“You see,” he purred, “I have a particular talent. You’ll think me immodest, I’m sure, but it simply cannot be denied: I am an expert at identifying people’s weaknesses.” He reached for a nearby paperweight, a glass sphere filled with swirling colours, and weighed it in his palm. “I’ll admit, I struggled a little with Isaac—”
“Isaac?” Montgomery. It had been days since she’d seen the man, and still he disturbed her peace. But for his name to come up in a conversation like this…
“Yes, Isaac. He’s a difficult one. He gave me some worry, in fact. But then I overheard the two of you in the studio last week…”
“You—you did?” Her mind raced back to that brief meeting. She’d have noticed, wouldn’t she, if someone else were there? If this man, this spider-like creature, were spying from the labyrinthine halls?
She thought and thought, but all she could remember were calloused hands clenched into fists, a gravelly, stilted voice, and ocean eyes. Shit.
“I did,” Mark said. And she believed him. “It came to me, as I watched him spit around you like a tomcat. Our diamond in the rough has a weakness for the finer things in life.” His eyes travelled boldly down her body, and despite the layers of clothing she wore, Lizzie felt suddenly naked. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. She resisted the urge to cover herself, or shrink back into her chair, or get up and leave the room—despite the fact that her instincts were demanding all of this and more.
She was Elizabeth Olusegun-Keynes, and she did not back down.
The control that had evaded her for weeks suddenly returned, like a faithful hound sensing its owner's need. Lizzie steeled her spine, as the familiar, ice-cold tendrils of restraint wrapped around her like a lover. “Speak plainly,” she demanded, her words sharp.
The transformation was clearly noticeable. Mark shifted for a moment, his eyes flickering nervously. But then his surety returned, and he murmured, “As you wish. I have a task for you, Lizzie. I believe that during our upcoming trip, you above all people will be best placed to extricate… certain information from Isaac Montgomery.”
“Information,” she repeated slowly. Because her mind was moving faster than her lips ever could.
“Yes. I’m rather fond of information. I trade in it, actually.”
“You mean the kind of information that you can hold over his head.” Her voice was flat.
“Clever girl.”
“Isaac Montgomery is a convicted killer,” she said, speaking clearly, as though to a child. “He has presented every sin he’s ever committed within the pages of his books. You’re the one who published all his dirty secrets for him. What could there possibly be to find?”
Mark smiled. It looked more like a beast baring its teeth before opening its jaw wide, but if she were being sensible rather than fanciful, she would call it a smile. Lizzie was hurtling towards hysteria, and that simply wouldn’t do. She kept her face blank and her gaze dead and her ankles demurely crossed, and she remembered who the fuck she was. The daughter of Olatunde Olusegun. And the ice princess to her mother’s queen.
“Not all of his secrets are common knowledge,” Mark was saying. “Have you read his books? Isaac is a very private man. There are… gaps in his life story. For example, the incident that occurred during the summer. Did you hear about that?” His voice came at her as though through a tunnel. Her skin crawling, Lizzie nodded slowly. “A mystery, isn't it?" Mark asked. "By all accounts, Isaac beat a popular journalist almost to death. And yet, Mr. Wright refuses to press charges, or even speak a word of the incident. But if he were to bring Isaac's loss of control to the authorities..."
Of course. Isaac was a convicted killer. There would be no leniency.
"I've exhausted my resources where Mr. Wright is concerned," Mark continued. "I need something directly from the source. And if that particular incident does not prove useful... Well. I'm sure a man like Isaac has an endless supply of secrets. We need only to tap into them." His eyes lit up, as though this conversation were exciting. Invigorating. "Simply imagine the possibilities, my dear."
Lizzie pointed her toes inside her soft trainers, harder and harder, until the familiar ache came and sharpened her cotton-wool mind. When she spoke, her voice was frostier than the Spencer lawn on a January morning.
“Why?” She demanded. “What do you want from him? This all seems so—”
“Elizabeth,” Mark interrupted dryly. “This is an issue of some delicacy. Hence, you are not required to be the brains of the operation. Consider yourself a foot soldier with breasts.”
Well. There were so many things wrong with that statement, she didn’t even know where to start.
“And why,” she challenged, “would I possibly take part in any sordid little scheme of yours? If you think I need this job so badly, you are quite mistaken.”
But Mark did not appear disconcerted. That maddening smile of his didn’t slip. If anything, it widened.
“I was waiting for you to ask,” he said slyly. Then he reached down and opened one of the drawers built into his old-fashioned desk. And she remembered what he’d said: I’m rather fond of information. I trade in it, actually.
But what could he possibly hold over her? She had no secrets, not really. Open secrets. Half-secrets. Nothing that might cause her trouble. Certainly nothing that could induce her to blackmail a man who might not be innocent, exactly, but had certainly done his time.
And so she watched with smug confidence as Mark produced a slim dossier and tossed it across the desk. It slid towards her, and she reached down to pick it up with nothing more than mild curiosity.
Lizzie opened the file and looked at the first of its pages.
And the blood drained from her face.
She stared down at the image before her. Two men: one pale, one brown, both naked.
The pale man’s face was out of frame; he was the one taking the picture. But the brown man was fully visible. He knelt at his lover’s feet, his hands standing out against the other man’s bone-coloured thighs. He wasn’t smiling for the camera, as he usually did, but Lizzie recognised him in an instant.
She couldn’t look at the photograph any longer. She certainly couldn’t go through the rest of the images. For one thing, they were private.
And for another, the sight of her own brother in the throes of passion was making her feel slightly sick.
Lizzie closed the dossier, her movements slow and precise. She did not speak.
But Mark did.
“I understand that your father is quite vocally homophobic,” he said. Which was an understatement, to say the least. No doubt he knew that.
She remained silent, staring at the slim, brown folder. It seemed so innocuous now, its secrets once more hidden from the world. Secrets her brother wasn’t ready to share.
Secrets this man had stolen.
“Keynes travels the world on an allowance from your mother’s estate, I know,” Mark added. “Thirty-six years old, and the man’s never worked a day in his life! My, my. I wonder how he’d fare if his income were to… Disappear?”
Lizzie didn’t bother to correct the viper sitting before her. She didn’t tell him that her brother was the hardest worker she knew; that he travelled the world to help those in need; that he’d practically raised her, following her across the country when she was just fourteen, bandaging her bleeding feet after each class.
She didn’t tell him any of that. He didn’t deserve to hear it.
Instead, after a long minute of thought, she looked up. She let him see every inch of the hate in her eyes. And she said simply, “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
So he did. He told her exactly what to do, in minute detail. He heaped every expectation upon her in plain language, just as Mother always had. It was almost familiar, really.
And when he was done, Lizzie nodded, and stood, and left the study with determination coursing through her veins.
This would be the best fucking performance of her life.
/> It had to be. Because for once, Olu needed her help. She would protect him as he'd always protected her. She would guard his privacy and his livelihood.
If her brother ever shared himself completely, it would be his choice. His decision. Not anyone else's.
And certainly not fucking Mark’s.
Eight
“Here we are, Monsieur. Welcome to Charmonix-Mailet.”
Isaac stared at the grand hotel from behind his taxi’s window. It rose proudly up into the sugarplum sky, a stone structure that was somehow as elegant as it was monstrous. A few lit windows stood out brightly, outshining the lazily setting sun, and silhouettes moved within. Couples and groups armed with huge skis and snowboards marched into its vast entrance, bundled up against the cold.
Isaac still wasn’t convinced that this trip was a good idea, but his publicist had insisted he accept. And he’d thought, on the plane ride over, that nothing could possibly make this week worth the monstrous waste of money it must be. Isaac might be wealthy in his own right, but he still heard his mother’s voice tutting every time he switched the heating on before November.
Right now, though, Mam's voice was silent. Because even she would agree that to see a sight so beautiful as this—the blood-red sun glinting off of snowcapped mountains, the pristine white blanket protecting the frozen earth, undisturbed for miles into the distance…
Well. It was absolutely fucking priceless.
“Thanks,” he said. There were a thousand words running through his head and his fingers itched to pick up a pen and pour them onto a page before they escaped him, but all his useless mouth could bear to say was thanks.
Still, the driver didn’t seem to notice how woefully inadequate this response was. He simply got out before Isaac could protest and unloaded his luggage with a grin. Isaac tipped the guy and trudged off into the hotel, shaking his head when eager staff leapt to assist him. He made his way through the luxurious foyer alone, passing a roaring fire on his way to the huge reception desk.
The place had clearly been decorated with 18th century opulence in mind. After collecting his information and room key, Isaac was led through dimly lit, luxurious corridors by a man whose uniform looked like a designer outfit. Even the staff here were painfully sophisticated. Who had the fucking time?
The guy opened the door to Isaac's room and stepped aside, running through a spiel that probably included valuable information. Isaac should definitely pay attention to the lightly accented words, but he simply couldn’t. He was too busy staring in astonishment at the outlandish display before him.
This place wasn’t a room at all, but a suite. There was a kind of seating area with its own fireplace, along with a writing desk tucked into the corner. Separated from that room by a short hallway was a bedroom decorated in shades of cream and burgundy, with a beautiful view framed by heavy, velvet curtains, and walls that appeared to be covered in fucking silk.
And of course, there was a bathroom. He couldn’t even bring himself to look in there. It probably had a golden fucking toilet seat.
“Your party has full access to the chateau’s amenities, of course," the Frenchman—Luc, according to his name tag—was saying. "And access to a private parlour for the duration of your stay." What the hell was it with rich people and parlours? “As per the request of your party's leader, the room number of each party member is contained within your welcome packet.” He nodded towards the sleek file that had been pressed into Isaac’s hand downstairs.
“Right,” Isaac murmured, still slightly stunned. “Thanks.” He put his crap down on the nearest flat surface and tipped the guy. It might not be the done thing in a place like this, but fuck it. Tipping politics was hard enough without taking into account the fact that this was a foreign country.
Finally, Luc left, shutting the door behind him, and Isaac sagged into a chair that looked like it had been pulled directly from Marie Antoinette’s palace. Then he stood up again, because he wasn’t about to sully the fancy furniture with his ripped jeans and battered jacket.
Fuck this.
With a resigned sigh, Isaac headed over to the window, staring out at the magnificent view of the slopes. He hadn’t come here intending to ski, but frankly, the outdoors looked a lot safer for a guy like him than the lavish decor in here. He wondered, on a scale of 1 to 10, just how embarrassing it would be to let three teenage girls teach him how to ski.
Probably pretty fucking embarrassing. But they’d enjoy it, and it would get him out of here.
Anyway. He'd better get a move on; he was late. He’d booked an afternoon flight because sleeping in was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself, and nothing was going to get in the way of that indulgence. But he should probably get washed up—if this place had anything so mundane as a shower—and head down to that private parlour. Yeah. That sounded about right.
Nine
After the most aggressive power shower he’d ever experienced—clearly the plumbing was bang up to date, unlike the decor—Isaac dressed and checked his phone. There was nothing new to see, bar an email from Jane. Something about a particularly inquisitive blogger. Apparently, he had a fan site now. Fucking hooray.
Jane would fix it. She always did.
Setting his phone aside, Isaac pulled out the little map from the back of his welcome package. Despite the size of the hotel, everything was laid out fairly logically. Within ten minutes, he found himself entering the private parlour.
It was, thankfully, on the smaller side. It was annoying to realise he had a grasp on the average size of a parlour, but he did. This one was cozy, with masculine decor. The walls were plain, and a fire burned merrily in the stone grate. The room was littered with the kind of deeply comfortable chairs a man actually felt confident about sitting down in—despite the obviously high-quality leather with which they were upholstered. All in all, this was a room Isaac might safely occupy.
Predictably, since he’d rushed down here, the place was almost empty. The girls were nowhere to be found; even Mark was absent. The only occupants of the room were two women curled up near the fire, talking quietly amongst themselves.
One woman—though she was more a girl, really, with cheeks like ripe plums and wide, dark eyes—was facing him, but the other was sat at such an angle that he mostly saw the back of her head. They were laughing amongst themselves, chattering rapidly, but when the first girl saw him, she fell silent.
And wasn’t that just the effect a guy wanted to have on innocent young woman? Sigh.
As he approached, the dancing flames dragged shadows across the other woman's profile. She turned, following her friend’s gaze, and, too late, Isaac recognised her. He stared, unable to hide his confusion.
Lizzie.
The stuck-up ice princess had… friends? Or at least, people she spent time with, who talked to her willingly? That seemed to imply she was physically capable of being pleasant.
Who the fuck saw that coming?
But it made sense. Of course it did. There was nothing wrong with her, not really.
It was him. It was always him.
Well. It was far too late to turn around and disappear, as much as Lizzie clearly wanted him to. The graceful line of her jaw was even sharper than usual and her brown eyes flashed with an emotion he couldn’t quite identify—but he’d bet his balls it was a negative one.
Still, she stood up and gave him a polite, if hollow smile. Always the lady. He didn’t know how these women did it—whether it was through training or simple birthright, they always maintained a vague air of control. Or, in Lizzie’s case, an absolutely stifling air of control.
Isaac tried to imagine his mother smiling like this at someone she despised. Tried, and failed. He’d take her unrepentant honesty any day of the week.
“Hello, Isaac,” Lizzie said levelly. She took her friend by the arm and led her forward, a lamb to the slaughter. “Do you two know each other?”
The girl shook her head solemnly. Everything about her, from the w
ay she moved to the smile on her face, was hesitant. Isaac found himself in the uncomfortable position of wanting to put another person at ease while barely managing to feel at ease himself.
“Hello,” she smiled softly.
He held out a hand for her to shake and said, “Isaac Montgomery”—because he was all about full disclosure. Plenty of people didn’t want to associate with a guy like him.
For example, one particularly infuriating dance teacher.
But this girl either didn’t recognise him or didn’t care about his reputation. She shook his hand, her grip gentle, and murmured, “I’m Candice. Candice Cooke. But everybody calls me Candy.”
The name triggered a faint memory. He frowned. “As in, Aunt Candy?”
“Oh, yeah.” And though her dark skin might hide it, he'd swear she was blushing. “That’s me.”
This was Aunt Candy? The famous online relationship expert—the one who’d gotten a deal with Spencer Publishing after her blog took the Internet by storm, or something like that? She couldn’t be more than 20 years old. She certainly didn’t resemble the stylised cartoon that adorned the cover of her book. That Aunt Candy was at least thirty years older and much homelier.
Isaac found himself looking at the girl with something close to admiration. However few years she had under her belt, there were clearly more than enough brains in her head.
“Candy,” Lizzie said brightly. “I don’t suppose you could hunt down the girls for me, could you? They’re probably still in their suite and I’m sure they’re at each other’s throats as we speak.”
“Oh, yeah,” Candy smiled. “I bet they are!” Her accent, he noticed, had none of the effortless precision Lizzie’s held. She spoke like a normal human being. Somehow, he’d never expected to see Lizzie smiling at anyone who didn’t talk like the Queen.
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