The Mistress. Tiffany Reisz

Kingsley would associate with such a person. “Then why are you friends with him?”

      “Because he’s kinky as hell, and I used to fuck his first wife.”

      “Kingsley, please,” Søren said, scowling.

      “This is why no children are allowed in my house.” Kingsley winked at Laila. “You turn everyone vanilla.”

      “I’m eighteen now,” Laila protested.

      “I was talking about him.” Kingsley pointed at Wes with his phone. Laila smiled at Wes, who rolled his eyes.

      Kingsley raised the phone to his ear. Someone on the other end answered as Kingsley grinned like the devil himself.

      “Wake up, Daniel. I’m calling in that favor you owe us.”

Part Two

      

       11 THE QUEEN

      For what felt like an hour, Nora paced the room with the green curtains. They hadn’t handcuffed her, hadn’t gagged or bound her; they’d simply left her to walk unencumbered. She tried the window first and found it locked and barred. She’d need a blowtorch to get out that way. The door seemed too dangerous. Anyone could be standing behind it with a gun waiting to shoot on sight. Still, if no one came back for her in another hour or two, she’d give it a try. Better to die on her feet than huddled in a corner crying.

      She kept moving about the room, trying not to give in to panic. Where was she? She felt like she should know. The furniture was elegant but old and dated. She’d guess someone had decorated the house in the 1960s and no one had bothered updating the decor since then. It gave the room an eerie feel, like she’d fallen into another time. Or that time stopped in this room. When she paced she pushed against old stale air that had probably wasted away in this room as long as the furniture had.

      What the fuck was happening? She thought she knew everything about Søren’s marriage to Marie-Laure. Thirty years ago, Søren had brought Marie-Laure from Paris to visit Kingsley in lieu of the Je t’aime that she knew Kingsley had longed to hear. Søren told her that he’d never considered the possibility of marrying Marie-Laure until he’d seen how happy Kingsley became in her presence, and once he’d thought of marriage, he realized it could be the perfect solution. But Marie-Laure had ignored Søren’s cautions that he would never love her back and she’d fallen head over heels for him. Head over heels … how it began. How Nora thought it had ended. Marie-Laure catching Søren and Kingsley in an intimate moment … Marie-Laure running through the winter woods in shock and grief. She slipped on ice, perhaps—or maybe it hadn’t been a simple slip—and plunged a hundred feet to her death, her body shattering on a rock below. Now she knew it had been a lie. Marie-Laure had learned long before that moment she walked in on Kingsley and Søren that they were lovers. Did she think she’d done them a favor? She would die and leave Søren a widower, and he and Kingsley would fall into each other’s arms and be happy together forever?

      I gave them my death as a gift … and now I’m taking my gift back.

      Nora stopped her caged pacing long enough to glance out the window again and peer between the bars. The stars danced high in the night sky. What time was it? How long had she been here? She wore the same clothes she’d had on in the stables with Wesley back in Kentucky. She still had on her black snakeskin cowboy boots she’d worn riding. Still had on …

      Nora glanced down at her left hand. On the ring finger sat a diamond that outshone the stars in the sky outside the window.

      “Wes …” she whispered, staring at the ring. God, poor Wesley. He must be out of his mind with panic now. What had he done? She prayed he hadn’t called the police. Getting the police involved would only make things worse. This woman might be crazy but she was dangerously crazy. She had to be intelligent to fake her death and make a life for herself for thirty years. If Marie-Laure wanted revenge on Søren it would be easy enough—kill Nora. She knew Søren would rather see his own heart cut out than allow anything to happen to her. If the sirens started screaming, it would be quick work to slit her throat and disappear back into whatever secret hellhole Marie-Laure had been hiding for the past thirty years.

      Footsteps in the hallway alerted her she had perhaps only a few more seconds alone. At one end of the library stood a fireplace, and by the fireplace hung a row of antique bronze fireplace tools, including a poker. She felt a strange something when she picked it up. The heft of it surprised her. There was a weightiness to it greater even than its actual mass. She sensed history in it and didn’t understand why. Didn’t matter. It was the same length as a riding crop and she gripped it just the same. Kingsley Edge had been the first man to put a riding crop in her hand. A riding crop used properly merely stung like fire when applied to the body but it sure as fuck could do a lot of damage if used improperly. Kingsley’s number-one word of warning to her when he gave her the first of her little red riding crops—never go near the face, never go near the eyes. I met a boy in India who’d been blinded when a rich man hit him across the eyes with a riding crop. Don’t get me sued, chérie.

      The door started to open. Nora strode toward it.

      A man stepped in the rom.

      Nora aimed for the eyes.

      From the look on his face, he’d been expecting an attack, but not of this variety. He caught the brass bar an inch from his skull and with his other hand grasped Nora by the wrist and slammed her into the floor. She hit hard and the air rushed from her lungs.

      “You should have seen that coming, Andrei,” came Marie-Laure’s mocking tone from above her. Nora put up a struggle but gave up when the man, Andrei, put his full weight into the knee holding her down.

      “I saw it coming. Thought she’d go for the groin,” the man said.

      “I only do CBT when paid,” Nora grunted through gritted teeth. She could hardly breathe with this Andrei bastard on her back. The other guy, Damon, probably weighed one-fifty wet. This guy weighed two tons dry.

      “CBT?” Marie-Laure repeated.

      “Cock and ball torture.”

      A trilling laugh filled the room and Nora saw Marie-Laure floating down to the floor in a sea of diaphanous black satin.

      “You’re delightful.” Marie-Laure pushed a stray strand of black hair off Nora’s face. “This is good. I’m having so much fun right now. I have my husband dancing for me. I danced for him thirty years ago. Now it’s his turn.”

      “What do you want with Søren?”

      “Only to play awhile.” Marie-Laure took another lock of Nora’s hair in her hand and twirled it girlishly around her finger. “I’m being so silly with him. I burned his bed. And Damon, he killed one of my brother’s dogs. He even wrote a message in blood.” Marie-Laure giggled like a schoolgirl. “It’s ridiculous. I even gave him until noon on Friday to make up his mind about us. High noon. I’ve seen too many movies, haven’t I?”

      “And not enough therapists.”

      The dig didn’t seem to make any impact. Marie-Laure kept grinning.

      “Pull her up,” she said, nodding at Andrei. The man grabbed Nora by the upper arms and dragged her to her feet. “You’re disgusting.” Marie-Laure looked Nora up and down. “And you smell.”

      “I’m doing the French thing. I’m down to one shower a week.”

      “Is pissing yourself a French thing?” Marie-Laure batted her eyelashes at Nora and wrinkled her nose like a little girl.

      “Your fault for knocking me out. I’ll take a shower if you’ll let me. I have a nice shower back at my house. I can find my own way there. I’ll see myself out.”

      Wanting to test the waters, Nora took a step