Hers To Keep: THE QUINTESSENCE COLLECTION I

by Akeroyd, Serena

  Sean smirked. “I wouldn’t test her.”

  “Fuck. You win.” He reached for a glass from the cupboard over the sink and poured himself a drink. “Better?”

  “Hardly. The deed is done now.” She sighed and shot Sean a look.

  He reached over and swiped his thumb along her cheekbone. When his thumb brushed where she was nibbling on her lip, she let her tongue swiped across the blunt end. His eyes darkened. “Minx.”

  “She can’t help it,” Sawyer pointed out. “The woman’s part vixen.”

  Sascha cut him a look but couldn’t stop the smug grin that curved her lips. “Is that really how you think of me?”

  “Aye.” He wafted a hand at her as he moved around the counter, a tumbler in his clasp. “You’re even more potent in these regular clothes too.”

  She blinked, peered down at herself with a grimace. With her head the way it had been, she’d barely been putting on anything other than a swipe of gloss on her lips—even that was to stop dry lips, not to look sexy. And her regular clothes consisted of yoga pants and camisoles. Hardly vixen-like wear.

  “You think this is sexy?” she asked, astonished by his comment.

  “You haven’t seen your ass in them,” he explained. “Plus, you get the sweetest camel toe.” He clutched his heart. “Almost kills me.”

  She closed her eyes in a mixture of amusement and mortification but couldn’t stop the snort from escaping. “You did not just say that?”

  “I only speak the truth. Don’t I, Sean?”

  Her eyes popped open to catch Sean’s response. He cleared his throat, looked down at his lap.

  “Sean?”

  He cleared his throat again. “It’s pretty sweet,” he mumbled.

  “You pervs,” she retorted, but the comments actually cheered her up. She’d been feeling like a slug for wearing such boring clothes of late. But she’d wanted comfort over anything else, and these were perfect for that.

  Knowing that they liked her dressed for comfort as well as to impress perked her up a treat.

  “Your pervs,” Sawyer retorted, winking at her again.

  Sascha huffed out a breath, then peered up at the ceiling when she heard another shriek coming from above. Ducking her head to hide her grin, fingers appeared that forced her to look at them.

  “What have you done now?”

  Her lips twitched with the need to smile. Smugly. “Nothing.”

  “Jesus. Remind me never to trust that grin again,” Sawyer said with a grimace.

  She smirked. “That would be very wise of you.”

  Twenty-One

  “Thanks for agreeing to see us, Edward,” Andrei murmured as he shook Edward Jacobie’s hand. “These are my friends, Sean and Sawyer.”

  Jacobie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Your housemates, too, if I’m not mistaken?”

  Andrei shot him a confused frown as Sean and Sawyer shook hands with the man. “How do you know that?”

  “Sorry. An invasion of privacy, I know, but my security detail did a check on you before we started working together. I read the file. I was curious about you.”

  Sawyer shot Sean a look, but he shook his head the slightest eighth of an inch to the left, and Sawyer decided to shut the fuck up.

  He wasn’t even sure why he was there, except Andrei had said it made sense for Sawyer to show up. If Jacobie was totally unreceptive to answering their questions, they could swiftly turn to business and Sawyer could join in and help sweep things over.

  Disinterested in the inane chitchat Andrei and Sean engaged in with the tech mogul, Sawyer looked around the sweet digs.

  They were in Surrey, an hour or so away from their home in Kensington. Jacobie’s family home was here, and it was an old country pile.

  A lot of the old noble estates had either gone to rack and ruin after the First World War, had been turned over to the National Trust who maintained the historical landmarks while opening them to the public, or were owned by the original families who kept them open to the visitors who funded repairs—Jacobie’s house was none of those three.

  Not that that was completely surprising. The man was a billionaire after all.

  When he was in England, this house was his HQ. He had a skyscraper all to himself in London, but according to Andrei, he worked here for the most part.

  Sawyer couldn’t blame him. The house was not only beautiful, but large; Jacobie’s office was the size of a tennis court. A huge plantation desk overlooked a maze in the garden, while large sofas looked onto a hearth so deep and tall, he could probably step inside it with comfort.

  The man was overly fond of taxidermy, with dead stag heads on the wall, bears and even a lion on the floor, but these rich bastards usually were, weren’t they?

  He scrubbed his chin, wondering why being in a high tax bracket meant people forgot about carpeting and started having preference for animal corpses, when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” Jacobie hollered.

  A maid appeared in a neat black uniform with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. “I’ve brought coffee, sir,” she murmured politely, bowing her head at the tray she was supporting with the flat of one hand.

  “Thank you, Maria,” Jacobie replied, smiling as she headed past two onyx and gilt statues of boys that guarded the entry way.

  She placed the tray on the coffee table separating the seating area where they’d taken up residence. Sean and Andrei were on the sofa, overlooking the hearth, Jacobie was to the left, in an overstuffed armchair, his view took in the door. Sawyer also had an armchair, but he could see out into the yard from his perspective.

  Maria neatly tucked her knees together as she approached and bent down to place the tray on the coffee table. Within seconds, she was silently pouring out four cups of coffee.

  As the scent of the potent brew perfumed the atmosphere, he asked, “Would it be okay if I used the restroom?”

  Knowing Sean and Andrei were shooting him a look, he ignored them. He doubted they believed he needed the bathroom; but they should also have known that if they’d brought him along like a guard dog, he was bound to stray.

  “Of course,” Jacobie said magnanimously. “Maria will show you to the facilities.”

  He smiled at the host, then the maid, and got to his feet. Trailing behind her, he shut the living room door, and wandered down a small corridor that led to a large atrium.

  Overhead, a kind of old-fashioned skylight illuminated the space. It reminded him of the Crystal Palace. Not neat and sleek like today, but boxy. Still, it retained a charm of its own, because, for its time, it had undoubtedly been innovative.

  The central space housed a bank of seating areas. Small clusters that lined the middle, whereas down the wall, there were the usual paraphernalia one found in country piles such as these.

  Statues, suits of armor, priceless paintings, ugly portraits of long dead ancestors. He viewed it all with interest, then as they approached the foyer with its large circular table, the table he’d wanted to study alone, he cut a glance at the maid who hadn’t spotted his interest.

  Taking him down another corridor, she waved a hand toward a door. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Thanks.” He shot her a tight smile.

  She bowed her head, and he watched as she retreated, not moving until she’d gone.

  Quickly heading inside, he waited by the door, listening for the tap tap of her footsteps to disappear entirely.

  When they had, he left the bathroom again, and headed back the way he’d come.

  In the foyer, the large maple table gleamed with polish. Old age had taken away some of the definition of the grains, but it still shone with vitality. Atop it, there was a large bouquet of flowers that stunk as he neared, but what interested him, were the frames circling the table.

  All shapes and sizes, assorted colors of metal and wood, they framed over a dozen pictures. Old and new.

  Some were of sober-faced men, others of laughing children. The one that inte
rested him however was the one he’d spotted the instant he’d walked through the looming double doors of the house.

  A woman. Somber-looking. Cheekbones so high they looked carved from marble. Lips so full and pouty, he knew what they felt like against his mouth. Her eyes, the line of her brows—their curve—it was a match too. The still was black and white, so he couldn’t make out a hair color, but she wasn’t blonde. Nor was she chestnut dark.

  Whoever she was, she looked like Sascha.

  Or, to be precise, Sascha looked like her.

  A hundred years parted the woman he knew and the creature in the still, but he knew that face. Had studied it with the tension of a climax looming. Knew it when it was relaxed from amusement, as laughter spilled from her. When she was angry, sad, stressed, in pain… he’d seen those features in many different guises, and there was no taking away from the fact, the stranger was Sascha’s doppelganger.

  Reaching for his cell phone and the frame, he quickly snapped a shot of the photo.

  Now that she was in his hand, the similarities were enough to have him shaking his head in astonishment.

  A text beeped.

  Who is that? She and Sascha could be twins.

  If Devon saw it, then Sawyer knew his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

  “My great grandmother,” a voice declared from behind him.

  He jerked to attention, spinning around, the frame still in his hand.

  When he just stared at the new arrival, a woman in jodhpurs and a tight shirt, a Barbour coat hooked over her shoulder, she smiled at him, and with her riding crop, pointed to the frame in his hand. “She’s my great-grandmother.”

  Sawyer cleared his throat. “Oh.”

  “Is there a reason you just took a photo of her?” she asked, sounding a tad surprised but not suspicious.

  He pulled a face. “You caught me. I saw the frame. It’s exactly like one I have at home.”

  She shot him a confused look. “So?”

  “I was just showing my partner.”

  “Okay,” she replied with a little laugh when he made no bones about not explaining anything else.

  Replacing the photo frame in its original spot, he glanced down at his cell and saw Devon had sent another text.

  What the hell is going on?

  Quickly, he shot back a message: Later. I’ll explain.

  Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he explained, “I’m with Andrei Kirov?”

  Eyes brightening, the woman smiled. “You are? Andrei’s become quite the friend. I didn’t realize he was coming here today, and I usually coordinate my brother’s diary.”

  “Andrei asked for a meeting a few days ago, but I get the feeling this space just opened up out of nowhere. Andrei got the call two hours ago, and here we are.”

  Jacobie’s sister frowned. “Oh. Well, I’ve been out riding all morning. It’s my day off,” she commented.

  He smiled, nodded. “A nice day for it.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “It would have been were it not for a burst of rain last night. Made the ground soggy.” She shrugged. “Do you ride, Mr.…?”

  “Sawyer, please.”

  “Sawyer,” she conceded with a nod. “I’m Louise.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Louise.”

  A demure smile was her only retort, and she held out a hand that was aimed in the general direction of the study he’d just left. “If you’d like me to escort you back to my brother’s office?”

  “I can probably find my way. I only visited the restroom.”

  Louise didn’t take the bait. “It’s no trouble, honestly.”

  Realizing she had no intention of letting him roam, he allowed himself to be herded. She tapped on the door to her brother’s office, but unlike the maid, didn’t wait for him to respond.

  Shuffling inside, she smiled at her brother. “The wanderer returns.”

  Jacobie, in the middle of discussing something that had his eyes gleaming with excitement, peered over at his sister. With a glance, he dismissed her.

  “Thanks, sis.”

  Louise’s shoulders drooped. “You’re welcome. Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she ended, when Jacobie turned his attention back to Andrei without further ado.

  “Great to see you, Lou,” Andrei pointed out.

  “You too, Andrei.” Though her gaze lingered on Sean, when her brother made no attempt to introduce her, she retreated, her jaw clenched with annoyance.

  That was the trouble when family worked together, Sawyer thought with a rueful smile as he took a seat in the armchair he’d vacated moments before.

  Sometimes, oil and water mixed more cohesively than two siblings.

  * * *

  A tap sounded at her door. She blinked, placed a paperclip on the page where she was reading, and called out, “Yes?”

  When Devon’s head popped around the corner, she murmured, “Come in, silly.”

  He stepped inside, and as was usually the way when one of the men came in here, the large living space shrunk exponentially.

  They were all big, but in her rooms, the contrast was never more noticeable.

  Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, she also noticed he was barefoot.

  Of all the men, Devon was the least likely to leave the house. She could probably count on one hand how many times he’d gone out in the past month.

  Whenever they had business, men in suits with somber expressions either came to the house, or Sawyer went out and dealt with it.

  She wasn’t sure if he was agoraphobic or just reclusive, or maybe a mixture of the two.

  “They’re clean,” he pointed out as she approached the bed. “Can I get in?”

  She blinked at him. “What are clean?”

  “My feet. You were looking at them.”

  She snorted. “I should hope they are. Olga and Agathe were here this morning cleaning.”

  It was why she’d sequestered herself up here. Now Katrin was at a hotel at last, having figured out she couldn’t keep fainting left, right, and center without one of the men trying to call an ambulance, the household was back to normal.

  And that alone had her feeling more rested and comfortable.

  She was also coming to terms with the fact her appointment with her GP was approaching. Now that first step of making the appointment with the clinic was over with, she’d found her tension had bottomed out, helping with the headaches, and letting her rest a little more easily.

  It stunned her how her fear of the doctors had actually put such a pressure on her that it had exacerbated her symptoms, but then, she didn’t exactly have the fondest memories of hospitals and clinics. She guessed nobody did, but the times she’d spent there as a child had planted lasting, traumatic memories. Of course, the next hurdle was the appointment itself. She’d think about that when the time came.

  The bedsheets rustled as Devon pulled them away from the vacant side of the bed. When he climbed in with her, his head coming to rest on the pillow, he asked, “What are you reading?”

  Amused that he was laying down and not sitting up like her, she moved the sheets to the bedside table, and carefully lowered herself down so they were on the same level. “A manuscript of Kurt’s. One he wanted me to read.”

  Devon cocked a brow. “You’re blessed.”

  “I am? Why?” she asked, confused.

  “He never lets anyone read his books. Not until he’s sent them to his editor.”

  She couldn’t stop the pleasure that flushed through her at Devon’s words. “Truly?” she asked softly.

  “Truly,” he confirmed, closing his eyes, and snuggling into the duvet.

  “Wow. I didn’t realize he was bestowing some kind of honor on me.”

  Devon snorted, eyes blinking open. “I wouldn’t go that far. Don’t tell him I told you. He’ll get a bigger head.”

  Her lips twitched. “Kurt doesn’t have a big head.”

  Devon rolled his eyes. “He takes the artistic temperament too far sometimes.”

&nbs
p; “And you don’t take the reclusive math genius too far, I suppose?” she mocked.

  He blinked at her again. “No. Of course not.”

  The severity of his tone had her snorting. “Seems very one-sided to me,” she declared, reaching over to kiss him. “Did he preen when he won the Pulitzer?”

  “No.”

  “Well, how can you say he’s big headed then?” she retorted with a huff.

  “He used all the paper in the house,” Devon replied. “Like we didn’t need any at all. It was very rude of him.”

  She snorted. “You can’t be serious?”

  “What? He’d never have used all the paper if he hadn’t won that award.”

  “What one has to do with the other, I do not know,” she remarked, reaching over to tap his temple. “Your brain is nutty sometimes.”

  He scowled. “Paper is a precious commodity in this house.”

  “I’d noticed,” she said ruefully. Every week, stacks and stacks of it were delivered to the door.

  She had no idea what they did with it. Buying office supplies was something she did, and the quantity of paper never correlated with new ink cartridges in the printer.

  “What do you do with it anyway?” she demanded, curiosity driving her.

  “Paper?” he asked, and she nodded in reply. “Origami.”

  Her mouth gaped. “What?”

  “It’s very calming.”

  He was serious. Saying that, when wasn’t he? She gawked at him. “You do origami?”

  He shrugged. “Yes.”

  “Why have I never seen any?”

  “They go on the fire when I’m done.”

  Her mouth, already gaping, dropped open further. “No fucking way. The next time you make one, I want to see it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m curious, dammit. How did I not know that you liked to do that?”

  “Not like. Like is too facile a word. It’s imperative. I like keeping my hands busy.”

  She blinked, shaking her head at him as she murmured, “You constantly amaze me, Devon.”

  “Is that good or bad?” he asked warily.

  “Neither. It means I never get bored,” came her wry retort.