The Curse Behind The Mask (Dirty Heroes Collection Book 6)
Page 9
Four. Resist.
“Forget Dr. Watson?”
He remembered thinking about disposing of him. Surely, he’d not followed through? This card was written by himself when he’d known more and had carefully calculated what should be done. Miss Wilhelmina, that female he remembered too much of. He’d been severely attracted, and she was related to the enemy.
He would return to London, and no matter how distasteful the cart might be, he’d use the travelling time to get his mind in order. Besides, he’d ridden in far worse contraptions in the past.
The case was always more important than any discomfort. Besides, he could question Horace about pig farming and whether he’d seen anyone else parachuting down in the vicinity. His own parachute was nowhere in sight.
Had he killed Watson? He rather hoped not.
A small case waited in the corner—at least there would be clean clothes inside it. Sherlock stood, straightened his trousers and shirt, then smoothed down his unruly hair.
Hair… he recalled touching her hair, then an instant later remembered the cages and the naked women, and his animalistic arousal.
He’d considered creating a criminal empire.
He picked up the revolver, and the lethal weight of it made cruel impulses crowd in, like rats raising their noses at the first sniff of death.
This pig farm was clearly a bad beginning.
And what was the case he was following up? The missing wife?
Resist, he’d written.
He carried the suitcase to the bed and opened it. Inside was another card: Do not give in to these wicked impulses. Find out why they are happening.
That explained the resist.
And there was his case. No longer was it a missing wife. He had a more important one—himself, those missing hours and his impulses. But was he correct to assume that giving in to them was wrong?
Maybe it was his destiny? Maybe whatever had happened to Watson was meant to be?
“Never!” Sherlock scoffed, pulling a fresh shirt from the case and shaking it out. Destiny was rubbish. “I make my own destiny.”
As soon as he reached London and had everything in order, he would be paying a visit to Miss Moriarty, wherever she had found lodgings. He would merely watch her at first… as he had when she’d slept on the desk, with her red hair curling over her eye, and her breasts spilling from her dress.
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About the Author
Holly J. Gill is a wife and mum of three grown-ups who have not fled their nests. She's also a proud Nana to four grandchildren. Holly lives in Grimsby, and currently has a second home where her youngest daughter moved to Birmingham, England. The J in her name stands for Jody. She enjoys spending quality time with her family. Holly and her hubby have a secret hideaway for peace and quiet in a sweet idyllic campsite where they like to pitch a tent close to York, one of her favourite cities.
Holly enjoys touring the UK, sight-seeing, visiting stately homes and castles. Her hobbies are reading, writing, socialising and listening to music.
Holly's writing career started back when she was a child, the only time she liked school was when she was writing essays. She recalls in one English lesson her teacher said, 'Holly you write too much, please don't write so much. I only need ten pages, not thirty'. Holly was heartbroken at the time, and she handed in ten pages and once marked, she went home to finish the work.
Holly never lacks imagination, which never ceases to amaze her. When writing, she isn't committed to one genre, she likes to move around wherever her mood takes her.
Holly previously published six books, an erotic series and a sweet adult romance with Secret Cravings Publishing. Holly had to find homes for her books when the publisher announced they were closing their doors, and after serious consideration, she decided to self-publish.
Holly has a terrible sweet tooth, especially when it comes to treacle sponge.
Writing is where Holly’s heart is.
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