A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  I was returning from the kitchen, having dropped off a tray of crystal glasses that needed to be rinsed, when I saw him striding purposefully towards me. In no mood to deal with him, I turned on my heels and fled in the opposite direction. I thought I had safely gotten away when I felt his strong grip on my upper arm.

  “I need to speak to you.”

  I turned around and tilted my chin up, resentment written all over my face. “Let go of me, right now.”

  “There’s something I gotta say first.” His pained expression had zero effect on me. I wouldn’t have thrown him a lifejacket if he were drowning.

  “Sebastian––” A woman’s sweet voice chimed in. I peeked around his arm and realized it was her again, Caroline. The woman was relentless. She stood down the hall craning her slender neck to see whom he was talking to, but I was well hidden by his powerful frame. “You promised to show me the painting…the Goya?”

  His lips flattened into a grim line. “Give me a minute, Caroline. I’ll meet you in the dining room.” He looked harassed, frustrated. Good. I hoped she didn’t leave his side all night.

  “Yes, Sebastian, go show your girlfriend your Goya,” I mocked, ripping my arm out of his grasp.

  His jaw pulsed, his voice tight when he spoke. “She’s not my girlfriend. We need to talk later.”

  “I’m not interested in anything you have to say,” I reiterated, my head shaking. He narrowed his eyes and raked his fingers through his hair.

  “I’ll find you.” And before I could argue again, he turned and walked away.

  By midnight, most of the courses had been served. Mrs. Arnaud dismissed the first shift, which included Charlotte and me. The tension, wrapped around my head like a medieval torture device, had produced a blinding migraine. To clear my head, I walked out to the garden in desperate need of some fresh air.

  The chill of night chased a shiver up my back and a sharp pain pierced my lungs. Whether it was the cold air or despair, I couldn’t say, but I felt alone, disconnected from the world––even myself. My force of will had deserted me. For the first time in six years, I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.

  In an attempt to walk the feeling away, I marched towards the gazebo covered in climbing roses. Inside, I sat with my head in my hands. The constant attacks on my character, coupled with the unwelcome desire he ignited in me, was too much for me to process at once. I was on a rollercoaster ride in hell, my emotions rising and falling with every meaningful moment shared between us. It was tearing me apart and worse yet, making me doubt myself. Tears began to pour out of me––the first tears in six long years. I couldn’t stop them any more than I could understand why they were starting to fall now, of all times.

  The sound of approaching footsteps suddenly intruded.

  “Go the hell away.” My voice cracked. I never cried in front of other people, but my composure had been annihilated. I looked up, my face ruddy and leaky, and found his concealed in shadow. He moved swiftly, lifted and wrapped me in the heat of his body, his powerful arms fastening us together. It was impossible to budge him. That made me cry even harder.

  “I hate you! Let me go!”

  “I’m sorry, shhh…please don’t cry. I’m an asshole. A real shit heel. Forgive me, Vera. Please, forgive me.”

  Trapped in his hold, I was forced to accept his comfort. He kissed my neck, licked the trail of salty tears. Shifting to my face, he lightly brushed his lips on my closed eyelids, on the pulsing vein at my temple.

  In my weakened state, fighting the magnetic current between us was impossible. He sat down and arranged me on his lap. His hands cradled my face possessively. The light from the garden sconces revealed his regret. His eyes, wide and solemn, gazed back at me so reverently that I almost forgot he was the reason I was so wretched. I couldn’t look at him. I was mixed up, hurt, and on some shameful level relieved that he had found me.

  He closed his eyes when he kissed me. One, two, three brushes of his soft lips, coaxing me to accept his apology. I resisted him for all of a minute before I gave in. However, the part of my mind that could still reason insisted I would hate myself later for it so I turned my face away.

  “I want to know why?”

  “Why what?” he asked softly.

  “Why does it please you to humiliate me? What have I ever done to you to deserve such wrath? I don’t understand you… and quite frankly, I’m tired of trying.” I stared at my hands, my fingers laced together on my lap.

  There was a long pause before he spoke. “It’s not wrath…it’s…you didn’t do anything. I just…” He blew out a deep breath and raked his fingers impatiently through his hair. “You make me feel things I don’t want to feel. But I promise you that I won’t take it out on you anymore. I don’t want to hurt you, I want…” He looked into my eyes with such longing that it made my throat close up. “I definitely don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, his voice soaked in remorse.

  I had recognized the intense desire simmering under his schooled features before, even when the armor of self-control he always wore put an ocean between us, kept me safely at a distance. In the silent shelter of the gazebo, however, for a fraction of a moment, he let his guard down, reveling more than lust, revealing something profound and important and way more than I was equipped to deal with.

  He kissed my swollen lips again, ran his thumb along my cheeks and wiped the dampness away. The kiss transformed the moment I wrapped my arms around his neck. Less comforting, more urgent with need. When I raked my nails through the hair at his nape and tugged it, he broke the kiss and closed his eyes. A small smile played at the corners of his sensual mouth. I had never seen him look so unguarded. It was utterly fascinating.

  He hauled me astride his lap, my skirt bunching up. I could feel him as if our clothes didn’t exist. The black nylon stockings I was encased in brutally heightened the sensation. He was hard as stone. Every time he rubbed against me, sharp sparks of pleasure ignited, burst forth. His long fingers stroked the rungs of my spine and traveled lower to my bottom. Cupping my cheeks, he pressed me closer until there was no air left between us.

  Pushed beyond my limits, I could no longer fight my desire for him. Frantically, I tugged the back of his shirt out of his pants in search for the hot skin of his well-muscled back. He gasped at my touch and squeezed my butt cheeks in return, encouraging me to meet his hard pulsing thrusts while he devoured my mouth.

  There was certainty in the way he touched me. Like he knew what I needed, knew things about me he shouldn’t. It was so easy to relinquish all control to him, to place myself in his skilled and capable hands without reserve.

  On a last powerful thrust, he pushed me over the edge of a fierce orgasm. I gripped his hair even tighter as my body clenched and released in shockwaves that seemed to go on forever. A warm and heavy bliss spread all the way to my toes and fingertips, a haze of euphoria making me drowsy. We were both panting heavily as the last twitches left me.

  “But you…” I gasped.

  “Not now. It’s okay,” he said, exhaling harshly.

  Tenderly, he placed soft kisses on my nose, my eyebrow, my cheekbone. One after the other––as if he couldn’t stop himself. I bumped against his still painfully hard erection and sucked in a breath.

  “You go inside first…I need some time,” he mumbled. He helped steady me as I got off his lap on shaky legs. But I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to leave him, feeling vulnerable and unsure about how things remained between us. It seemed like every time we reached some kind of understanding, some semblance of peace, it would quickly blow up in my face. The emotional push and pull was exhausting. I worried my bottom lip, wondering if I should say something, when his eyes, catching every detail about me, flared.

  “Go now, or I won’t let you go all night,” he practically growled, punctuating the order with a quick hard kiss. All night? After what he’d just promised, I ran out of there as quickly as I could on weak, uncooperative limbs.

  I spent the
rest of the evening analyzing everything that had transpired until I was going in circles. I could still feel his body imprinted on mine; desire coursed through me just thinking about it.

  I made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. I guess I couldn’t fault him for being honest. I could understand how lusting after a housekeeper would be an inconvenience. I certainly didn’t want to be attracted to him either, but I had resigned myself to the fact that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  Whatever was happening between us would be exorcised with sex. All I could hope for was to survive the aftermath. After all I was a prisoner of my past––I couldn’t risk him finding out what had caused me to leave Albania––and he had the world at his feet. It was only a matter of time before he would tire of me. I would take the pleasure and nothing more. I accepted that and found solace in the fact that the rules of engagement were clear. I wasn’t a young girl that believed in fairytales. No prince was riding to my rescue. I had always rescued myself––and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t sleep well,” I mumbled. Charlotte kept studying me with a quizzical expression. I yawned for the ten thousandth time as we loaded the serving cart with drinks.

  “Were you out at a rave all night?” The side of her rosebud mouth kicked up in a half-grin. I returned a blank stare, my mind not having caught up with the question yet. “Joking. Jesus, you are out of it today. We need to take these to the south lawn. They’re shooting this morning.”

  “Shooting? Animals?” I asked, horrified.

  “No, clay pigeons.”

  “Thank God.”

  We exited out onto the expansive blue slate patio that wrapped around the back of the manor. A carpet of green rolled out for acres, stretching all the way to the shores of Lake Geneva, the grass sheared with such precision it may have been cut with a pair of scissors. Vibrant beds of irises lined the path that led to an elegant navy and white striped tent erected a week prior.

  The invigorating effect of the crisp, clean air woke me up––also, the fact that I couldn’t help being a little nervous. I wanted to see him. To see if the fragile alliance we had formed the night before remained, or if we were destined to continue this seemingly endless cycle of three steps forward, two steps back.

  Charlotte and I wheeled the loaded cart down the slope to where a group of the guests had assembled. Mr. Bentifourt stood next to the bar with his knobby hands clasped behind him, overseeing the setting of the table for lunch. Nearby, a number of the groundskeepers worked with a metal contraption, loading terracotta disks inside of it while the other half worked with some spooky looking shotguns, inspecting each one closely before placing them side by side on a table.

  Alcohol and guns. What a pleasant mix.

  A group of the women stood under the tent hiding from the unusually strong morning sun while the men checked out the guns. A shrill of forced laughter drew my attention. Paisley stared into the face of a handsome but cold looking bank executive, laughing at whatever quip he had whispered in her ear. Marcus watched his wife with brooding interest. The vein in between his brows pulsed, and I realized that whatever Paisley had told Sebastian that night in the library––about Marcus not caring––was very much a lie.

  Mr. Bentifourt spotted us as we approached and came to help steady the overloaded cart. After unloading everything, we immediately started serving cocktails. The three of us, working quickly, could barely keep up with the demand.

  “Vera, if you don’t mind fetching more ice?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  I cut across the blue slate patio, and entered through the French doors. A familiar raspy voice, talking quietly, caught my attention. Without conscious thought, I stepped behind the voluminous silk drapes, out of sight.

  “My guests are waiting, Diana. What is it?” he snapped.

  “I see the way you look at her––what do you think you’re doing?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “That girl with the big brown eyes. The one that looks at you like she just seen Jesus…the housekeeper. You can’t save them all, sugar. This one needs more than a wing mended, or a bone set.”

  I felt my chest compress painfully. Me. She was talking about me. My pride roared in outrage. Look at him as if I had seen Jesus?! I needed to stop spying on him, hadn’t I learned that painful lesson yet. This was beyond humiliating. And what the hell did she mean by saving this one?!

  “You, of all people…” he said in a sinister drawl, “giving me advice…I’m ‘bout to laugh my ass off. I’m the one that found you in the barn with that groom’s head between your thighs. What was he…fifteen? Maybe sixteen years old?” His voice was low, controlled, but the underlying rage was as conspicuous as an albino elephant.

  “Oh, Scout, that was almost twenty years ago. When are you going to forgive me?”

  “When you change,” he sneered. His angry footsteps faded away immediately afterwards. He was ruthless when angered. I could hear Diana Redman breathing harshly as she stepped through the French doors and exited. Peeking out from behind the heavy silk drapes, I made sure the coast was clear before I ran to the kitchen. By the time I reached the lawn party with the ice, Bentifourt was scowling in open displeasure.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling a hundred percent today.”

  “Maybe you’re catching a cold?” Thank you Charlotte, always looking out for a friend. She winked as Bentifourt inspected me closer.

  “You do have some dark circles under your eyes.” Bentifourt leaned forward, squinting. “Can’t have you serving guests if you’re sick.”

  “It’s nothing, I’ll rest later today before we serve dinner.”

  Diana Redman walked towards the tent wearing black Jackie O glasses. Her face was ruddy, puffy, evidence of tears present. As soon as she sat down next to Paisley, Charlotte offered her a Bellini. Taking the glass, she tipped it back and drained it in one swallow.

  Sebastian stood with the men inspecting the guns. This was obviously not new to him; he looked at ease and in control. He picked up a shotgun that had one barrel over another and loaded the weapon expertly. Then he stared down the muzzle and lifted it skyward.

  “Pull,” he yelled.

  The groundskeeper activated the machine and flying disks shot out at different angles and speeds. In seconds he had fired the weapon twice, the sound loud and violent, and struck both dead center. The shattered remains of the clay pigeons flew in every directions. He repeated the exercise two more times.

  The guests clapped a tad too enthusiastically if you asked me. There was a subtle sense of awe when they spoke to him, and about him. The formality in their voices was even more telling. It wasn’t just respect, there was a hint of fear there too.

  Paisley screamed and clapped her hands disproportionately louder than everyone else. If she was trying to get his attention, she succeeded. Sebastian narrowed his eyes at her and stalked over to Bentifourt.

  “How many drinks has she had?”

  “Three already, and no food.”

  Sebastian turned and caught my gaze, his eyes glowing with warmth and anticipation. I knew what he was asking. I smiled briefly, afraid that someone might notice, and watched a subtle tenseness leave his shoulders.

  “Cut her off,” he murmured in a low voice to Mr. Bentifourt. Mr. Bentifourt responded with a brief nod, and Sebastian returned to the group of men taking turns shooting, none being as proficient as he was.

  When Charles Hightower stepped forward for his turn, Sebastian was by his side immediately, instructing him with whispered words of encouragement. Mr. Hightower missed the first couple of shots. Although, undeterred, he ended by striking the last four. Smiling proudly, he pated Sebastian’s cheek, and Sebastian reciprocated with a warm smile. It was sweet to watch the open display of affection between the two men. Clearly, very little of it existed between him and his mother. The pain and resentment between those t
wo ran deep.

  After the shooting, everyone sat for a casual lunch. Paisley kept ordering more Bloody Marys, and Mr. Bentifourt kept refilling her glass, pretending there was alcohol in them. Caroline took the seat on Sebastian’s right again and resumed her heavy petting. I almost felt sorry for him. He looked impassive to everyone at the table, but I knew better. To me, he looked like a trapped animal.

  “I’m told there are plenty of quail to hunt around here,” said one of the associates to no one in particular.

  “My stepbrother has a firm no-kill policy on his estate, John,” Marcus informed him, derision underscoring his words.

  “Really?”

  Sebastian’s keen power of observation never seemed to fail. He looked sharply in their direction.

  “Yes, Sebastian’s famous for finding small injured animals and nursing them back to health when he was a kid. His nickname was Boy Scout––by the time my father married his mother he had moved on to saving larger animals of course.” Marcus buried a sly smirk in his champagne glass.

  Sebastian’s jaw pulsed with barely contained anger. “Marcus.” The hard-edged reprimand drew everyone’s attention. At first Marcus stared back defiantly, the tension escalating, but he inevitably submitted to the threatening glare of the larger predator at the table. Sebastian’s cautious gaze darted quickly in my direction, measuring how much of the conversation I had heard.

  Nursing small animals? I tried to picture Sebastian as a sweet, little boy with floppy, sandy hair, and tried to reconcile that with the man I knew now. The one heavily armored, locked behind a fortress. I could see only glimpses of that little boy. He hid him well, protecting what was left of him. I wondered what Marcus meant by larger animals and earmarked it for later analysis.

  “I never did see the sport in killing a tiny bird that flies badly.” Sebastian’s eyes were hooded, shuttered. The bored aristocrat had come to lunch.

  “I didn’t mean to imply. I mean…I don’t really hunt. I was just told…” He reduced the poor man into a stammering idiot with one phrase.