Beautiful White Lies Duet

by K L Clare

  “Yes, you have it. You have my word.” And his word was good because he was my brother, but resentment and condemnation showed in his eyes.

  “Goddammit, Thomas. I’m not telling you to quit sleeping with women altogether. But you must be more discreet. As for the other matter, I do know you would never abandon me. Can you provide me with reassurance that Elle’s project isn’t relevant to the contents in that envelope?”

  “Ellie’s only seeking information about her sister. Are we still in agreement that there’s no harm in her searching for that closure?”

  “I sure as fuck hope that’s still the case,” I said.

  6

  I was standing before the glass wall in my office when Elle arrived. I nearly dropped the whisky from my hand as she entered the room. She was covered in an elegant black coat, but the shape of her curves teased what was hidden beneath the tailored cashmere. On most occasions I would have gone to her—hell, I’d crawl on my hands and knees to get to her if that’s what she wanted—just not this time. This time I wanted to get lost in the sway of her hips. I wanted to take in every fine detail of my wife as she advanced towards me.

  Her beauty never escaped me, never dulled, never grew ordinary.

  “So . . . the tale is true. The powerful man in the tower is also the most handsome in the land,” she said, her husky bedroom tone washing over me, promising that her thoughts were in the same place as mine.

  “Don’t romanticize my character, baby. It will only lead to disappointment,” I countered.

  “That’s crazy, Will. There isn’t a thing about you that disappoints.”

  I could no longer restrain my ego—it grabbed hold, and my lips pulled into a tight smirk. Nothing pleased me more than knowing she wanted me. I drew her into my arms and pushed my growing arousal against her stomach. “Take off the coat. Show me what is mine.”

  Elle stared up into my eyes from beneath her lashes. “I lied to you,” she said, dragging her fingers along the button placket on my shirt. “There isn’t a stitch of red on my body.”

  “No? Well then, this may be the time I do smack that pretty arse of yours.”

  She sucked in a quick, sharp breath and moaned on the exhale. Her lids dropped, and her cheeks flushed with heat as if she’d just had an orgasm. I knew that look, knew my wife—she wanted me to do it.

  Do not cross the line you’ve drawn for her.

  “Or maybe this is just another one of your empty threats. Either way, you should probably lock the door.” She stepped back out of my arms and unbelted her long coat, letting it fall to the floor at her feet.

  Fucking. Christ.

  I wanted nothing more in that moment than to feel her soul breach mine and heal me. I needed to bury my cock deep inside the beauty before me to find myself again—the real me, not the dark pretender who destroyed everything. That man, the one who was good and moral, lived only in her.

  “It locked behind you. . . . Lift the dress.”

  Elle obeyed, slowly raising the skirt of her silk dress to reveal delicate knickers with little more than a lace triangle in the front and a matching garter belt. Similar lace at the top of her stockings peeked from beneath the thigh-high fuck me boots she wore. Every thread on her body was coordinated in the same nude color that blended well with her blushing skin tone.

  I stepped closer, grabbed her hips, and pulled her against me, and the line I swore never to cross began to blur. I snarled in her ear, “What are you asking me for, Elle?”

  She wrapped her arms tightly round my neck and dropped her face into my open shirt collar. “Make me feel more,” she breathed onto my skin. She then lifted her head and locked her eyes into mine. “I’m not made of glass. You will not break me.”

  I bowed my head. It was merely a quick drop of the chin, but she understood it was more than a slight gesture. It was my vow to deny her nothing. Unanswered questions about the past cultivated a restlessness in her that scared me. I had lived too many years without her, and I would do anything to keep her.

  Before I could reprogram my thoughts, I filled one hand with her arse and the other with a fistful of her hair, and I used both to pull her to my mouth. She strengthened the hold round my neck with her arms and slid her hands up the back of my head to press our mouths together harder, opening wide for my kiss. Her sweet taste hit my tongue, flooded my senses, and my desperate desire to control everything about this woman grew stronger and consumed me.

  Elle dug her nails into the back of my neck and writhed against my cock. She knew what she was doing—she knew she was choosing to push me beyond that line.

  “Give me more . . . ” she pleaded.

  I dragged my lips from her mouth to her ear and whispered, “For lying to me.” And then I drew back my arm and allowed my hand to connect with a harsh smack against her bare arse cheek. I pressed it there to ease the sting.

  A small cry escaped her, but she didn’t move away from my hand. She pushed into it.

  I drew back and landed another smack in the same place, but instead of easing the sting, I shoved her underwear away and slid my fingers inside of her. “For pushing me when you should not,” I said against her lips after swallowing her erotic little cry.

  She relaxed her grip on my neck, allowing one hand to fall to my chest, and hit me with her stunning eyes—eyes filled with an unexpected mess of lust and adoration . . . and victory. Her lips parted as she settled on my other arm and let her head fall back.

  I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

  I need her.

  She was my savior—that she loved me was the only thing that mattered, and hers was the only saving grace I would ever receive in this lifetime. I drew her mouth to mine and kissed her again when her orgasm clenched onto my fingers and her breath carried my name. With a quick snap of my wrist, I ripped apart her lace waistband.

  “You’re still taking the pills, Elle?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said with a playful smile as she freed me from my trousers.

  That smile, the innocence of it mocked by mischief. And just like that smile, quite a lot about Elle was a series of contrasts—her pure, endearing traits were often baited with the promise of something wicked, and I couldn’t get enough of it. It drove me mad. I was completely mad for her.

  I lifted her into my arms, then put out one hand to steady my weight against the wall. I covered her mouth with mine and thrust into my angel much harder than I should have, and those fucking demons—the faces, voices, my father’s fists—fled from my soul once again.

  Little Girls and Boys

  From: Ellie

  To: Isobel

  I’m sitting in the car waiting for Will. He stands just outside my door in the brisk night air, finishing one last business call for the evening.

  I wish you were here, Isobel. I’m tired of feeling subjugated by my childish fears. And the anger. I’ve been so angry, but tonight? Tonight I wish we could sit on your bed with a plate of Gran’s soft cinnamon biscuits like we did as girls so that I could tell you about him.

  We talked a lot about boys when we were growing up. It was one of the few areas of common ground we shared as sisters. Even as adults, we carried on with that one little thrill: the secretive midnight boy talks. It was similar to the tea parties we’d had in Gran’s secret room as young girls, during which we had giggled about the silliness of the boys in our classrooms. But as we matured, the content of our chats did as well. The boys became men.

  If you were here, I could tell you about Will. And between biscuit munching, I would describe the boring stuff that makes me happy, like the first time I visited his office. . . .

  As I was led through a second reception area, a large silhouetted figure moved toward me from out of the daylight cast through a wall of glass. The movement was familiar. It was confident, dangerous, carnal. It was Will’s strut. As he came closer, the features of his handsome face were revealed.


  Will’s dark charisma never fails to captivate me.

  He wore black that day, dressed in a suit tailored for his body. Despite his muscular build, his frame appeared tall and lithe. I remember how long and elegant his neck seemed and how the pale blue tie there complemented his beautiful eyes. Blue eyes that sparked with white fire. He stole my heart all over again.

  His warm smile twisted into a panty-melting smirk, and he pulled me into his arms to kiss me. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his deep voice low and full of gravel. He then led me to the wall of glass and showed me his incredible view of the River Thames.

  I was floating euphorically. And then my lying brain told me I’d lost control of my body, that I was about to plunge fifty stories to my death. As my stomach tightened and trembled, he sensed my disorientation, wrapped his arms tightly around me from behind, and pulled me away from the wall, rescuing me from my own illusion.

  Will knows what I need often before I do. He knows me beyond words. I’m not angry tonight, and it’s because of him. And I need you to know this, Isobel. I want you to know that Lissie and me . . . well, we’re okay without you. Because of him.

  7

  I kissed Elle’s warm lips after climbing into the back of the Bentley with her. “That was David Nielson. He and Caroline are at the same restaurant and invited us to join them. It’s up to you, baby. We can keep our private table if you fancy it.”

  “Do you need time to talk shop with David? I don’t mind. I haven’t seen Caroline since the wedding. I do like her, you know. I just prefer to take her in small doses.”

  “All right, we’ll join them, but let’s not make an entire night of it. And since we’re no longer dining alone . . . close your eyes for me before we arrive.” I winked.

  Tiffany’s was just a few blocks from my building, and the bright artwork displayed outside the storefront had grabbed my attention when I had been on the way to my meeting with Director Martin.

  And here’s an opulent interpretation of the key pendant. These stones are nearly flawless and colorless. This design is chic but quite sophisticated about it, the jeweler had explained as she presented me with a necklace.

  Very much like my wife. I’m pressed for time—send the packaging and documentation to my office, I’d said as I had chucked my credit card onto the glass counter and had slipped the pendant into my pocket.

  Elle closed her eyes, and I fastened the clasp at the back of her neck and kissed her throat above where the platinum and diamond key lay against her skin. Her pulse quivered against my lips. She held her eyes shut tight, touched the key for a moment, then reached for my face and rested her fingertips on my cheek.

  “Your key,” she whispered, and when she finally opened her eyes and looked into mine, I had no doubt those two small words combined had a profound meaning for her, for us. She got that I’d given her all of myself, and it made no difference to me what she called it.

  It didn’t matter how much or how little the cost—she marked every one of my gifts with a meaningful moment that we’d created together. I had come to depend on that, and it was the reason I needed to buy her so many things. She showed me how to combat the fear we shared—the fear of losing time—by collecting significant moments, memorializing them with these tangible objects, and treasuring them like precious jewels.

  As we arrived in front of the trendy French restaurant where Sean had sent us, Elle kissed me softly on the mouth and told me that my key would always be safe with her.

  “Let’s go home to Eastridge tonight,” I said, ignoring that the car door had been opened for our exit. I moved my lips close to her ear. “I don’t want to wait until morning. I want to hold you in the bed where we made love on the night you became mine. And in the morning, we can surprise Lissie and take her to school.”

  Elle leaned in closer. Paparazzi cameras flashed. Neither of us cared right then.

  London’s photojournalists had come to realize it was easier to get what they wanted when they respected the boundaries I’d given them, so it was rare that one would do much more than take a few snaps before quietly moving on. It was safer for Elle—and much cheaper for me—if we allowed them to get a quick photo when they found us out for dinner or social events. City pavements were fair game, but anything else was off limits.

  “I belonged to you before we were married, Will. But I want that too. Take me home. I want us to be home with our family.”

  Colin Wilson, who was one of the personal protection officers on my security team and our driver for the evening, cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said. “More cameras are headed this way. Evans will assist you with cover while I drive over to the car park.”

  Whenever Elle was out on her own, she was accompanied by at least four men, but when we were together, we usually had only one or two with us. No one would get through me—I would take another bullet for her without question—but my wife was becoming quite good at pushing the boundaries of our protection agreement, so more eyes were better.

  I ducked out of the car and helped Elle get to her feet, and we did our thing. Behind me, she straightened her dress and popped into the pretty pose her stylist had showed her. “Like a teapot,” she liked to tease. I moved aside and placed my hand on the small of her back, and we both smiled for several seconds for the cameras.

  “That’s it, everyone. Good night,” I told the gaggle of photographers as I tucked Elle beneath my arm. Andrew Evans moved into position on her left.

  David waited inside the entrance and led us to the table, where Caroline rose from her chair with her arms held open wide. “Ellie, darling, I’m so happy you’re joining us. It’s been too long since we’ve had a chat,” Caroline said as she embraced Elle with genuine warmth.

  “I can’t wait to catch up,” Elle said, then redirected her smile to David when he took her hand to welcome her as well.

  He did what most men do when they meet my wife’s eyes for the first time or, in David’s case, for the first time after a significant period had passed. He stood there entranced for a minute and then abruptly dropped his eyes, without doubt hoping like hell that I hadn’t noticed his hesitation to look away.

  Of course I noticed. I was the most jealous motherfucker to walk the earth when it came to her, and there would never be a time when I overlooked the reactions of others when they were near my wife.

  My onetime roommate from Oxford University fumbled with his wife’s chair, and I grinned like some cardsharp who had just won another hand.

  But there was more to my awareness than ego. My father had trained me to consider every contact a threat and assess the significance only after securing the safety of my asset. There had only ever been one asset for me, and he had raised me to shield her from harm at all costs. And now that I loved her with a madness that couldn’t be explained, the protective instinct was sewn so deeply into my fabric that it would always remain at the ready.

  Waitstaff approached our table, each of the three displaying a different bottle of wine for our selection. A fourth waiter arrived holding a bottle of Elle’s favorite Dom Pérignon vintage, and I nodded at that one. Sean knew his shit.

  “Give the bottle to me before you open it here at the table.” It had become habitual for me to monitor the source of Elle’s alcohol. Thomas and I suspected that her wine had been drugged at a charity event not long ago. She’d had only a few ounces when her speech had slurred, and she’d complained of an unusual weakness in her limbs.

  “Yes, monsieur, certainly. Chef requests the honor to greet the countess, if you please?”

  Elle was already deep into conversation with Caroline. I caught her attention, knowing she would scold me later for my behavior if I denied the request. I smiled at her, thrilled by the thought of doing something more in the same evening to make her happy.

  “Tell your chef we’ll be happy to receive him,” I told the waiter.

  She rewarded me by placing her hand on my thigh beneath the table and squeezing.

&nb
sp; “And please bring us a bottle of Glenlivet as well . . . 18 if you have it,” David added.

  After drinks were served and the chef visited our table with his recommendations, David and I waded into the details of some pending business transactions for a project we were undertaking through my firm. All the while, I couldn’t help but notice the intensity of Elle’s conversation with Caroline.

  “So you’re saying Commissioner Brown is your brother?” I heard her ask.

  “Yes, he’s my twin,” Caroline confirmed.

  “Join me in the ladies’ room, Caroline,” my wife demanded, pushing backwards against her heavy dining chair until I got to my feet and pulled it out for her.

  Only Words Bleed

  From: Ellie

  To: Isobel

  Will and I are on our way home to Eastridge for the weekend, and I am so relieved. I won’t have much time or privacy over the next few days, so I need to get this out of my head now. I need to ask you something, Isobel. I need you to lead me to the answer.

  The idea of finding the answer terrifies me. I’m afraid that one more truth could hurt us beyond recovery. And deep down, I know this one is meant for Will.

  I’ve been carrying one of your photos around in my bag. You know the one—the photo of you and Ethan with Simon Parker.

  God, he was your murderer, Isobel, the cruel man who shot you through the heart.

  I promise you that he received the same death he gave you and Gran.

  But what is the meaning behind this photo, and what will it do to us?

  We know Ethan lied.

  You lied.

  Fear stirs in my gut now, and it tells me there is something more to the lies you and he shared, the lies that nearly destroyed us all.