by Elsa Holland
“The Hurleys’ world?”
She stiffened. “How do you know about them?”
“I went through your things, remember? I followed up on the address I saw on some of your correspondence.”
Her brow creased.
“The Hurleys create people like me—Painted Sisters. For very large sums of money, we are tattooed by Collectors to be their living art.”
Vaughn started on the bandages. “I still don’t see how that works.”
“We sign a contract. The Collector gets to decide the design of the tattoo. When we are made we can be called on for private and public display a certain number of times a year. Many Painted Sisters choose to simply live with their Collector. I did for a while, but then left.”
“You were a virgin.” Vaughn’s heart was beating faster.
“Sexual favors are not part of the purchase, just the skin.” The tension eased a fraction.
“Edith, do you know anything about the killing in Manchester? They took her skin. We think she was tattooed extensively, much like you.” His heart was pounding as he willed her to say it was not related.
Her eyes saddened. “Some of the Collectors have gone rogue— they are paying to have the girl killed to get the skin.”
He stood up, placed his hand under her chin and lifted her face to look at him. “And your Collector, is he one of them?’
A lone tear spilled and rolled down her cheek. “I don’t think I’ll get away.”
His arms wrapped gently around her, drawing her against him. “I will do everything to keep you safe.”
“I have probably ensured your death by even coming here, let alone telling you this.”
“Then we are in it together.” He picked her up and placed her in bed, tucking her in. “Here, take some laudanum.”
She nodded, that desolate look on her face again. Her fingers touched his intentionally as she handed the bottle back. “Can you stay?”
He bent down and kissed her. “You won’t be able to keep me away.”
Vaughn went over to his bookcase and picked a book, sat next to her on the other side of the bed and started to read aloud: “Optical surgery is one of the most challenging tasks a new surgeon will need to master . . .”
Her eyes darted up to his and she smiled. “Perfect.” She closed her eyes.
After a time, her breathing slowed, and she fell asleep. He went to his dresser and pulled out a black sock. Opened his bedroom door and placed the sock on his door handle; a signal to Price that it would be awkward if he was disturbed.
He took off his clothes, slipped in behind her and tucked her up against him, and lay there plotting to kill a man he didn’t know.
CHAPTER 63
“What do you mean, he’s off the case?” Morrison stalked around Dr Simpson’s office. He’d come down as soon as he’d received the note from Simpson that a new doctor would be joining them.
“Well,” Simpson sounded vague, “there were elements in the way he handled the first case that I thought someone else could have done better.”
“Better? It was the fucking Butcher who suggested the harness, the tattoos, and the skill set needed to do the job. You stopped at death by draining. I’m the criminal investigator and I want the Butcher back.”
“I am not sure it is really up to you to decide. The higher-ups don’t want him.”
“‘Higher-ups’? Who?”
Simpson wriggled around uncomfortably. So, it was about palm greasing, not official business. Good, he could deal with that. He had made enquiries after the way Simpson looked at the pup, report had come in two days ago.
“Here’s the deal. I know you, Simpson.” Morrison let that sink in and get the man’s attention. People who thought they were intelligent never caught on fast enough when you threatened them.
“I don’t know what you mean?” The man wriggled in his chair again.
“I know about the boys you visit in the poor house.” Morrison paused again for dramatic effect and watched a wary veil come over the doctor’s face.
“I treat the boys, they misunderstand sometimes. Medical things can get a bit personal.”
“Since you started visits a few years ago, little Bobby has become a chronic bed wetter and young James killed himself.”
Simpson puffed up. “Those boys come from very troubled circumstances!”
Morrison leaned over the desk. “Here is the deal. Firstly, you will no longer ‘treat’ boys. Secondly, you will ensure that the Butcher remains the second opinion throughout this case. Are we understood?”
Simpson gave a single nod.
Morrison left the room. He’d already submitted a report about the despicable man. Word was, Dr Simpson would be moving on. And if the next assistant coroner got ideas about the Butcher, he’d sort that out as well.
CHAPTER 64
Edith’s eyes flickered open. They saw the black carved wood of the bed post and the frame holding the canopy above, got lost in the swirl of vines, flowers, wolves and stags. Images that reminded her of fairytales she’d heard as a child. Softly, she felt his breath over her ear, felt his presence behind her, protective and possessive and her heart ached so hard she thought she would break with the yearning to have this life as her own.
Then the hot flaming sting stole her attention. It smoldered like charred remains along her arms, her legs and across her belly and breasts, a pulse of muffled pain. And then the reason for that pain came back.
She should be upset. He’d gone through her things and destroyed her plans, then asked her to trust him? But she knew why he’d done it. He’d thought her no better than his beautiful, deceptive goddess. And now? He thought he would be able to save her.
“How are you feeling?” His voice was scratchy from sleep. She took the moment in, like a balm over the rawness.
“Anthony?” Lifting her arm only made Vaughn pull her closer to him.
“Anthony,” he muffled his name into her hair. “I like that. I want to hear you pant it, scream it, moan it, growl it, whine it, beg it.”
Despite the injured state of it, pleasure rippled through her body. Pleasure and . . . love. Her heart thudded along, not skipping a beat. It had known the first time he’d stalked through those double doors.
“Are you sore?” He asked and pressed against her back.
“Yes.”
“You should take some more laudanum until the pain drops and the skin is less sensitive.”
It was a good idea. He rolled out of bed to fetch it. At some point in the night he must have undressed as it was a naked stallion of a man who walked to her side of the bed and held the laudanum to her lips. “Take a few good swallows.”
Edith took some and handed the bottle back to him, taking in the view, a damp heat settling between her legs, despite the aches.
He then found a few flimsy reasons to walk around the room in her line of sight. The opiate started to take effect and the warm glow between her legs grew, her body wanting the waves of pleasure he was so skilled at giving.
“Enough,” she growled at him. “Come to bed, this visual foreplay is over.”
He stalked over to the bed, his interest on clear display. “I thought you were sore.” He slipped in the bed behind her.
“My back isn’t and your laudanum is working. Anthony.” Edith said his name on a plea. His chuckle sent shivers over her skin as the laudanum muted sounds and smudged her sight.
Carefully, he drew the covers off her. His fingers traced over her, over the designs as her mind tried to follow. “Flower,” she said. He traced another. “Flower,” she giggled, and he laughed as well. It made all the corners in her skin feel filled with light.
“They’re all flowers, Edith,” she heard the sound of a smile in his voice.
“You’re so very beautiful,” he kissed her shoulder. Her eyes welled up.
“Show me,” she whispered.
He gently kissed her lips. “Softest lips,” he kissed her eyes, “saddest eyes,” nuzzled
into her hair, “darkest satin hair.”
The touches sent small fireworks under her skin, the pain gone to a faraway place. Words tickled over her nerves like small puffs of wind.
Her hand crept down between her legs and pressed against her small erect bud. “Go on . . . Anthony,” she purred his name and pinched at her sex, “tell me more, make me come.”
He rolled her from her side to her back then leaned above her, eyes creased, and another one of those pleasure-pain moments washed through her, a desire for life to be simple and for this to be her man, this to be her life. Instead, she would run as soon as she had the chance, to save him. “Make me come, Anthony,” she begged.
Vaughn kissed her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders, kissed the scratches along her breasts. “I’m going to nibble your stamens,” he murmured, then sucked and nibbled on her nipples as heat and warmth tugged deep down into her sex making the small buttons stand erect in her chrysanthemums. “Delicious,” he murmured as he traveled over her body, giving light kisses, gentle strokes, soft words of appreciation, of beauty. The words, as if they were fingers, teased her skin and made her body pulse, grow hot and restless with need, and her heart ached with the pain of longing.
Gradually the tenderness fell away, and warm sensual awareness and sensitivity took its place. Her body was flushed, and her legs moved restlessly. When he didn’t slip his hand or mouth between her legs she opened them.
“Roll on your side, if you can” Vaughn slipped in behind, then lifted her thigh over his and pressed his cock into her. Edith held her breath as he pressed in, slow, thick and full, deep into her core.
“Anthony,” she moaned as he moved in and out of her; a slow sensual slide as he whispered encouragement, endearments and praise. Her eyes became heavy and her breathing deepened, she reached behind him to hold him closer, ground her sex back on him as pleasure climbed higher.
His thrusts became faster, deeper, his hand holding her hip steady. She dug her nails into him as her muscles tensed around him and she panted his name, “Anthony, Anthony.”
Then his fingers slid down toward her sex and she screamed his name as he pinched her nub giving her the pleasure-pain that sat in her chest.
“Did I hurt you before?” he spoke into her hair, talking about their first time.
“Just my heart,” her fingers curled into the sheet.
“I was angry.”
“I’ll be demanding penance.” And she would.
Vaughn traced a flower on her shoulder, tickling her with the lightness of his touch. “I’m jealous of the man who did this to you. And this Collector, I want to do violent things to him. Those relationships, I don’t know where to put them, how to categorize them.” He moved and rolled her onto her back, so he could look at her. “If I lost you, Edith . . .”
He still didn’t realize she was already lost, already dead.
“Promise me you will not race off alone. My instinct tells me I should be worried, and I am.” That ache and pain shot through her again.
She tugged him back down to her. His instincts were too good. She would run the first chance she got. It was too late for her, but she could perhaps save him if she was caught further afield. “Show me again which flower you liked best.”
His face softened, “You know which flower I like best,” his fingers slipped between the folds of her sex. “This one.”
CHAPTER 65
“Inspector, Mr Brody,” Vaughn greeted them, “let’s see if we can find something to help catch him.”
“We have the photos and crime report.” Mr Brody said, stepping forward.
Vaughn held up his hand. “I think I’ll follow Dr Simpson’s lead.” His gaze caught the inspector’s and Vaughn gave him a look he hoped would let the inspector know something was off.
“Given the stink you made last time?” Morisson growled.
No such luck. Vaughn turned so his back was to Dr Simpson, facing the inspector. He took a leap of faith and gave a ‘time out’ signal with his hands.
“What the fuck . . .” the inspector started when Mr Brody stepped forward and waved the report folder about.
“Sod off you fucking pricks. I don’t know why I even bothered to write up a report.” He marched out with the report under his arm. Smart young man.
The inspector looked shocked, an emotion that Vaughn didn’t believe him capable of until now.
“You’d best check on him,” Vaughn suggested, and the inspector scowled but followed his assistant.
Vaughn turned to Simpson. “I should apologize to them.”
The old man nodded, and Vaughn left the room. With Cox’s other set of eyes out of the exchange, Vaughn walked down the hall to find the inspector prodding a finger at his assistant.
“Inspector, if I can have a word.”
The inspector pointed his assistant back down to the lab.
“Don’t go inside,” Vaughn said to the lad.
“I just told him to wait in the lab,” Morrison growled.
“Well, tell him to wait outside.”
The assistant smirked, and Morrison swore. “I don’t give orders to your nurses.”
Vaughn chose to ignore him. “Dr Simpson handed the report to a third party in Edinburgh. Keep it out of his hands unless you want it made more widely available.” The inspector swore. “Whatever you say will be repeated verbatim to one or more interested parties. Keep that in mind.”
“How do you know, Butcher?” The inspector was a smart man, he was already putting two and two together, realizing that in order to know the degree of Simpson’s indiscretion, Vaughn had to know the same man.
“I need to get back to Edinburgh as soon as I am done here, but there are a few matters I’d like to discuss with you in private. I’d rather Dr Simpson was not made aware of our meeting. Where can we meet out of sight?”
“My place is not far by cab.”
“Leave something, I’ll deliver it. No assistant, either.”
“I have a gun.” The inspector was letting him know not to try anything. Vaughn barked a laugh.
“I have a scalpel.”
The inspector gave the closest thing to a smile. “I win.”
After three hours, the autopsy was done. The inspector had left the assistant’s satchel, and Dr Simpson thought nothing of his promise to drop it off en–route to dinner with friends.
Vaughn knocked on the inspector’s unexpectedly affluent and well-presented house. The inspector was born into money; those of his profession could not afford such surrounds on their wages alone. It made his gruff behavior somewhat incongruent while making sense of his self-confident air. Such presumption came from privilege, though he hid it well.
The inspector answered; no butler.
“Come in. Coat on the hooks by the door or dump it on the chair.”
Vaughn handed him the satchel. The inspector waved it at him. “The little shit sulked all the way home and then stomped out.” Then he laughed. It seemed they both shared a soft spot for insubordination in their employees. “Can you believe what the kid said in there? I’ve been trying to teach him phrases with balls.”
“I’d say he’s learned very well.”
The inspector poured a scotch then lifted the bottle in question. Vaughn nodded.
“So, what is all the secrecy about?”
“Two things. Firstly, I was given the position under the influence of a Dr Cox in Edinburgh.” The inspector swore under his breath. “Before you think the worst, I didn’t ask; clearly, I would want the opportunity but not the obligation. This man is currently under my investigation regarding missing military patients from a charitable hospital. He is obscenely rich and well connected and enjoys that fact.”
“He’s a surgeon?”
“He is, more correctly, a sadistic man with a license to use a scalpel. Of all of the hospital’s surgeries, he has the highest count for those resulting in scarring, maiming and death, and it is well known that he rarely uses anesthetic.
&
nbsp; “After the last autopsy, I was asked for dinner and had prepared to give him a mild yet titillating response to his questions, without giving away confidential information. Unfortunately, Dr Simpson had already regaled him with all the facts, as well as our reports.”
Morrison swore as he handed Vaughn the glass of scotch and flopped into a worn chair.
“That’s why you said you didn’t need to see the crime scene report or photos and would just do the physical?”
“Now to the second reason for my visit. I . . .” How could he say it? “My . . .” Vaughn swore. Got up and started to pace. He pointed a finger at the inspector. “This goes no further, no matter what.”
The inspector rubbed his hand over his face. “You are better off not telling me if I can’t do anything with it.”
“I need advice. I think the woman I have employed may be in danger and related to this case.”
“What, is she extensively tattooed and breathtakingly beautiful?” The inspector joked.
Vaughn stopped pacing. “Yes.”
It took the inspector a moment to process. “Go on.”
“She is extremely fearful and believes she is being followed. She came to my employment with a view to forge my medical degree and take up a medical posting in Africa.”
“What?” The inspector looked as if she must be mad.
“It has a logic: my alma mater allows female students to study Medicine, and Africa is a very long way from the people she fears are after her.”
“And she’s tattooed? How extensively?”
Vaughn mapped it out on his body. “Full torso, arms and thighs.”
“I need to talk with her. I’d have to bring the kid, he has an outstanding ability to recall scenes and draw. Do you think she can show us her tattoos?”
“No!” His voice was indignant.
“Well, if she showed you . . . Oh, you are lovers.”
“She is my fiancée.” She just didn’t know yet.
Morrison lifted his hand in surrender. “No judgement here. But mate, it will help if we can see what we are dealing with.”