But I can be funny too! Dolf thought, resentful. Really funny! Probably.
No, she was right to want to move in with Declan. He would be the more fun roommate. And they had their entire lives to catch up on with each other.
Dolf nearly sighed, turning it into a strained smile when Declan hit his punch line and Helena burst into peals of laughter.
It had been a good story. He just wasn’t in the mood to be amused by it.
“Dolf!” exclaimed Helena, turning to him. Her face was still flushed from her laughter, her expression bright. “Dolf, can Declan and I stay here tonight?”
“My apartment is trashed, man, and we were hoping that –”
“Yes, of course!” interrupted Dolf, his heart leaping in his chest. He didn’t need to hear more. “Stay as long as you like!”
If Declan was sleeping on his couch and Helena in his closet, then it would be at least a little while longer before he had to let her go.
Declan favored him with another fond look. So did Helena. At least, Dolf hoped that was what was in her smile. He felt a warm, happy glow in his heart, one that only brightened when Declan said “You’re the best man,” and Helena echoed his sentiment, albeit in her own terms.
Wolves, even if they weren’t grey wolves, liked to be appreciated by their packmates.
Not that the current sleeping arrangements weren’t without their own perils. After Helena had disappeared into her closet, her leather bound copy of Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea under her arm and a pensive look on her face, and Declan was settled on the couch with the last of Dolf’s spare blankets and the other pillow from his bed, Dolf had trouble getting to sleep.
The problem was Helena.
More specifically, it was his memories of her: the softness of her lips on his, the way that her face lit up when she was surprised or delighted or talking about her research project, and the press of her soft body against his lean form. He liked the shape of her mouth when she smiled him, and he hated how dangerous she was, mostly to herself, in the kitchen.
And in that towel! She had still been damp, her skin glistening with water as she emerged from the bathroom. First, there had been the tops of her breasts and the swoop of her collarbones to admire, and then the lengths of her bare, shapely legs to enjoy as she had walked away.
Dolf wished that he knew what she really smelled like, not all those scented lotions and potions and soaps that she liked so much.
He also wished that he could rub one out without alerting either of his guests or making things weird.
Uncomfortable, Dolf rolled onto his stomach, but that didn’t make his situation better. In fact, it made it much worse. Huffing out a breath, Dolf rolled onto his back again.
I can’t sleep like this, thought Dolf, annoyed.
And he needed to sleep if he was going to protect Helena from a pack of highly motivated hellhounds for the foreseeable future. This might be the last night that he got a full night’s sleep for a long time.
Was it too late to take a shower?
Studying his alarm clock’s glowing digits, Dolf decided that no, it was not too late for a nice warm shower in the privacy of his bathroom.
Rising, Dolf went to transact some highly personal business in the shower. And then, hopefully, finally to sleep.
Chapter 15 – Helena
The next morning, Helena and Declan decided to let Dolf sleep. Dolf had been so tired that he hadn’t even woken when Helena had left her closet that morning, and usually, every little thing work him up.
“It’s probably his physical,” said Declan, as he got out the things that he would need to make breakfast. “He’s a bit of a worrywart about stuff like that.”
“He did mention it in passing once or twice,” murmured Helena.
“Yeah?” Declan slanted a laughing look her way. “And I bet he’s had you eating rabbit food too.”
“It’s all been very good!” said Helena defensively. “Rudolf is a very good cook.”
“But rabbit food is still rabbit food,” said Declan with finality.
“What are you making?” asked Helena, eyeing the things on the counter.
“Ham and cheese omelets with two kinds of cheese and spinach, apparently,” said Declan cheerfully. “Real food.”
Helena marveled, not only that he should have the recipe in his head like that, but also that he should be able to make changes to it on the fly. She had precisely two recipes, both from Mr. Lazarus and both written down immediately after he had left.
At the thought of her friend, Helena felt a wave of sadness.
He hadn’t deserved to die, especially not like that.
While Declan made ham and cheese omelets for everyone, he listened to local morning news on his cell phone, which meant that Helena, who was keeping him company in the kitchen while he cooked, also listened to the local morning news.
To so easily be able to cook and listen to the news at the same time without cutting or burning or grating his fingers, thought Helena, admiringly. Truly, my cousin is accomplished!
Yesterday, she had listened to and obeyed Mr. Lazarus’ directions while she had been cooking, but that had been different. For one thing, his narrative had been directly related to what she was doing. And for another, he had been quiet during the tricky parts. There had been a lot of tricky parts.
Of course, watching Declan cook, it seemed like there were no tricky parts in omelet making for her cousin.
If he had lived, would Mr. Lazarus have been willing to teach me to make an omelet? Helena wondered, and then decided that yes, he probably would have. He had been very fond of her, after all; and a very good friend too.
There was a glancing mention of Mr. Lazarus’ death in the morning news, though he was mentioned by another name as having tragically fallen down the stairs in their apartment complex, but the newscasters’ attention seemed to be entirely consumed by the murder of a wealthy industrialist. From what Helena could gather, he had died the same night as Mr. Lazarus; later the same night, to be specific.
It was the industrialist’s surname that caught Helena’s attention though.
Jonathan Rothschild? Helena wondered, feeling amazed and alarmed in near equal measure. Isn’t that the family that Mr. Lazarus’ wife came from? And didn’t Mr. Lazarus say that man – the stranger from the stairwell – worked for the Rothschilds?
It might not be. She could be remembering incorrectly.
But Helena didn’t think that she was.
For three members of a family to have died of unnatural causes inside the span of a few months, two of them in the same night, was too much to be coincidence.
The Rothschild family, it seemed, was having an internal dispute and all signs pointed to it being deadly.
A suspect had been taken away in cuffs. The police had arrested the family’s head maid, a were-lioness named Conchetta Fernandez, on suspicion of murder.
According to the newscaster, the grounds for suspicion were obvious: she was a were-lioness, and the body had been mauled by something with big, sharp claws; she had been her employer’s sometimes lover; and she had supposedly found the body. Her supposed motive for the murder was still unclear to investigators, although the newscaster had no problem insinuating that it was likely romantic or possibly financial.
Hearing the newscaster’s case against the poor woman, Helena snorted.
That’ll never hold up, thought Helena idly, as she watched her cousin turn over the omelet in its skillet.
It definitely wasn’t the maid.
After her grandmother had died, Helena’s grandfather had entered into the same sort of arrangement with his personal secretary that Jonathan Rothschild had purportedly had with his head maid.
As far as Helena had ever been able to discern, there had been a mutual understanding in place: sex, information, and the protection of his privacy in exchange for a generous stipend, unparalleled benefits, a modicum of loyalty, and obvious preferential tre
atment. They had no formal or even any acknowledged claims on each other, at least not as far as Helena had ever been able to discern.
Helena didn’t know enough about her grandfather’s secretary to say if she had liked the arrangement, but she and Helena’s grandfather had always been thick as thieves. There had been no bribing information out of her grandfather’s personal secretary.
Helena had no doubt that this Conchetta Fernandez had been thick as thieves with her employer too; for years, too, from the sounds of it. So why would the woman kill him now?
If their relationship had been open and her motive had been romantic, why had she not killed him before now over some other lover? It was early days yet in the scandal, but there had been no mention of him being survived by a fiancée in the news article, just a son and some nieces and nephews.
If it was financial, well, how could it have possibly been financial? She would have had no claims on Jonathan Rothschild’s bank account outside of her usual salary. Killing her employer would have necessarily terminated her position, which in turn would have dried up her annual salary. And then there was the victim’s, Jonathan Rothschild’s, last will and testament to consider. He had likely remembered Conchetta Fernandez well in it, as Helena’s grandfather had likely remembered his secretary well in his will. Helena didn’t know a lot about criminal law, but she knew something about inheritance, and murderers never inherited. It was against the law.
Plus, there were the two other dead Rothschild scions to consider.
No, whatever was going on among the Rothschilds, no mere servant would have had a stake in its outcome, not one worth killing over, at any rate.
If Helena had been pressed to guess, her guess would have been on another Rothchild or possibly some sort of shady business dealing gone wrong, depending on the state of the family’s financials. Either way though, the Rothschilds needed to get their business under control; Helena’s grandparents never would have stood for Tarletons killing each other or, worse, being picked off one by one by outsiders.
Rudolf wandered in about then, sporting one of Helena’s three favorite looks for him: sleepy, rumpled, and shirtless, wearing only his pajama pants. She tried not to get caught considering either the narrow treasure trail that disappeared beneath his waistband or his big hands.
His hands! They had certainly made her body sing last night. Just remembering it made her nipples contract in a sudden, bewildering rush of pleasure. Helena hadn’t known that they could do that. Or that making out could be so fun.
Rudolf Shaw was certainly a learning experience, in more ways than one.
As she choked down her eggs, Helena idly wondered what else might feel good with those big, strong hands on her. She could certainly think of a few things that she’d like to try.
“Hey, Helena?” asked Declan, drawing her attention. “Are you okay? You look a bit flushed.”
At his words, heat seared through her. Helena was sure that she was scarlet now.
“I’m fine,” she said with all the dignity that she could muster. It was slightly less than usual, having been called out right in front of the man that she was having sexy daydreams about. But perhaps that was the function of cousins? Helena didn’t know, and she wasn’t certain that she approved, even though he had obviously done it with the best of intentions.
Still, she was more careful to keep her thoughts firmly on the present, after that.
After breakfast, Declan and Dolf said that they needed to go into the office. What’s more, they were somewhat insistent that Helena come with them. Since no one was actively attempting to kidnap her, and it seemed that she couldn’t outrun her problems anyway, Helena found that she was willing to go with the flow, at least for the time being.
And thus it was that after breakfast, they all three emerged from Dolf’s apartment; Declan in yesterday’s clothes and Helena with Mr. Lazarus’ book tucked under her arm.
Helena was fine in the hallway and even in the elevator, by means of which the hellhounds had meant to kidnap her. She was even fine with all of the policemen that were swarming all over the apartment complex, like ants mustering around a kicked anthill. In fact, she was better than fine with them hanging around. Dolf had told her in passing that as long as they were wandering around the apartment building and poking their noses into everything, the hellhounds were unlikely to come back. As far as Helena was concerned, they could hang around forever, if they wanted.
But outside of poor Mr. Lazarus’ apartment, grief tugged at Helena’s heart and her footsteps faltered. The police had been there, crisscrossing strips of bright yellow police tape across his front door evidence of their passing interest in Mr. Lazarus’ life.
Everyone had thought Mr. Lazarus had fallen down the stairs, until someone had discovered that his apartment had been broken into and ransacked either before or after his death. As far as Helena knew, no one had said the word ‘murder’ yet, but it seemed likely that the police were at least thinking of it as a possibility. Otherwise, what was the point of their poking into everything and interviewing everyone?
It made her happy that someone, somewhere, was taking her friend’s death seriously. But somehow, the sight of that gaudy yellow police tape across her friend’s door made Helena even sadder.
By then, she must have been moving pretty slowly, because Declan, who was walking behind her, trod on the back of Helena’s heel.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know that you were going to slow down like that.”
“It’s fine,” said Helena, her steps speeding up again, as much to catch up with Dolf as to escape the range of her cousin’s feet.
In the parking lot, they all piled into Dolf’s truck. As the smallest and slimmest person in the vehicle, Helena got to belt into the middle seat.
Helena had been to the Dial A Defender office once before, but its location still somehow surprised her. Given the sort of men that seemed to work for the place – Declan and Rudolf included – Helena had expected the Dial A Defender offices to be located in some sort of high rise office building somewhere, not a pokey little turn of the century home turned office building.
Not that it was the only pokey little turn of the century office building on the street; far from it.
Wedged between a law office graced with a small, golden sign and fancy black print and an undertaker’s, their services offered on a large black sign with severe white type, the Dial A Defender sign was like it’s office: straightforward, without frills, and easy to read.
Old and two-storied, the Dial A Defender building was painted mint green with white trim and graced with a wide front porch and a long, narrow parking lot that it shared with the businesses to either side of it.
As she crossed its porch, Helena wondered if any of the Defenders had ever just sat outside and enjoyed it, maybe with a rocking chair, a book, and a large glass of lemonade.
Inside, what had probably once served as the front parlor now served as the building’s reception, an area ruled over by the office’s secretary. Helena had met her the last time that she was there too.
This time, Dolf and Declan hustled her past the woman, and Helena’s last sight of the office’s secretary was of her grabbing her phone to call someone.
“I think she’s calling security on us,” murmured Helena, as Declan led her up the stairs. Dolf came up behind her.
Dolf and Declan both snorted.
“Helena, we are security,” said Declan, sounding amused.
“And we’re running late,” said Dolf. “We wanted to get to the boss before the weekly staff meeting.”
They swept Helena up the stairs and down the hall to an office whose door she was through too quickly to see the name on it. In short order, Helena found herself sitting in a comfortable chair in a bright, sunny room dominated by large windows and a long, L-shaped desk; walnut, unless she missed her guess.
Seated behind that L-shaped desk was a handsome man in his thirties with a long face, full lips, and odd
eyes. They were pale brown; their pupil a horizontal slit. He was lean with unusually coarse white hair, most of which was sticking up in cowlicks, and olive skin.
Looking at him, it was obvious that he was some sort of shifter, although what kind, Helena couldn’t guess. She had never before seen a shifter with his hybrid features, though she had heard that those sorts of things usually happened when a shifter type had only relatively recently taken on human form.
Under his assessing gaze, Helena smoothed her skirt and resettled both her purse and Mr. Lazarus’ book – her book now, she guessed. Helena was careful not to let any of Mr. Lazarus’ papers fall out of the book.
Last night, Helena had found a thick packet of paper tucked between the back cover and the last page of the book. At the time, Helena hadn’t felt up to giving them the attention that they deserved. Mr. Lazarus’ death had still been too fresh. But curious by nature, she had given them a quick glance through, telling herself that she was scanning them for the names and contact information of any potential friends or family.
Legalese wasn’t her forte, but from what she had been able to discern, Helena thought that she had found copies of a pair of wills, his and his dead wife’s. Uncertain what to do with them now that they and the book could no longer be returned to their original owner, Helena had ultimately decided to return the papers to where she had found them in the book, but to keep the book close until she figured out what to do with it and the wills.
“Gil, this is my cousin, Helena Tarleton,” began Declan. “She’s in a bit of trouble, so I’d like to take a few days off to help her out of it.”
“I would too,” said Dolf quickly, surprising Helena.
Dolf had always been pretty open about the fact that he was helping her as a favor to Declan, not her. Now that Declan was back, his obligation to her cousin had ended. Theoretically, he should he happy to see the back of her.
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