Invincible (Elite Doms of Washington Book 6)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  A sharp crack from his palm made her flesh jiggle a little, and a sting spread across her backside. “Then, stay where I tell you.”

  She nodded.

  His chest engulfed her body, his arms thick as he braced himself alongside her. He started a rhythm, a retreat and withdrawal, his palm coming down on her ass. The sting kept her present, away from dangerous thoughts like how they were in the Wynter house, fucking like animals, as they had been the night Marston found them. His fingers dug into her ass as he held her fast, holding her in place for his use. His use. A small moan escaped her throat.

  After long minutes, he pulled out and twisted her so she lay on her back. His strength, his ability to move her around, only made her body ache for him more. He hooked her legs in the crook of his elbows, bending her in half in an impossible angle so one palm could hold her wrists above her head, the other palm resting around her throat. He’d positioned her for one thing and one thing only—taking his cock.

  His blue eyes found hers, and she was trapped, captivated by his eyes, his strength, his utter command of what was happening. His mouth was on hers in a sloppy, impolite kiss. Her body grew limp as her legs flopped like a rag doll from his punishing thrusts. She couldn’t hold back anymore, and her nerves exploded between her legs. He released seconds after her climax, his teeth latching onto her shoulder. He had taken her so brutally her mind emptied until only one thought remained. Alexander. Here with me. She didn’t deserve him. She didn’t deserve this second chance. She was taking it anyway.

  13

  Eric jabbed at the massive piece of wood with the poker, more for something to do than to reposition the log. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney. He should go to sleep. Fucking jet lag. Either that, or the fact he was a few hundred feet away from Alexander who slept upstairs without him, thanks to a certain redhead.

  Still, he learned a lot about the man today. Had he known Alexander’s story before, he’d have parked his ass more in Washington D.C. and not been the waiting wallflower. He’d always suspected he and Alexander would get along fine—bouncing back and forth between men and women. Now with semi-confirmation on that front, like Alexander might be bisexual as well? Yeah, his hugging-the-sidelines approach to the man was officially getting pitched.

  He quit annoying the dying fire and put the poker back where it belonged. He reached for his jacket and pulled out the moleskin journal he’d picked up at the airport this morning. No time like the present to get started on the art inventory.

  He turned on every light he could find to illuminate the front room and glanced around. A curio cabinet held an impressive collection of jade eggs. Why would anyone leave these behind? Marston must be kicking himself for his past indiscretions. As he added up the trinkets and art in the front room, his mind spun, mentally assigning items to Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and Phillips. His standing at all the major auction houses was about to go up.

  After filling four pages of his journal, he strode into the entryway. He took the grand staircase two steps at a time and halted at the top landing. He studied the large family portrait, another odd thing to leave behind. He couldn’t help but assess the lines and paint to see if the other son—the one not depicted—had been painted over or left out altogether. In his work, he’d seen it all—outlines of pictures that once hung on walls leaving a conspicuous mark on faded wallpaper, photographs strategically cut to remove unwanted remembrances, and, once, cigarette burns obliterating a face in a painting.

  He stepped closer as the light from downstairs cast eerie shadows over the likenesses. Alice Wynter had a cruel smile, even in a painting. The last time he was here, he considered her unremarkable. Marston, however, he remembered very well. The man’s shrewd eyes assessed his every move, and Marston asked if he’d like a drink. He’d thought nothing of it at the time— merely a friendly offer. Today? The man had forgotten they’d ever met.

  He turned to his left and into a hallway leading to the master bedroom, pulling out the small flashlight he had hung on his keychain, and sending the beam of light down the red oriental runner. From the threadbare nature of the center of the carpet, someone had trod this hallway often.

  As he traversed the hall, his small light illuminated the illogically-placed paintings hung on either side. A Lawrence Harris landscape hung next to a pastoral Alfred Fenton, a pair of Schut scenes near an unknown abstract painting. Now the guards peppering the place when he visited ten years ago made sense. He chuckled inwardly. The rich—always expecting a home invasion where marauders would loot them of all valuables. All except Alexander, who invited in every stray cat that slunk by.

  Eric stopped in front of an odd scene. “A Caravaggio. What do you know?”

  He ran his fingers over the frame. Was it wood or plaster? The painting didn’t hang as flush as it should. He lifted the frame ever so slightly. Papers had been taped to the back, probably proving authenticity. Still, odd. He flicked on the hall light. The painting was over four feet wide, but he was able to grasp the sides and detach it from the wall. Ignorant private owners had no idea how to properly hang artwork of this importance.

  He balanced the frame as he examined an envelope taped to the back. An outline of a bird had been sketched on the front. He should leave it. No, he’d bring it to Alexander. Perhaps the man was having trouble sleeping, as well? He detached the envelope and headed to the other wing. Light seeped out from under the door of Charles Wynter’s old room, so he headed there.

  A low rumble followed by a woman’s keen froze him momentarily. He crept toward the door but stopped short at Alexander’s muffled voice. The words still drifted into the hall. “Come for me.” A female moan answered.

  He’d been too late … again.

  Time for plan C. If only he knew what that was.

  14

  Eric’s eyes snapped open. There is a god. Someone in this house was brewing coffee. After a quick shower, donning clean clothes, and enjoying five minutes with his toothbrush—thanks to someone dropping off his bag at the crack of dawn outside his room—he followed the thick scent of roasting java to the kitchen.

  Rebecca leaned against a granite countertop, her head cocked and one hand on an old-fashioned transistor radio.

  “Morning.” She smiled over her shoulder and straightened.

  He nodded toward at the large coffee pot. “If that’s full strength French roast, you are officially my favorite person.”

  “Want some?”

  “Is there any other answer than yes?”

  “Never.” Alexander strode in, cradling an armful of wood. He dropped his load of firewood by a small stone fireplace already crackling with a small fire. Rebecca poured Eric a full cup and then turned to lean against the counter, her eyes traveling Alexander’s form. The man dusted off his hands, and his mouth inched up into a sated smile beamed toward her. Her seducing eyes dropped in an obvious obeisance. Eric took a long swallow of coffee, burning his tongue, before he did something stupid like let his hand drift to his cock as it had throughout the night powered by what he’d heard coming from Charles Wynter’s room. It didn’t help that Alexander had switched his suit for jeans, a sweater, and boots, which officially slid into his most-favorite-Alexander-look.

  Alexander finally ripped his gaze from Rebecca to rest those blue eyes on him. “Did you get your things?”

  “Yes, thanks.” How Tony, or whoever left it, knew which room he’d taken, he’d never know. He was grateful, nonetheless. The rain pinged against the windows like tiny pebbles trying to break the glass. He should have brought his hiking boots. Any foray outside would ruin his new Edward Green shoes—if yesterday’s excursion hadn’t done the job already.

  Rebecca gasped, pushed off the counter and raised a finger. She pointed at the radio. “Beatles.” She twisted to face Alexander. “You know what that means.”

  He grasped her hand and yanked her toward him. She twirled under his arm.

  “I’d like to be … under the sea.” Her pretty voice
cut through the somber morning like a spring breeze. Or, perhaps, the magical caffeine had begun to work.

  He leaned against the counter, his mind wrestling with the fact Alexander Rockingham was dancing in a kitchen. For a brief second, the man locked eyes with him, and Eric absorbed some of the happiness radiating from him. He felt like an intruder. He’d take his coffee outside. Rebecca’s hand grasped his forearm before he got two steps toward the doorway.

  “Eric. You have to dance.” She pulled on this arm. “Nobody sits while the Beatles are on!”

  She pulled him so his arm bumped against Alexander’s. The man didn’t budge, which only sent a shot of lust through his system. They locked eyes for a second time.

  “Charles Wynter’s rule.” Alexander’s eyes sparked.

  Had he ever seen Alexander this casual, this carefree?

  Rebecca gripped his hand. He’d rather parade down Broadway in a Speedo than dance, but, when in Rome … “Okay, but I’m terrible,” he said. “Two left feet.”

  “No one is terrible when the Beatles are on.” She raised his arm and ducked under in a graceful circle. Okay, the woman could move. She pulled and pushed, leading them. She also had a lovely smile—genuine.

  He bowed formally after the song blessedly ended and retrieved his coffee cup. “Well. Thank you. I’m awake now.”

  She panted from exertion or perhaps it was happiness. Her face glowed, but then from what he’d heard last night, she had reason to.

  “That was the third Beatles song I’ve heard this morning,” she said. “It’s like this house is trying to remind us.”

  Alexander smiled at her and cocked his head toward Eric. “Rebecca believes in signs.”

  “They’re everywhere if you look. Remember how Charles thought birds were messengers?”

  Eric’s brain clicked into gear. “Speaking of which, I hope you didn’t mind, but I took a look around last night. I found a rare Caravaggio. I believe it’s called Cardsharps.”

  “That painting’s been missing for years. It’s probably a copy.” Alexander reached for the coffee pot.

  “I don’t know. There was an envelope taped to the back of the painting. I didn’t open it.” He withdrew it from the pocket of his fleece. “There’s a bird drawn on the outside. Kind of crude … ”

  Alexander snatched it from his grasp. Eric startled at the man’s jarring move. When Rebecca clicked off the radio and sidled up to Alexander, a prickle moved up his spine. Something was very wrong.

  “It’s … ” She looked up at Alexander.

  If Eric didn’t know better, he’d say the man stopped breathing altogether. “You know what it is?” he asked.

  Rebecca looked at him. “This bird is a raven. It’s meaningful to us.”

  If he felt like an intruder before, he was a full-on voyeur now. “I can leave you two alone.” He didn’t budge, though. He could play the offer-to-go-but-don’t-go game, too.

  “No, stay.” Alexander lowered himself to the farmhouse bench. “You’re about to handle one of the most personal things I’ve done in my lifetime. You deserve to know at least a little more as to why I needed this house. Sit.” He gestured to the chair across from him.

  Needed. He’d often heard how someone just “had to have” something. However, he recognized honest words when spoken. He sat, grateful not to have been dismissed.

  Alexander handed the envelope to Rebecca. “Read it.”

  She gently ran a fingernail under the yellowed scotch tape and drew out a piece of folded paper. A sad smile spread across her face as she scanned the words across the lined notebook paper.

  “Out loud,” he said.

  She took in a long breath. “Charles Durham Wynter. Note Number 473 or thereabouts.” Her voice hitched a little, and she pressed her lips together for a brief second as if swallowing some emotion. “The raven is the most misunderstood bird in the Wynter kingdom. I know how it feels to be accused of being the harbinger of death. Well, someone’s got to do it.” A half-laugh crossed her lips. “And if you found this note, what are you doing sneaking around and taking paintings down?” She sniffed and looked up at Alexander. His blue eyes were glassy, all traces of joy erased.

  Alexander’s spine straightened and his eyes cleared. “That reminds me. I brought his last letter to me. It’s in my jacket in the front room. Rebecca, will you go get it for me?”

  She nodded and disappeared, leaving him alone with Alexander. Because he didn’t know what else to do, he reached for Alexander’s cup, cold to the touch. “More coffee?”

  “Please.”

  After handing him a refreshed cup, Eric sat back down. Should he speak? He wasn’t sure of the boundaries between personal and professional yet. He dug into people’s lives for a living, but some lines shouldn’t be crossed, like asking the barrage of questions pinging in his brain as fast as the rain outside. What was Charles like? What’s up with Rebecca? Is she staying? Why hadn’t he heard of her before now? As if Alexander had ever said much about himself.

  Alexander sighed heavily. “Thank you, Eric. You did as I asked. Brought that envelope to me.” He nodded his head toward it but didn’t touch the note on the table. The man’s fingers strained around the cup.

  Eric fisted his hands in his lap. Alexander didn’t get undone by notes from the past. The man was … Hell, he didn’t know. Over the years, he’d built him up in his mind so much he was sure the unflappable Alexander Rockingham was above past regrets and past hurts.

  Alexander stared at the kitchen fireplace, lost in thought. “I met Charles at Harvard. We became … involved. Lovers. He invited me here during our last Christmas break. That’s when I met Rebecca. She was the daughter of one of the Wynters’ oldest friends. When they died the Wynters had taken her in.”

  Eric swallowed, the sound too loud in his head. He didn’t want to miss a word of this confession, if that’s what this was.

  “I was captivated by her. By both of them, actually.” He turned his head toward Eric.

  “She’s quite attractive.” Can you be any more unoriginal?

  “You think she’s beautiful now? Hell, I spent the first two days resisting the urge to jump those lecherous old men Raymond was so fond of hanging with if they so much as looked her way. Which they did—often.” He took a deep breath. “We became lovers that week. All three of us. And we were caught.” He glanced up to the ceiling. “Upstairs. Marston found us. Twenty-four-years-old and he still ran to his parents to tattle-tale like some kindergartener scoring points with the teacher. Alice and Raymond did what parochial socialites of that era did. Cut off Charles’ funding. Instead of going back to school separately, we went to San Francisco together. Lived there for five months, squatting in friends’ apartments, taking on odd jobs, until … Charles … Well, we didn’t know he was sick when we fled Connecticut.” His last words were so laced with pain Eric’s lungs seized.

  “AIDS?” He didn’t know where he got the balls to ask, but what did he have to lose? How about everything—like having Alexander clam up?

  “Yes, though back then no one knew what it was.”

  He was a kid when the news about the fatal disease no one knew anything about broke. All he could recall was the pure terror in people’s voices, the acronym spoken in whispers. No one knowing shit. “I remember.”

  Alexander eyes clouded as if studying some faraway memory. “It wasn’t long after that I stood outside the Wynter’s front gate and watched a hearse disappear up the driveway to this house. Guards stood on the other side—men that had been given the orders to shoot if I stepped foot inside. That day was the last time I was even remotely close to him. At least until yesterday.” He took a full gulp of coffee, hissed between his teeth. His eyes remained fixed on the fire.

  Eric should say something—anything—but words had left his brain long ago. Rather, a cold fury began to build.

  Alexander must have been in the mood to talk because the room filled with his voice again. “I never got to say goodbye.
That’s the hardest part, you know?”

  Eric didn’t know, but he understood Alexander didn’t need words right now. He needed something Eric couldn’t provide—at least right then. So, he simply nodded an acknowledgement.

  “In San Francisco, at the hospital, after the Wynter family arrived, I was banished from Charles’ room. Literally hauled out by three huge guys. It was easy to do in 1981. That despicable family packed up Charles, boarded their private plane, and came back here. Rebecca and I followed.” He paused to take a deep breath. “Three horrible days on Greyhound buses. I was grief-stricken, but I’d never lost anyone before. When we got here, I wasn’t allowed to set foot on the grounds, and Rebecca disappeared. Just inside that front gate, Alice Wynter called me the devil incarnate. Said I’d never see Charles or Rebecca again. She’d make sure of it. I told her I’d one day walk back through that gate as the new owner of this estate and I’d have a sledgehammer in my hand.” He fixed his eyes on the table surface, the blue emitting so much ice he could frost over hell. “She said it would be over her dead body. Guess at least that part is true. She’s dead and here I am.” He downed the last of his coffee in one gulp and let the mug hit the tabletop, hard.

  Eric sat back and inhaled deeply. What to feel first? Awe at the man’s emotional control? Anger at how he’d been shut out? Confusion as to what happened then with Rebecca? He unclenched his fists, marks left in his flesh from nails biting into his palms. No wonder Alexander wanted this house and was so pissed at Marston’s attitude. The guy was just another in a long line of homophobic assholes. Some things never change.

  “Are you … ” Eric shouldn’t have started that question, the one in his mind flashing like a Las Vegas billboard.

  “I’m negative.”

  The man understood his non-question. Anyone who lived through that time would.

  “So was Rebecca. We’d always used condoms—or at least ninety-nine percent of the time. We checked our health status immediately … once we knew what Charles had and things went to complete shit. After that I tested often. I’ll never forget that seventh year when they said I was finally all clear. Relieved, but it saddened me that—”