Beautiful White Lies Duet

by K L Clare

  “The auctioneer from Sotheby’s—what’s his name?—will receive many bids. I’m sure of it. Hell, I’d like to buy it myself, really, but at the same time I want to see it out in the world where others can appreciate the beautiful mind behind it.”

  “I need to let it go. That’s what I want as well . . . to send them out into the world.” She rested her hands on my jacket lapels and nailed me with her eyes. “One day, somewhere, someone will get it. So don’t you dare buy it, William Hastings. Let it inspire another couple to love the way they did . . . like we do.”

  I had never been more desperate for anything than I was in that moment. Every part of me was on fire, burning for her, needing to crush my lips to hers at the very least. If I kissed her there and then in that way with the event staff fussing over us, she would blush, so I resisted for her sake. Instead, I brushed the back of my fingers along the length of her neck. Her pulse leaped against my knuckles.

  I’ve gone fucking mad. This can’t be my reality.

  But it was.

  “Say you’ll never leave me, Elle.”

  “I—”

  Before my wife could get the words I wanted to hear out of her pretty mouth, ushers abruptly opened the ticketed guest access doors, and VIP arrival announcements began. The event planner escorted Elle and me to a quiet room, insisting we shouldn’t be present until guests had champagne in their hands and the master of ceremonies called out our introduction.

  “Remember,” the planner said, “this is the cocktail reception, and there are canapés stationed about for the duration of the auction. We’re hosting the dinner for a more select group of guests afterwards in the private dining room downstairs. I will issue invitations to those who purchase a table during the reception. Please don’t issue invitations of your own outside of the list you’ve given me. We want your guests to spend their money tonight.” She winked.

  “Thank you, Margaret,” Elle said. “You’ve done a wonderful job with our event. Will and I are so pleased with the venue.”

  She touched Elle’s hand for a moment. “It’s been such a delight working with you, Ellie, though I do wish you’d allow me to address you properly. It’s not often a countess with your lineage comes to call.”

  “It’s quite all right. We have no desire to . . . well, endure more celebrity. We are grateful, of course, but Will’s status in the financial community already casts a very large spotlight.”

  I took Elle’s other hand but kept my mouth shut. I wanted her to take the lead with regard to our titles, and I was so fucking proud of the path she was choosing. I never cared about the earldom. It didn’t mean much for me, but it elevated her in the eyes of the nation and served as a reminder of who she was, creating another layer of protection for her.

  “I think you’ll find there are many of us who appreciate that, Ellie. It’s lovely to see Britain’s young generation of nobility thriving independently while bringing the country into a contemporary era of peerage. That you and the youngest members of the royal family are so relatable is quite uplifting for us all. I’m not sure the monarchy would survive otherwise.”

  Elle smiled at Margaret and patted her arm, something she had picked up from my mother. Her smile was sincere and affectionate and demonstrated how she cared about the hopes and dreams of others.

  Angel. Mine.

  A knock at the door came then. Margaret rushed over and asked who it was.

  “Hastings security, ma’am. I’m opening the door now.” Taylor stepped across the threshold. “Please step out of the room, ma’am. I have urgent business for Mr. Hastings.”

  The event planner stepped out, and in came Director Martin. He had come dressed in black tie to blend in with the guests of the gala. Martin looked between Taylor and Elle and me.

  “Go on with your sitrep. Taylor and my wife know what you and I know,” I said.

  Martin nodded. “I’m sorry to crash your gala.”

  “You are an invited guest,” I countered.

  “The Parker business connection you provided did not check out. It’s not the same family. I have, however, discovered proof of what I believed all along—that Simon Parker’s father was George Parker, and George was indeed a member of the Order. George made an attempt on Ellie’s life nine years ago, a few months before your father’s death, and your father took him out. I can’t say whether or not Ethan knew about that.”

  Elle squeezed my hand. Her nails dug into my flesh. I pulled her close.

  “My father killed George Parker. Christ, this changes things quite a lot.”

  “Does it? Remember, the Order was never a father-son tradition,” Martin said.

  I ignored his point. Because it meant there was something else.

  “Will,” Elle whispered. “Simon had said that he recently joined the Order. It didn’t sound as if he had been raised believing it was his purpose.”

  “Did you get a direct indication or even a suggestion that Devon was involved with the Order when you spoke to him, Elle?” I kissed her hand.

  Martin reprimanded me with narrowed eyes for allowing her to see Devon Parker.

  “It won’t happen again, Director,” I said.

  A combination of defiance and regret marked my wife’s expression. “I recall nothing during my time with Devon that pointed to the Order. You may want to question Commissioner Brown. He has done other interviews with Devon. He knew exactly how to get him to talk.”

  “Could you identify Devon Parker in a photo should the need arise?” Martin asked her.

  Protective instincts fired up, and I spoke on Elle’s behalf. “Thomas was in the observation room to witness the interrogation. He can ID the man who threatened my wife.”

  Martin’s attention stayed with Elle. “Did he threaten you in clear terms, Ellie?”

  I waited for her to respond this time, because I needed to hear her say the words. I needed her to feel the weight of the words in my presence. She’d held back the exact language when telling me about the threat, “to spare me the image,” is what she’d said. When Thomas and I spoke afterwards, he’d held back nothing.

  “Devon believes I’m the reason for his brother’s death.” Elle swallowed hard, and I knew she was pushing back anxiety-induced nausea. “He said when he is released, he’ll use his favorite hunting knife to slit me from . . . umm . . . cunt to throat and send me to hell with Simon.” She dropped her eyes to the carpet. “I suppose that’s pretty clear.”

  Rage thundered at the bottom of my soul.

  23

  Once we were announced and Margaret permitted us to circulate casually among the guests, the nervousness plaguing Elle subsided, and she was able to fully experience the gala. She was absolute perfection as she greeted our guests and networked with the other artists in attendance.

  Our gala turned into something much larger than we’d expected after the first invitations were issued. Requests for invitations by community socialites and business owners then flooded Margaret’s office. Because so many would be in attendance, Thomas had arranged for Ben and my entire security team, the Six, to supplant the event security staff for the evening. Taylor and Andrew Evans were armed with their Met Police–issued Glock pistols.

  They’re backup. No one will ever get past me.

  “I need to freshen up in the ladies’ room before we go down to our seats, Will. Margaret is calling for us. After you deliver your address, the auction will immediately begin.”

  “You sure you don’t want to give the speech, baby?” I winked.

  “No. Way.” She kissed my cheek and dragged her fingers down the front of my trousers as she dropped her arm. It was a discreet maneuver, a reflexive act to acknowledge the fire that always burned between us. “Besides, no one can command an audience better than my handsome, charismatic husband.”

  “Careful. Keep that up, and I’ll take you into the back room first, lift that gown, and fuck the hell out of you.”

  I hadn’t touched her since the quickie when we
showered together the day before. She’d fallen asleep later that evening while I had handled a distressed client, and then she’d had another one of those fucking nightmares. There were more nights like that one than I cared to recall, and when they occurred, I would stay awake for hours, my wife held tightly in my arms while I watched her sleep and inhaled the breath she released. I had ached to be inside her then, and I burned for her now.

  My blood constantly thrummed with the need to own her body.

  Elle sucked in a sharp breath through her open mouth and held it, and I stared, waiting for her to exhale and say something.

  “You’ve never said it that way before,” she whispered. Desire filled her eyes.

  “Are you offended?” She was not, and we both knew it. I smirked.

  She had asked me to stop treating her as if she were fragile, and I wanted to give that to her but without going to the same places I had visited with other women. Everything was different with Elle.

  It was difficult for me to inflict pain or oppression on this woman, even for her pleasure.

  I hadn’t hit her hard, but I was still unsettled about spanking her a few weeks back. With every recollection, my chest split. I had to show her that I neither wanted nor needed the rough foreplay. I suspected she was offering it for my sake.

  “Offend me? Not at all.” She flashed a smile. It was the smile. “And I love the idea about the back room, really. If all eyes weren’t—”

  There was no help for me, as hard as I sometimes tried. I gripped the back of her head and lowered my mouth onto hers, stealing the rest of her words. We needed the connection, however brief it had to be. Christ, I was dying to taste her. I slipped my tongue into her mouth and took from her the least of what I craved.

  My wife didn’t break the kiss as quickly as I thought she might, even when someone bumped into us, but when she did, she stayed close to my lips and said, “No words, Will.”

  “No words, my angel.”

  She slipped her hand into mine. “We should go. Walk me to the ladies’ room.”

  * * *

  We posed for the photographers in the round with the auctioneer and the buyer of Elle’s piece. Vanity Fair’s photojournalist then followed us to the private dining room to shoot the final images for the magazine’s forthcoming spread. The editor would contact my office to schedule our interview to complete the feature, she’d said.

  Exhilaration continued to light Elle’s face. There had been quite a lot of interest in her oil painting, and it had sold for more than double what I’d imagined it might go for. The buyer was a man not much older than me who purchased the art as a wedding gift for his fiancée, and that made Elle even happier.

  My wife and I had squabbled in a lighthearted manner during the bidding war. She had challenged that it was her title and or my status drawing the interest, not her talent, and I’d argued the opposite.

  Of course, I won.

  The gentleman’s fiancée had clearly related to my wife’s perception, as was proven by her teary-eyed fawning over her new evocative treasure and by the pointed questions she had asked.

  Taylor ushered the last photographer and others out of the dining room. Apart from him, Elle and I were alone, though it wouldn’t be long before the highest bidders became our dinner guests and were shown to their tables.

  “This is almost as majestic as the hall itself.” Elle walked about the room, her fingertips gliding along purple orchid petals and fine linens and plush velvet chair backs. “That’s Kensington Gardens,” she said pointing to the view outside a large window. “So that must be the Prince Albert Memorial. God, it’s so . . . ornate. It’s odd that our house is so close to all of this. What is he holding?”

  I leaned over her shoulder and wrapped my arms round her waist. “I believe he’s holding the catalogue of the Great Exhibition. The history of the exhibition is in one of those books you have on the table in our library.”

  “Oh, yes. I did read about it. The lighting inside this room is perfect, right? It’s the same lavender color scheme from the auditorium. I must tell Margaret how lovely it is.”

  “Yeah, it’s quite nice. Kiss me, baby, before she gets here.” I could hear the planner barking orders as she made her way through the kitchen.

  Elle turned in my arms. I bent down and she leaned in. But the little witch didn’t kiss me—she turned her head and whispered in my ear.

  “Don’t let me drink too much champagne. You know how it makes me sleepy.”

  And right then, before I could take my goddamned kiss, Margaret and her poor timing pushed through the set of steel doors. “Loves, let’s have a walk through the kitchen. It’s customary for elite patrons. You’ll quite like Chavot. He’s regarded as one of the finest French chefs of his generation. I do apologize in advance for his common swearing.”

  Elle grinned. “I’m certain we’ll be fine with his use of language.”

  Margaret led us into Chavot’s stainless steel domain. “When we exit, your dinner guests will be at their tables with champagne in hand. Thomas is receiving them at the door. Ellie, please take your husband’s arm. The tile is slippery.” She put out her thin arm in front of Taylor. “Please wait in the dining room.”

  “My wife’s PPO goes with us,” I said.

  Taylor was the only personal protection officer from the team with a weapon on his person who maintained a close position to Elle at all times. Because shit would come to a head sooner rather than later with Devon Parker, and with Martin’s findings on the history between our families, it was time to tighten security.

  Truth be told, locking it all down round Elle was my thing, security emergency or not. A constant battle raged within me, and it grew uglier by the day, the mixed messages creating a state of mind that one may compare to madness.

  Protect her . . . give her freedom . . . keep her close . . . respect her independence . . . imprison her.

  I convinced myself over and over that what she needed was most important. But even when my hunger to own her was restrained, it remained close to the surface, unconquered, like a caged lion.

  “Will?” Elle said. “Try this one.” She held up a morsel of sea bass on a small tasting fork.

  I closed my hand on her wrist—any excuse to touch her—and pulled the bite of fish into my mouth. “Ah, this is delicious, chef.”

  Chavot grinned and nodded. “Un poisson pan-frit merveilleux qui est tres succulent.”

  I translated for Elle. “Yes, it is a wonderful pan-fried fish and it’s quite juicy.”

  He turned to her. “You enjoy le poisson, Countess?”

  “Oui. I like it very much.”

  I pulled him aside for a moment, and we conversed in French.

  “No one other than you touches the food served to my wife. Understood?”

  “C’est compris. Margaret m’informe de la situation de votre femme.”

  “Good. I’m glad Margaret informed you.”

  We tasted a few more of the evening’s dishes at Chavot’s insistence, thanked him for the cuisine he and the staff were plating for our dinner party, and returned to the dining room. The room now held a hundred preened guests in their black-tie best, all seated before extravagant place settings. Silver champagne chillers containing the finest vintages were arranged near the end of each table.

  Another hundred and fifty or so people still moved about the building to take advantage of the gala’s last call for cocktails and the orchestra’s final performance of the evening. Some peered into the room as they passed to catch a glimpse of the private party their mediocre bids had cost them.

  Thomas steered us to our table.

  Elle grabbed my jacket sleeve and stopped cold. She was searching for strength. Her stare was locked on the massive wooden door that separated us from the rest of the hall.

  Evans closed us in.

  “No,” she whispered with a slight shake of her head. “It’s not him.”

  I secured her beneath my arm and pulled her again
st my side.

  “Who, Elle?”

  Small breaths rushed from her mouth, and goose bumps raised on her arm under my fingers. She wouldn’t look at me.

  “Tell me,” I demanded, but she said nothing.

  I gripped her elbows and pulled her to my chest. “You’re shaking, Elle. You will tell me now.”

  When she lifted her eyes to mine, her pupils were blown.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  “I think I saw Devon Parker,” she said.

  Monster Under My Bed

  From: Ellie

  To: Isobel

  As much as I hated the dreams where you were the villain, I now miss them. So many times I wished for them to end, for you to leave me alone. There were countless nights when I prayed for your lingering presence to be gone. But I miss the dreams. They were a connection to you, Isobel, and I’m mourning that loss.

  And it is a loss. You know that I’ve forgiven you. Even with the lies between us, you were my sister, and you protected me, loved me. As I loved you. Why did we never say the words?

  It’s been more than three weeks since you’ve haunted my sleep, and I find the idea that you may never come to me that way again unnerving. A small voice inside me whispers that I’m losing you, this time for good.

  I tell myself you’re already gone, because you’ve been gone from the moment you died holding my hand. It’s silly how I try to convince myself of things that I know my brain won’t accept. I understand that you’re not gone from my heart, but I do feel your spirit slipping away from me. Are you visiting someone else’s dreams?

  Someone else has come to mine.

  For months, I dreamed of Simon Parker. The nightmares were all the same, with his sickening face in focus and everything else relegated to a dark abyss. Everything except for the silhouette of my body and my eyes. How strange that I could see the fear in my own eyes. I was tied to the posts of a metal bed that I did not recognize. He would touch me, cut the clothes from my body, push his fingers between my legs, and eventually drag them up to my throat, where he would wrap his calloused hands around my neck. He would choke me until I was close to death, but in the end, he took my life with a large knife.