“Then come with me.”
Kingsley held out his hand and Suzanne took it with more fear than she’d ever felt on a battlefield. He started off and took her out of the bedroom and down the hall.
“Where are we going?” She’d thought he’d take her in Father Stearns’s bed or even on the floor, but they seemed to be leaving the house.
“Manhattan. I have something to give you…if you earn it.”
They left the house and he guided her around the back where a Rolls Royce waited. A beautiful young woman in a chauffeur’s uniform hopped out of the car and with a sprightly step opened the back door for them. Kingsley entered first and Suzanne followed, already regretting it.
“But I’ve got my car. Well, Patrick’s car.”
“I’ll have it returned to Patrick. He’s still in the Village, oui?”
“Jesus, you do know everything about me.”
Kingsley smiled again as the car started and pulled out onto the road.
“Not quite.” He cupped the side of her face and brushed her lips with his thumb. “I don’t know what sounds you make when you come. Let’s find that out, shall we?”
Before she could answer, Kingsley leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. He did nothing at first, merely waited on her. Suzanne told herself she was doing this for Adam…before slowly parting her lips. Closing her eyes, she let Kingsley take over the kiss. His hand twined in her hair. He held her neck firmly as if to remind her she belonged to him now and could not escape. As his tongue touched the tip of hers, her desire to escape died and the need to surrender was born. And she wasn’t doing this for Adam or Father Stearns. She wanted Kingsley. She would do this for her.
“Tell me, Suzanne, have you ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?”
Kingsley didn’t wait for her to answer. He pushed her onto her back as he pulled her legs apart and rested his hips hard against hers. Oh, God, she thought, this is really happening. With deft fingers, he unbuttoned her blouse and opened it. He kissed his way from her neck to her navel and up again.
She closed her eyes and let the sensation of a stranger’s hands on her body wash over her. Not just any stranger, she reminded herself. This was Kingsley Edge, the bogeyman who kept even the most hardened of investigative reporters up at night. And now she was one of them. One of the reporters Kingsley Edge kept up all night.
“Don’t pretend you aren’t enjoying this,” Kingsley whispered in her ear. “I know you’re trying not to enjoy this.”
“I’m doing this for information, not pleasure.”
“Liar.”
Suzanne blushed at the truth in his accusation.
Kingsley nipped at her ear, her shoulder. His teeth on her skin sent shock waves of pleasure into her stomach.
“Even when I’m bending my secretary over my desk, I make sure she enjoys it. I’ll see that you enjoy it too, whether you want to or not.”
Before Suzanne could make another protest, Kingsley pulled up and away from her. She started to ask what he was doing but then she saw. He left the luxurious leather of the bench seat in the Rolls Royce and knelt on the floorboard. He snapped his fingers and gestured her to sit in front of him.
Suzanne slid to the center of the seat. Kingsley reached under her skirt, grasped her panties and dragged them roughly down her legs. She wanted to tell him to stop but the promise of so much information about Father Stearns kept her quiet even as Kingsley opened his pants.
He pushed her legs wide and shoved two fingers into her. Wincing, she fought the urge to close her legs.
“Breathe, chérie. I promise you will like this if you let yourself.” He took his fingers out of her and gazed up at her. In the dark of the night, she could barely see him except when the car passed a streetlamp.
With one pull he brought her hips to the very edge of the seat. Again with his fingers he parted her outer and inner lips. He brought his mouth down on her and sucked lightly on her clitoris. Suzanne dug her fingers into the supple leather of the seat as her head fell back.
Up and down the length of her vagina he licked her, teased her with his tongue and lips. Suzanne quickly found herself opening her legs a little wider and pushing her hips forward. His tongue delved deeper until she felt he sought the very core of her. His hands gripped her thighs and Suzanne twined her hand into his hair. Underneath her the car vibrated from the roar of the heavy engine. Her entire body vibrated from what Kingsley was doing to her. The pressure built in her lower back. She leaned back into the seat, grabbed the headrest behind her and came with a low, almost pained grunt.
Before she could even catch her breath, she heard the unmistakable sound of a condom wrapper opening.
“Wait,” she panted but Kingsley only pulled her down off the seat and onto him, impaling her. He’d made her so wet that she took every inch of him inside her in one stroke.
“God—” she gasped as her body strained to accept all of him.
“I said you could call me Kingsley,” he whispered into her ear.
Suzanne couldn’t help but laugh.
“You must be the most arrogant man alive.” She wrapped her arms around his back for stability as he grasped her by the hips and started slowly thrusting up and into her.
“Only the second. You’ve met the first.”
She shook her head and started to speak. But Kingsley found her clitoris with the tips of his fingers and rendered her momentarily speechless.
As he nibbled at her lips, her neck and shoulders, Suzanne could only hold one thought in her addled mind. She was being fucked by Kingsley Edge. The one and only Kingsley Edge.
And she was enjoying the hell out of it.
Kneeling on his lap, she moved her hips forward and back in time with his precision movements. Everything he did sent currents of heat and electricity surging through her whole body. She came close to another climax but Kingsley stopped her with a kiss.
“Turn around,” he said into her ear as his left hand did marvelous things to her right nipple.
Nodding, Suzanne lifted herself up and turned her back to him. He pressed in close to her back and bit her shoulder hard enough she winced.
“How much do you want to know about le prêtre?” He pushed three fingers into her from behind and Suzanne inhaled sharply at the sudden shock of pleasure.
“Everything.” She parted her thighs even more and pushed back into his hand. A fourth finger joined the others. She’d never felt so open before. God, the man knew what he was doing.
“You will never know everything about him. Not if you searched the world until the end of time.” He pulled his hand out and slowly penetrated her again. He sunk in deep and Suzanne moaned audibly from the incredible sensation of him filling her so completely. “But I can only tell you what I know if you tell me one thing, ma chérie…”
He started to thrust again, hard this time, viciously hard. Suzanne grabbed the door, the seat, anything to hold her steady as he used her body so thoroughly. She couldn’t believe how much she loved this, loved being taken like this.... Kingsley found her clitoris again and as he pushed into her she came again with a loud cry as pain-sharp pleasure exploded in her back and hips. Kingsley thrust a few more times before coming with a shudder that shook them both.
Kingsley lingered inside her a moment as they both caught their breath.
“What?” she panted. “What do I have to tell you before you’ll tell me about him?”
Kingsley kissed her hair, the tip of
her ear as he continued to pulse inside her. She could get used to erotic attention like this.
“Tell me—” he pushed into her once more “—why you want to know.”
“I…” Why did she want to know? Was it still about Adam? Would Adam be happy she was doing this? Proud? For one moment she was glad he was gone so he couldn’t see what kind of person she’d become, what she’d do in pursuit of a story. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just have to know. I have to. If he’s hurting children—”
Kingsley pulled out of her so quickly she winced. He straightened his clothes and threw himself across the length of the bench seat and crossed his feet at the ankles. Suzanne felt suddenly embarrassed and ashamed of her half-naked state. In the dark she found her panties, buttoned her blouse and sat gingerly on the seat across from him.
“He does not hurt children,” Kingsley said in a voice as cold as winter, as sharp as a knife. “Eleanor Schreiber was never his victim. And for the record, she was never really a child. I’ve known her almost as long as he has.”
“So what? She was a flirt as a teenager? So she deserved to be seduced by an older man? By her priest?”
“Nora Sutherlin, Eleanor Schreiber, whatever you call her or however you know her…you must know one and only thing about her. She seduces. She does not get seduced.”
Suzanne took a deep breath and met his eyes in the dark.
“I don’t know why I need to know. But I have to. He…” She stopped speaking and searched for the words, any words, to explain what she felt, what she wanted. “I believed in him like I once believed in God. I don’t want to believe in either of them…unless I should.”
Kingsley exhaled heavily as he pulled a booted leg into his chest and draped his arm over it casually.
“To believe or not to believe…only you can answer that question for yourself,” he said as the Rolls pulled in front of an elegant black-and-white town house. “But I can help you on your quest. I can point you in the right direction at least. Come.”
The door opened and Kingsley left the car. She smoothed her blouse and skirt and followed him through a wrought-iron gate and up the stairs.
As they hit the third floor, the most stunningly beautiful woman Suzanne had ever seen in her life appeared with a cup of tea in her hand and a smile on her face. Almost as tall as Kingsley with ebony skin, charcoal eyes and a playful smile on her full lips, the woman seemed both graceful and severe to Suzanne.
“Aah…my Jules. I’ve missed you,” Kingsley said as he saluted the woman on each cheek with a kiss. “This is Suzanne Kanter, a reporter friend of mine.”
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Tea?” the woman who Suzanne surmised must be Juliette, Kingsley’s private secretary, asked. Like Kingsley, she too spoke with a rich accent. But Juliette’s sounded different, more Caribbean. She must be from Haiti, Suzanne decided, recognizing the accent. A black Haitian woman working for a rich, white, French man.... Kingsley really was the most arrogant man alive.
“She can’t stay.” Kingsley took a sip of his own tea. “She’s merely here for a file.”
“Which one, monsieur?” Juliette asked. “I’ll fetch it.”
“The mistress…her medical file.”
Juliette’s dark eyes went wide for the barest hint of a second before she composed her face once more into the mask of the perfect submissive secretary.
“Oui, monsieur.”
While Juliette disappeared into a room, Suzanne looked around. So strange. Kingsley’s headquarters seemed as if they’d been transported from another place, another time. She saw huge black rotary phones on the large art deco desks. Wooden filing cabinets, Tiffany lamps…and no computers in sight.
“Such a Luddite,” Suzanne said, taking it all in.
“I’m simply old-fashioned,” Kingsley said with a wicked glint in his eyes.
Juliette returned with a thick black file folder fastened with a burgundy ribbon. Kingsley held it out and Suzanne reached for it, but he pulled it back to his chest.
“For you and you only, mademoiselle, I had a dear friend of mine send this to me. You will be allowed to keep this file for one day. It must be returned to me by this time tomorrow night. Nothing in this file can be recorded or photocopied in any way. No one but you may look at it. I will know if you have disobeyed any of these conditions. The consequences for disobedience will be severe. Do you understand me?”
Kingsley said the words with a conversational air but the threat in them was unmistakable.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Je comprends.”
Kingsley raised his eyebrow at her before passing her the file.
“Now I’ll have my driver take you home.”
Suzanne headed down the stairs and Kingsley followed. Not twenty minutes ago, he’d been buried inside her body. Now he barely spoke to her, although she saw him watching her out of the corner of her eyes. On the first-floor landing he stopped and gestured for her to go on without him.
“Good night,” she said, clutching the file to her chest. “I’ll drop this off tomorrow, I promise.”
“Bon.” He nodded.
Apparently good-night kisses wouldn’t be forthcoming. Suzanne nodded back and headed toward the front door where Kingsley’s chauffeur waited in silence.
The chauffeur opened the door.
“Mademoiselle?” Kingsley called out and Suzanne turned around and looked up at him. “One more piece of advice on your quest.”
“Yes, please? What?”
“Go see the sister. Talk to her.”
Suzanne blinked.
“Sister? Like a nun? Which nun?”
Kingsley laughed then—an amused, arrogant, infuriatingly French laugh.
“No, Suzanne. His sister.”
“That’s right,” she said, a memory clicking into place. “He has three sisters, doesn’t he? Which one?”
“The one you don’t want to see.”
“I don’t want to see any—”
“And one final thing,” Kingsley said, all mirth and seduction gone from his face and his tone. “About the file in your hands…”
“Yes?”
“It was mine.”
“What was—”
“Au revoir, Suzanne.”
Before Suzanne could ask another question, Kingsley turned on his heel and headed up the stairs.
Suzanne watched him until she could see him no longer.
Holding the file to her chest, Suzanne followed the driver back to the Rolls Royce.
“It’s all right,” Suzanne said, making a sudden decision. “I’ll walk home.”
The chauffeur only looked at her before curtsying and heading back into the house.
Once alone Suzanne headed down the street until she found what she needed—a bench under a streetlamp.
She opened Nora Sutherlin’s medical file, and began to read. An hour later she knew what Kingsley meant when he’d said, “It was mine.”
19
Wesley drove through the night until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer and had to stop. Thanks to two years at Yorke, he had friends everywhere between Maryland and Maine. He crashed at his old roommate’s house and had a quick breakfast with him before heading on to Connecticut. By late afternoon he arrived in Westport. For nearly a day now, he’d been running on pure adrenaline, on the need to see Nora face-to-face. As he drove, two words echoed in his mind like the most melodic refrain.
Many wate
rs…many waters…many waters…
Now back in the city he used to call home, he slowed down and had to ask himself exactly what he would do, what he would say when he saw her. His whole body tingled with nervousness as he turned into Nora’s quiet suburb with all the New York City commuters who tolerated their semifamous erotica-writing neighbor with wary amusement. By the time he pulled in front of their house—her house, Wesley corrected, not their house anymore—he could hardly breathe. He didn’t see her car anywhere and his heart plummeted. All he wanted was to look in her face again, into her eyes.
He walked up to the front door and knocked. When he heard no answer he knocked louder. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he felt his car keys scraping his knuckles.
His keys…
Wesley pulled his keys out and looked at them. Surely Nora would have changed the locks after he moved out. Wouldn’t she?
He found the key that he used to call his house key and slipped it into the front-door lock. Pausing, he took a quick breath and turned the key.
The door opened like nothing, as though those thirteen months of hell without Nora had been a dream he’d had when he’d fallen asleep at the school library studying, and now that he’d woken up, he could go home again.
Stepping into the living room, Wesley inhaled stale air. The house smelled abandoned, as if no one had been in it for months. He saw no piles of mail by the door. Were things that serious with her and Griffin Fiske that she’d have her mail forwarded? Griffin Fiske—New York City trust fund baby playboy with a whole lot of bad behavior in his past…and yet Wesley would almost rather find out Nora and Griffin were together than Nora and Søren. Griffin he didn’t like, didn’t know and certainly didn’t trust. But Søren…Søren he hated.
As Wesley wandered the house, memories came back to him. Memories he thought he’d buried…but they rose up with each step, all too easily resurrected. He’d loved studying on the couch in the living room. Nora had to walk through the living room to get to the kitchen, her favorite destination. And she’d always touch him as she walked by. Maybe just a tap on the forehead, a tweak of his nose, a squeeze of his knee or his favorite—a kiss on his cheek. The bookshelves needed a good dusting. Big and brown and carved with weird symbols, the bookshelves had been an estate-sale find of Nora’s.
The Angel (The Original Sinners) Page 27