The Mistress. Tiffany Reisz

she doesn’t see when she looks in the mirror.” With that, Kingsley released him and Wesley wrenched himself away. He felt a wave of nausea as if his brain bashed against his skull. But he didn’t give in to it. He breathed through his nose and stood his ground.

      “I want to see Søren. Now,” Wesley said.

      Kingsley straightened his jacket and smoothed his vest.

      “Answer two questions first. Then I’ll let you see him.”

      “Whatever. Fine. What?”

      “Question one—is it true that you are affianced to her?”

      Wesley narrowed his eyes at Kingsley, who stood waiting, tapping the toe of one of his stupid boots against the floor.

      “Yes. Right before she got kidnapped, we went horseback riding. I asked her to marry me. When we got back to the stables, she said yes.”

      Kingsley nodded as he rubbed his bottom lip with his fingertip before raising two fingers.

      “Second question. Did you ask her to marry you before or after your head injury?”

      “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?” Wesley asked, coming up to him again. Cautiously this time, however. If Kingsley pushed him into the wall again, Wesley knew he’d lose whatever nothing was in his stomach for sure.

      “Oui. But only once. I made sure they never said it again. Come along. You want to see the priest? I’ll show you the priest.”

      Kingsley started up the stairs and Wesley had no choice but to follow. He noticed Kingsley wincing slightly as they turned a corner and headed to the third floor. Was he injured? Had someone attacked Kingsley, too?

      “Are you all right?” Wesley asked, his loathing temporarily giving way to his better instincts. Kingsley might be the asshole of the universe, but Wesley hated to see anyone in pain.

      “It is safe to say I’ve been better.”

      “Did someone attack you, too?”

      “I wouldn’t call it an attack.”

      “Then what would you call it?”

      “I’d call it one of the better nights of my life.”

      Kingsley said nothing more as he led them down a hall to a room on the right.

      “I’m afraid le prêtre won’t be much good to you.”

      “I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”

      “If you insist.” Kingsley opened the door to a room at the end of the hall. Wesley’s eyes widened when he took in the scene. On the floor, at the end of the biggest red bed he’d ever seen in his life, sat Søren, his blond head bowed, his eyes closed. “Talk away. He may not talk back, however.”

      “What the hell …?”

      “He threatened to call the police,” Kingsley said matter-of-factly. “The police, the church and all city, state and federal authorities. I couldn’t allow that. For his sake.”

      “So you …”

      “Sedated him. And handcuffed him. He’ll be out another hour at least with the shot I gave him.”

      “You drugged Søren?”

      “I have a very well-stocked medicine cabinet in case of emergencies.”

      “You’re crazy.”

      Kingsley gave a shrug so nonchalant it could only be described as French.

      “Turnabout is fair play, non? His turn to wear the handcuffs.”

      Wesley could only stare at Søren on the floor. Even unconscious he had a certain broken nobility to him in his black clerics and his white collar. The one time Wesley had spoken face-to-face with the man, he’d been wearing secular clothes.

      “He’s a priest,” Wesley said as the reality of Søren’s profession finally sank in. He knew, of course. He’d known from the beginning. Nora never hid that from him. But seeing the collar …

      “He is. And possibly the finest priest in America if not the world. And if he wants to remain a priest and get his lover back, then it’s for the best we leave the authorities out of this. I can only protect his secrets so much. He’ll thank me later.”

      Kingsley closed the door and started back down the hall.

      “Kingsley, we have to call the police. I don’t care what happens to Søren or you or even me. We’re wasting time. We don’t even know where she is.”

      “You call the police if your car gets stolen. You don’t call them for anything that matters. I know who has your fiancée, and believe me, if you value your beloved’s life at all, you will trust me—calling the authorities would equal a death sentence for her.”

      The truth of the words shone in Kingsley’s eyes. As much as Wesley didn’t want to believe him, something told him that whatever happened to Nora, it wasn’t some kidnap for ransom, wasn’t some prank or game.

      “The woman who has your fiancée is willing to kill. She’s done it before. She’s also willing to die. Something else she’s done before. A dangerous combination. We raise the alarm, the siren sounds, Nora dies.”

      “How do you know this person’s willing to die?”

      “Because, mon petit prince, she pissed me off. That is a good indictor she had a death wish.”

      Kingsley’s brash words failed to give any comfort.

      “They’re going to kill Nora, aren’t they? The words on the walls …” Wesley whispered, his heart clenching as he remembered the fear upon seeing the French words, even not knowing what they meant. “Søren said they mean ‘I will kill the bitch.’“

      “If it comforts you at all, ‘the bitch’ is not your Nora. I’ll leave the story for the priest to tell.”

      “No way. You knocked him out so now you’re going to tell me.” Wesley stared Kingsley down. Kingsley might be strong and dangerous, but he was also in pain and pain made him vulnerable. Wesley wouldn’t back down this time. “And you’re going to tell me now.”

      Kingsley exhaled heavily through his nose before shrugging again.

      “Those words—I will kill the bitch—were uttered thirty years ago by the woman the priest married at age eighteen. His wife, Marie-Laure … my sister.”

      “Thirty years ago … Søren was married to your sister?”

      “Yes. A marriage of convenience. That was what it was supposed to be. That is what he told her it would be. She wanted more, more than he could give.”

      “She was in love with him?”

      “Oui, or whatever she had in her heart that passed for love. Obsession would be a more accurate word. When she found out he loved another she said those words as a threat. For whatever reason she waited thirty years to carry out her threat.”

      “Nora would have been four years old then. She didn’t even meet Søren until she was fifteen, which is bad enough. No way could Nora have been the other woman at four years old.”

      “Exactement. That’s why I say you can take some comfort in that threat. That’s why I know she’s alive and safe … for the time being. Le prêtre was in love with someone else at the time. But your fiancée was not the bitch my sister meant.”

      “Who was she, then? Maybe we should talk to her.”

      Kingsley turned on his booted heel and gave Wesley a gallant mock bow.

      “You already are, mon ami. The bitch … at your service.”