knowing he would enjoy this time wasn’t enough to deter her. She wanted answers, and she was willing to play whatever games Vincent demanded to get them.
“Perhaps the information I obtain in the next three days will give solace to his victims’ families,” Meadow mused aloud.
The guard huffed while stepping aside to let Meadow and her escort through. “The only solace those families will have is watching him die. He’s drawn a full crowd. There won’t be one empty seat in the viewing room.”
Meadow’s heart lurched, her mind warring with her soul. It wasn’t that Vincent didn’t deserve to die for his crimes. It wasn’t that she didn’t hate him for killing her sister. But there was more to him that she knew, secrets that had been revealed to her by a gift she’d received following her sister’s death. There was more to this monster than most understood, and for that small part of him, she mourned.
“Thank you for letting us through,” she responded in order to appear polite. The guard’s disgust was not without merit, not after what Vincent had so callously done in his life, but to celebrate his death was almost as bad. Refusing to meet the older guard’s eyes as they passed, she was thankful to turn a corner into a long hall marked by equally spaced steel doors.
Small numbers were indicated above the door, Meadow’s steps coming to a stop outside room three.
“Here we are. Are you sure you want to talk to him?” Her escort attempted to smile, but the expression was lost within the concern written over his face. “He’s not the nicest of people.”
Unable to stop the burst of laughter, Meadow tucked her tape recorder beneath her arm. “I assume none of the men currently on death row are.”
Nodding, the guard rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yeah, but some are worse than others.”
Meadow inclined her head, sucking in a steadying breath as the guard opened the door and led her into the room. The moment her eyes met Vincent’s her heart screeched to a stop, one heavy beat bringing it back to life as the room spun around her.
“Good luck,” the guard whispered on his way out. Casting a glare in Vincent’s direction, he warned, “Best behavior, Mercier. We’re watching.”
With a smile that could only be accomplished by the most devious of lovers, Vincent responded, “Bien sûr.”
The guard hadn’t closed the door before warning Meadow, “He tends to mix his native language with English. I hope you understand French.”
With that, the door slammed closed and Meadow was left to stare at a devil with the face of an avenging angel. Prison had done nothing to strip him of his masculine, feral beauty.
With dark brown hair swept back and dusting his collar, Vincent leaned back in his chair, his shackles jangling against the table. Green eyes studied her, the emerald color glimmering beneath the lights above their heads. His cheekbones were aristocratic, his jaw square and dusted with stubble, and his lips as sultry as she remembered them.
“Meadow Graham, how lovely of you to accept my invitation. I’ll enjoy my last days of life with a woman as beautiful as you to gaze upon.”
“Cut the shit, Vincent. I’m not here for your benefit.”
He laughed. The deep, smooth sound tugging at Meadow’s resolve. “And here I thought you’d be more elegant than your sister, especially with the benefit of your European education.”
Meadow didn’t have to look beneath the table to know his long legs were stretched straight, a lazy pose that masked the predator staring her down. “We were identical twins, our personalities as alike as our appearance. And you’re not exactly the type of person I would consider worthy of my most polished of behaviors.”
Vincent’s eyes locked on her, but Meadow couldn’t shake the feeling he was looking straight through her. “I have no doubt you’re as delicate as Penelope, despite your lack of savoir-faire .” His deep voice held a hint of his French accent, still a rolling lilt despite the brusque tone of his American English.
“Penny,” Meadow said, stressing the name her sister preferred, “was anything but delicate.”
He grinned, the cruelty of the expression bleeding into the room. “Inside, she was as delicate as a flower. Even if she attempted to disguise it with her rebellion.” Regarding his fingernails, the superficial gesture at odds with the shackles cuffing his wrists, he murmured, “A rebellion that didn’t last long.”
Meadow’s blood boiled. Vincent glanced up and grinned. “You should sit so we can begin. Only seventy-two hours remain of my life, and this story is quite long. Why come if you only intend to glare at me like a cat with her fur stroked the wrong way?”
Ignoring his attempt to manipulate her emotions, Meadow slowly prepared her recorder, setting the tape and closing the lid before hitting record. Turning, she eyed the beautiful man chained to a table, fought against the pull she had towards him. “I’d like to discuss what I already know about you first. Although I didn’t bring it today, I want to begin this interview with a question. Specifically, why did you feel the need to have someone deliver to me my sister’s diary?”
He didn’t need to answer for Meadow to know exactly why Vincent had the gift delivered shortly after his arrest, but she wanted the confession on tape, wanted to ensure she did, in fact, know him as well as she believed. As far as Vincent knew, her only knowledge of him came from that journal, but there were other communications, other means for her to understand the nature of the man staring back at her. Vincent Mercier held his secrets close to his chest, but in that, so did Meadow. The next three days would be a game on both their ends.
His responsive grin confirmed her beliefs before his words broke the stiff silence in the room. “Ah, ma chèrie , but I think you already know the answer.”
Leaning against the table at her back, Meadow’s palms were planted against its surface. “You can stop there with the pet names. Thanks to my European education as you so deemed it, I understand enough to know what you’re saying to me. And I’m not your anything.”
“Pas vrai , you are my interrogator, are you not? By standing where you are, you have a relationship with me already. Not only that, but you are my last victim, the woman who will forever mourn the last life I took. I will die in three days, but you will live on in your grief...and your hatred. And for that, I will also live on, until the day you take your final breath. It’s poetic, is it not?”
“It’s too bad I never liked poetry.” Meadow said in bitter retort. “Let’s just get this started and stop playing around. The seventy two hours you have left are winding down.” She grinned. “Tick tock.”
Returning her caustic smile with a look that you would expect a lover to give in bed, Vincent relaxed his shoulders, unaffected by her anger. “Will you be there when I take my last breath? Will you escort me into the afterlife? I would love to look at you through the viewing glass.”
Refusing to answer, Meadow dropped the subject of her sister’s diary, choosing instead to begin his story at the beginning. “Let’s go back to the night you met Penny. Why did you approach her on the street? What value did she have to a man like you?”
Seconds passed before, “If you will take a seat, I’ll talk. A conversation should be had between people at equal comfort. And you, at the moment, appear to ready to take off.”
Knowing he wouldn’t begin until she sat, Meadow grudgingly took her seat.
“Thank you,” Vincent said, his fingers braiding together over the surface of the table. “If we are to begin on the night I met your sister, then I can tell you that you won’t be pleased with why I decided to take her under my wing. Romance is lost in those details.”
Staring, Meadow crossed her arms over her chest, knowing fully that the body language wouldn’t be lost on Vincent. His eyes darted to her arms and back to her face, a small smile stretching his lips. Ignoring her behavior, he fanned his fingers out to the sides. “As is true with many stories, mine starts with a conversation with a friend, and I must confess that the only interest I had in Penny, the only reason I approached her on that lonely, rain drenched street, was because of a bet.”
Eyes widening, fury coursed through Meadow’s veins. “A bet! My sister is dead because of a bet?”
Puckering his lips, Vincent tsked. “Perhaps this interview should end. You seem to have a problem already.”
“No,” she answered quickly. “I want to know.”
His lips stretched wide. “Then I’ll begin as any good story should begin.”
Vincent settled into his seat, his shackles rattling.
“Once upon a time, there was a dirty girl on the streets and the man who would make her his...”
CHAPTER TWO
Vincent
I’ve never loved America. The country was missing something, a certain joie de vivre was absent, the history lacking, the soul having been torn from a body of people who rushed about from place to place, never stopping to experience the moments of their day. On every sidewalk I watched them bustle, refusing to slow down, not even to eat. With bagel in hand, or some other portable lunch that tasted like cardboard or week old starch, they hurried. Occasionally I’d call out Bonne Appétit , a Frenchman’s pointed admonishment of those who couldn’t even slow down long enough to take pleasure from food.
It was never like this in Paris, and often I found myself staring out cafe windows longing for the city where
I was raised, hating my father for dragging me to a country of cement and steel, of dying and leaving me tethered to the business he’d created in a foreign state.
Yet, here I was, staring out another random window, reclining in my seat as my friend and business acquaintance rattled on about some deal he’d made that afternoon. The sun had long ago set, the sky lit not by stars but by glittering lights dotting the tall buildings of the city skyline. Inside, the cafe smelled of coffee and baked goods, and outside I knew the stench of dank alleys and smog awaited me, its path winding between cars and sweaty bodies. There was nothing of interest here, not on this street, not outside the walls of The Wishing Well, the only hotel I owned that I had designed to remind me of home.
“Are you listening to me, Vincent? I’ve finished with my story and have been reciting nonsense for the last five minutes. Yet, you’ve said nothing.”
Barron laughed, his blond hair swept back and styled professionally, his grey eyes sharp despite the humor behind them. Even while relaxed, the man was a shark any intelligent person would fear. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, his hands folded around his ceramic mug. “Has something happened I should know and use against you later?”
The corners of my lips curled. “I’m bored of this city. Bored of these hotels and of these people.”
Suspicion arched his brow. “Even all the women you enjoy. You can’t be bored of them.”
A sigh rolled over my lips. “Even them. They’re all the same. Their personalities leave much to be desired, their bodies plastic and far too perfect. Not one of them holds my interest for long, and once I walk away, they screech and cry, begging me to give it another chance only so that they can cry even more when I introduce my desires into the mix.” Throwing out my hand, I brushed my frustration aside. “I haven’t found a woman yet that can endure me.”