by Sienna Blake
Wylie places my bag on the small trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’ll leave this bag here, but you won’t need it. I have filled the wardrobes with clothing in your size as instructed by the master. Through that door is the ensuite.” He points to the only other door in the room. “I’ll leave you to get settled, madam, and I shall return to collect you at dinner time.”
Then he leaves me to bask in the glow of the dying afternoon light and the fact that Caden and I now have a room.
My fingers brush the soft fabric of the curtains. I eye the wardrobes and a grin breaks out across my face as I imagine our clothes hanging up in there together. His shirts next to my blouses. His shoes next to mine.
Then I frown, scanning across the space. Something is off about this room. My eyes go over the cream and lavender bed sheets, the antique silver bedside lamps with cream vintage-lace light shades. The realization begins to take hold.
No.
I storm over to the cupboards and fling open the doors. Inside hang several dresses, but no pairs of pants. I yank the next set of doors open and the next until all of the damned insides are exposed. There are skirts, blouses, drawers of lace undergarments, ladies shoes, but no pants, no men’s shirts and belts or socks or shiny leather brogues.
No.
I race into the ensuite, barely noticing the modern marbling and large claw-foot bathtub and cute spotlights that frame the dressing mirror. I yank open all the drawers. Women’s deodorants, powders, perfumes but no men’s shavers, no masculine-scented soaps or foams. I pull my shaking fingers off the open bottom drawer, not bothering to close it or the rest of the drawers that hang open like jeering tongues.
I stand. Slowly. I’m okay. I’m okay.
Then in the mirror, I see the thing that undoes me. A single towel is folded over the towel rack. A single towel. And it’s very, very clear. This is my room. Caden doesn’t sleep here. He has his own room. He has put me in a separate room. It becomes clear to me exactly what is going on.
Every step of the way, I have been pushing, cajoling to become a part of his life, a real goddamn part of his life. A his and hers. A you and me. An us. I have been patient. And the minute I think we are getting somewhere, he turns around and leaves me a single fucking towel on the rack. A single towel.
I am such an idiot.
My eyes zero in on the delicate crystal vase filled with a few stalks of lavender. I grab the vase like a baseball, water sloshing out of the vase and onto the marble. I hurl it across the room like I’m throwing it in Caden’s face. It smashes against the wall with a crash. But it isn’t satisfying enough. I want to hurt something. Correction: hurt someone.
Caden has some goddamn questions to answer, and he’s going to answer them now.
I storm down the corridor towards Caden’s office. When I stop before the closed door I lift my hand to pound on it.
“I’m sorry, madam. He’s not there.” I whirl around to find Wylie behind me.
“Where is he?”
“He left.”
“He left?”
“Not two minutes ago.”
“And he didn’t bother to tell me?” My voice is close to shrieking now. “Where did he go?”
“He said he had to meet a business associate. He hoped to be back by dinner.” Wylie takes a step closer to me. “Are you okay?”
Okay? No, I’m not bloody okay. But I can’t take this out on Wylie. It’s not his fault that his master is a selfish bastard.
I back away from Wylie. “I’m fine. Just leave me alone. Please.”
I am itchy and agitated. I wander through the mansion in a state of furious indignation. If Caden won’t tell me anything, I’ll find things out myself. There have to be clues in one of the rooms here to give me an idea of what he’s hiding from me, right?
The article about Caden’s parents and sister said that they had all been found in the father’s study. So I open doors and peer into the rooms. Most of the rooms are dark, curtains drawn and white dust draping over the room like ghosts. One is even completely empty.
Finally, at a door on the second floor, I press down on the handle and push. But the door won’t budge.
I take half a step back and study the door. It’s a painted white wooden door, no different from any of the others. There is no indication externally as to what could be waiting inside. Whatever it is, it’s important. I wish I had gotten Mick to teach me how to pick locks. Then I could try to pick this one.
My fingers spread across the smooth painted wood of the door as if seeking some small hidden way to get in. I just know that behind this door lie Harper Lexington’s secrets. Secrets I am determined to uncover.
Chapter Ten
I almost miss this door completely, its pale green paint blending seamlessly into the matching wall of the corridor. Only the two curly brass handles denote the difference. I pause midstep in my walk through the corridors and back up to stand in front of them. They wink at me, beckoning me to enter. I push down on the handles and, finding them unlocked, I push them open and walk inside to the darkness.
It’s a large room, dark and it smells musty as if it’s rarely used. The curtains fall thick, blocking the tall windows so that I can’t see anything at the moment. My fingers fumble around on the wall for a light switch. I find it and flick it on. Immediately the room is illuminated by the two gold and crystal chandeliers that hang from the high white ceiling.
I blink several times as my eyes adjust to the light. The room is set up like some sort of gallery. Several large marble statues are interspersed between white podiums topped with glass cube cases that display a vase or a silver mask dulled from age. The walls are mostly bare except for scattered paintings roped off behind brass poles.
I step up to the rope in front of the first painting and recognize the couple instantly from the photo of Harper Lexington’s parents I found in that newspaper article. The likeness is uncanny. She is seated and her pale blue dress flows out around her small waist to pool the floor around her. He is standing at her side his hand on her left shoulder, her left arm bent so that her left hand is resting on his. He wears a tailored suit, and pride is evident on his handsome face, chin lifted proudly. The affection between them glows through the painting. My heart pangs.
I move to the next painting, which is one of the family when they were all alive. Mum, Dad, Caden (or should I say, Harper) and his sister, Hayley. This is my first glimpse of Hayley. Is this the girl in the photo I found in Harper’s wallet?
I step closer and squint over the rope. Hayley is beautiful, a spitting image of the girl in the photo; pixie-like face and soft curls. In the painting she already looks to be hitting puberty, her budding breasts showing from under the fitted bodice of the royal blue dress she wears. In Caden’s photo the girl is younger, much younger, but they look alike. Hayley must be the girl in the photo.
I wonder why Harper chose to carry a photo of Hayley when she was younger instead of one taken at the age that she passed away. Then I notice that Hayley’s eyes are brown like her father’s. I frown. The girl in the photo had green eyes… like Caden. So she can’t be Caden’s sister. But if she’s not Caden’s sister then… who is she?
I find Wylie in the kitchen, a large modern space with black granite countertops and down lights that shine off new pots and pans. I can smell the garlic hanging near the dried bunches of rosemary and thyme. He’s peeling a small pile of potatoes.
“Madam,” Wylie notices me and wipes his hands on the tea towel hanging near him. “You didn’t have to come back here. You should have just buzzed me on the intercom. I would have come to you.”
“It’s not a problem. I like kitchens. Makes me feel more… at home.”
“How can I help you?”
“I thought I could help you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Run out of leisurely pursuits already?”
I smirk. “I wasn’t made to be a lady of leisure. Put me to work.”
“I couldn’t possibly allow you t
o−”
“If you don’t put me to work I’ll just guess at what needs doing and most probably do it wrong.”
Wylie purses his lips.
“And I’ll make a mess doing it.”
“Well…”
“Come on, Wylie. I won’t even tell Caden. It can be our little secret.”
“…I guess, those onions do need chopping…”
“Done.” I’m silent as I search for a knife and chopping board. This kitchen is larger than any I’ve ever been in and more drawers and cupboards than I could ever find equipment to fit in. Once I’m prepared on the counter near Wylie, I begin to chop. “My grandfather always said, ‘There are no menial jobs, only menial attitudes’.”
“Your grandfather sounds like a smart man.”
“He is. He’s the smartest man I know.” I notice my voice going quiet. I haven’t sent my grandparents a card in a while. I wonder how they are. I wonder if they’ve noticed my ‘absence’. I wonder if they worry about me.
“You miss him,” Wylie says, and it’s more of a statement than a question.
I nod. “I haven’t seen my grandparents in almost three years.” I realize it is almost exactly three years.
“Do you speak to them often?”
“I can’t.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I… it’s complicated.”
He lets out what I can only call a dignified snort. “Madam, I’ve served and advised Master Lexington, the King of Complicated, for fifteen years through all of his trials and tragedies… I think I can handle it.”
“It’s just… better if I don’t contact them.”
“Better for whom?”
“There are bad people who want to find me and they’ll use any means to do so. I won’t let my grandparents get dragged into this.”
“I see. So, because you love them, you want to protect them. And you think the best way to do that is to push them away.”
“Something like that.”
“Sounds familiar.”
I’m about to ask what he means, but then I understand. This is what Caden does. He cares about me, and sometimes to protect me, he’ll push me away. This sounds so wrong and so unfair yet here I am doing the same thing to those I love. My grandparents. Dixie. Mick. I blink back the dabs of moisture that have appeared in my eyes. “Damn onions,” I mumble.
“Yes, they can be… complicated things, onions.”
I wonder if he’s even talking about onions. There seems to be a hidden meaning in almost everything Wylie says.
I change the subject. “I found the gallery when I was walking around today and the painting of Caden’s family.”
Wylie lets out a soft sigh. “It was the last portrait they had commissioned before the tragedy.” Out of the corner of my eye I see him shaking his head slowly.
“Hayley is beautiful.”
“She was, yes. She was an absolute treasure.” Wylie lets out a soft laugh. “Unlike Master Lexington. He was always a nightmare. Even from the day they brought him home from the hospital.”
I want to know who the young girl in the wallet photo is. But I don’t think I’ll get a response if I ask directly. “Is she… the only sister that Caden had?”
I see Wylie flinch. He knows something… Did Caden’s father have another daughter? I can’t actually ask this without outright accusing the father of infidelity. Even I’m not that tactless.
“Perhaps you should direct your questions about his family to the master.”
I will, Wylie. I will.
Chapter Eleven
Caden
“I can’t talk long,” the man named Marcel says to me. He shuffles nervously as he glances around us on this deserted stretch of road between towns. I can see for miles either way. Nobody followed either of us here. Nor is anyone listening. I swiped both of us down with a bug detector before I said a word to him. “I shouldn’t even be here.”
Marcel is one of the personal staff on the Tyrells’ team and I pay him well enough to know everything that goes on their household. Jacob hasn’t been in the country but his brother and his father are still living here. I pay Marcel specifically to notify me about any guests that the Tyrells have. I highly doubt that Jacob would be stupid enough to stay with his family if he ever snuck back into the country, but his father and brother may entertain other guests who could lead me to Jacob.
“I’m paying you to be here,” I say as I take out a thick envelope from my jacket. His eyes widen. With men like him, money talks and trust can be bought. His fingers reach out to grab the envelope and I snatch it away before he can grab it. “Start talking.”
He shuffles and glances around us. “Just today we were given instructions to furnish one of the offices in one of the warehouse complexes that they own.”
“Go on.”
“We’re to turn it into a bedroom suite. High-end furniture and electronics. Upgrade the bathroom. Our refurbishment deadline is in three days. And…”
“And?”
“And we’re to stock the fridge with Grey Goose vodka and the cupboards with 5 Vegas cigars.”
The hair on my skin rises. That is Jacob’s drink of choice and his favorite cigar brand. “Address?”
He gives it to me. My skin prickles when I realize this address is in Freemont, the same city that she and I just fled from.
“Is that all?” I ask.
“Yeah. Listen… I’m gonna need more than usual. Things here are getting… weird. People are getting jumpy. It’s gettin’ dangerous me talkin’ to you.”
I grit my teeth. “You’ll get a third more.”
“Double.”
I balk. “Not a chance. Take one and a half or nothing.”
“Fine, fine. One and a half.”
I shove the envelope towards him. “You’ll get the rest later.”
“But−”
I yank a gun out of the back of my shirt and point the end to his forehead. “You’ll get. The rest. Later.”
His eyes go wide and round and he nods furiously.
“Go on. Get out of here.”
He hurries to his car and drives away in a cloud of dust.
God dammit. I crunch my hands into fists. It’s worse than I thought. Jacob is coming back into the country. He hasn’t been back in three years since his great capture and escape, his warrant is still outstanding.
There’s only one reason that sonofabitch would risk coming back here. Only one reason why he’d come back. I don’t know how much they’ve been able to find out about her. But one thing’s for sure…
Jacob knows about her.
Chapter Twelve
Kitten
That evening I sit alone in the dining room.
The room is huge, cream colored with gold decorative ivy across the walls. A long solid wood table stretches across the room’s length and is dressed with silver candelabras and white candles. To the side is a long serving table complete with a glass cabinet filled with scotch, a decanter and glasses.
Caden is late. He supposedly just arrived back from wherever the hell he’s been. This is the reason for dinner’s hold up. I’m left sitting, my anger bubbling into a furious boil. When he finally arrives he barely looks at me when he sits down, his brow furrowed, completely distracted. No apologies. No excuses. No “Hi, how was your day”.
When he flicks out his napkin I get a slight waft of sweat. He’s still in the same clothes from earlier.
“Finally decided to join me, did you?”
“I’ve been working.”
“I know. I went looking for you earlier. You didn’t even tell me you’d left.”
He sighs. “Please, I’m exhausted and I still have a million things to take care of. I just want to eat.”
He rubs his eyes with his fingers and I notice the shadows underneath them like he hasn’t had enough sleep. That’s when I realize that he hasn’t. He stayed up all last night, then he drove all this morning, he went out to God knows where today
and just came home. My heart softens a little. God, he must be exhausted. I was at least able to get in a short nap late this afternoon after I had pounded out my frustrations about Caden into a boxing bag in the gym.
Fine, I won’t confront him now about us. I won’t confront him yet about how he was using me as a job, confusing me with his hot and cold bullshit, getting close then pulling away. I’m just going to pretend that I don’t care. That’ll show him. I’m not going to let him know how much he has upset me with his rejections.
Wylie places the plates before us and lifts up the dinner lids. “Enjoy,” he says as he retreats out of the dining room.
The smell of grilled meat hits me first. I look down. On my plate are grilled lamb cutlets with some kind of tapenade as a sauce and a side of rosemary potatoes.
Rosemary fucking potatoes.
Goddamn bastard. I stab at a piece with my fork wishing it were Caden’s heart as the anger simmers again.
“What’s wrong?” Caden asks. “Are they not cooked properly?”
“They’re fine.”
“So what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me. What the hell is wrong?” His voice is all rough and croaky.
I grit my teeth. “The first night we were together you served me rosemary potatoes. I told you they were my favorite.” I look up to glare at Caden, his fork stuck halfway up to his mouth. “You said it was a lucky guess. It wasn’t, was it?”
Caden lowers his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin before placing it to the side of his plate. Then he stares at me, the tension in his jaw making the muscles under his cheeks twitch. “No,” he admits finally. “It wasn’t.”
“You got that information out of my grandparents. You engineered that dinner so it would go your way.”