Søren gave Kingsley another card—a second ace. Now he
had twenty or ten, depending on how he wanted to play it. He
and Søren weren’t playing blackjack for money, so he didn’t
care much if he won or not. In fact, he didn’t care at all. But
he couldn’t deny the fact he was enjoying himself. Kingsley needed time to stop and stop completely. He hadn’t felt
this… He couldn’t even find the right word. He hadn’t felt
this something in years. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to lose it, and he’d found it the instant Søren had stepped through
his front door.
“Kingsley?”
“I’m thinking.”
“You have twenty. You should stand.”
“I’m not going to take the strategy advice of my enemy.” “I’m the dealer, not the enemy.”
“When did you start playing blackjack anyway?” Kingsley
demanded as he perused his cards again. One more ace and
he’d have blackjack. “Do they teach this in seminary?” “Cards were an extracurricular activity. An entire household full of men who aren’t allowed to have sex? We find
other hobbies.”
“So, blackjack?”
“Among other things.”
Kingsley gave him a searching look.
“Care to tell me what these other hobbies of yours are?”
Kingsley asked.
“They’re on a need-to-know basis. You don’t need to
know,” Søren said, fanning the cards in front of him. “I need to know everything,” Kingsley said. “If I’m going
to keep you from getting excommunicated or going to prison
for seducing and/or kidnapping a teenage girl—” “Seduce her? I haven’t even seen her for a full month.” Kingsley cocked an eyebrow at Søren.
“She quit church?”
Søren cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “She’s grounded.”
Kingsley dropped his head on to the table.
“Why didn’t I defect to Russia when I had the chance?”
Kingsley sighed.
“Are you going to make a decision about your cards, or are
we going to be here all night?”
“We’re going to be here all night.” Kingsley sat up again.
Søren shook his head in disgust. “Don’t look at me like
that. I’m not the one with a girlfriend young enough to be
grounded.”
Exhaling with exasperation, Søren swept up his cards and
Kingsley’s. With his agile pianist’s fingers, he shuff led the cards
one-handed. Kingsley watched the display of casual grace and
dexterity with envy and longing. Once, those skillful hands
had owned every inch of his body. He’d never wanted to be
a deck of cards so much in his life.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Søren dealt the cards. “King?” came a woman’s voice behind Kingsley. Without
looking back, he raised his hand and beckoned her into the
dining room. A beautiful young woman in a forties-style skirt
and blouse stood next to his chair and waited.
He wrapped an arm around her hips and dragged her down
to his lap.
“You’re interrupting,” he said to her. “Can’t you see how
busy I am?”
“Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” she
glanced down at the table and back into Kingsley’s eyes
“—card game?”
Kingsley pointed at Søren.
“Blaise, I would like you to meet my oldest and dearest
friend…” He paused and looked at Søren when he realized
he didn’t know if he was allowed to tell anyone Søren’s name.
Out in the world Søren had gone by the name his father had
given him—Marcus Stearns. Even now he was Father Marcus
Stearns, SJ, according to church records. Søren was the name
his mother had given him, and few called him that. “Who the hell are you again?” Kingsley asked. Søren stretched out his hand and took Blaise’s.
“Søren. Kingsley and I went to school together.” “I’m Blaise,” she said, and gave Søren her brightest smile
and the most unapologetic bedroom eyes Kingsley had ever
seen. So unfair. Why did Søren always turn every head in
the room? Kingsley looked at Søren who today wore normal clothes. Normal? Black slacks, a fitted black long-sleeve
T-shirt. They’d be normal clothes on anyone but Søren. In
them, Søren looked like something out of a fever dream. He
couldn’t blame Blaise for looking at Søren the way she did. But he did wonder why Søren looked at her the same way. “Blaise, might I inquire what you’re doing interrupting this
incredibly important card game of mine?”
“Against my better judgment, I answered the phone and
took a message for you. But don’t get any ideas that I’m your
new secretary, although you need to get a new secretary—” “I will, chouchou. I promise.”
“You said that last week.”
“I got a new secretary last week.”
“Where is she?”
“She quit.”
“Did you fuck her?”
“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
Blaise turned her attention back to Søren.
“Can you please tell your oldest and dearest friend to stop
seducing his secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on him when
they catch him fucking someone else?”
“Kingsley,” Søren said, shuff ling the cards again. “Stop seducing your secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on you.” “Thank you.” Blaise gave Søren a smile.
“My pleasure,” Søren said. Kingsley mentally slapped them
both.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like playing secretary,” Kingsley said.
“That’s different.” Blaise shook her head. “If I’m pretending to be your secretary so you’ll fuck me on your desk—that’s
one thing. But I don’t actually want to be your secretary.” “Just give me the message,” Kingsley said, running his hand
up her thigh and caressing the bare skin above her f lesh-tone
stockings.
Blaise reached into her nearly translucent pale pink blouse
and produced a folded note from inside her lace-trimmed bra. Kingsley unfolded the note, still warm from her body, and
read.
Tonight at nine. —Phoebe
Kingsley tensed when he read the words and brief ly considered lying his way out of the situation. But no…Phoebe
was not the sort of woman one said no to.
“I have to go,” Kingsley said to Blaise and Søren. “I won’t
be gone long—an hour or so. You’ll keep my guest company,
won’t you?” he asked Blaise.
“Happily.” Her thousand-watt smile brightened a few more
watts. With her on his lap, he could feel the heat emanating
from between her legs.
“Good. You two have so much in common, so much to
talk about. Blaise, tell Søren what you do.”
“I run a nonprofit,” she said, leaning forward on the table
and resting her chin on her hand. The move allowed everyone in the room to get a much clearer view of her soft, ample
cleavage.
“A nonprofit?” Søren continued shuff ling the cards while
never once looking away from Blaise.
“Tell him what it does.” Kingsley pinched her on the thigh,
and she shuddered in pleasure. “Our Blaise is très altruistic.” “It’s called Slut Pride. We educate people about women’s
sexual freedom, espec
ially in regards to women’s participation in BDSM activities. Some people like to tell us that it’s
not feminist to enjoy being f logged. I say it’s not feminist to tell a woman what she can and can’t do. But enough about
me. What do you do?”
“I’m a Catholic priest.”
Blaise said nothing. She gawked at Søren with her full redlipped mouth agape. And then she laughed, a warm throaty
sound that filled the room.
“You’re terrible,” she said. “You had me there for a second.” Søren winked at Kingsley. Kingsley had never guessed
Søren had this f lirtatious side to him. Back in their school
days Søren had been feared and envied by all the other boys,
and Søren had almost never spoken to anyone but the other
priests. Kingsley realized that, other than his sister, he’d never
seen Søren around a beautiful woman before. Interesting. The
man was human after all. Even if he was a priest.
“I must be off. You two chat, become friends. Blaise, peutêtre you should take my friend upstairs and show him what
BDSM looks like in action. I’m sure he’ll find it fascinating.” “I’m sure I will,” Søren said. “We’ll be fine, Kingsley. Have
a lovely evening.”
Kingsley patted Blaise’s shapely bottom, and she stood up
and let him out. On his way from the dining room he heard
Blaise asking Søren, “So what do you really do?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Søren answered. Kingsley chuckled on his way upstairs. He needed to grab
a few things. That was it. Think about what he needed to
take with him, not what he had to do. Just a job. He’d done
hundreds of jobs in his life. He’d get a file, a mission, a plane
ticket, a target. This was child’s play in comparison. Digging his keys out of the pocket of his jeans, he opened
a locked box in his closet and took out his Walther P88. He
removed the clip and pulled the slide, checking that no bullets remained in the chamber. He snapped the clip in, shoved
it into his holster on his jeans and pulled on his leather jacket. Kingsley left the house and neither hailed a cab nor took a
car. On foot he made it to the apartment in twenty minutes.
He rang the doorbell, and a housekeeper let him in without
a word. No words necessary. The look of disgust and disdain
said everything. Fuck her. Kingsley wasn’t here to make the
housekeeper happy.
He raced up the stairs right as Phoebe Dixon stepped into
the hallway in her long silk bathrobe. She had a towel to her
wet hair and walked toward her bedroom at the end of the
long hall. She didn’t look back or speak. She hadn’t seen him. Good.
Kingsley took a quick and silent breath and pulled his gun
out. Careful of the creaking f loor, he stalked her down the
hall. When she reached for the door handle to her bedroom,
he put the gun to the center of her back.
“Don’t scream,” he ordered as he slapped a hand over her
mouth. “Not if you want to live.”
8
PHOEBE’S ENTIRE BODY STIFFENED LIKE A CORPSE. She whimpered but didn’t scream.
“Open the door. Now.”
She opened it, and he pushed her inside, pushed her so hard
she landed on the f loor, her bathrobe coming open to reveal
her naked body underneath.
He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her into the f loor
again.
“Don’t…” she begged, her voice breaking with tears. “I
have children.”
“Are you offering them?” he asked, ripping the robe from
her body and wrenching her to her feet.
“Please, don’t kill me. My husband’s an attorney. He has
money—”
“Keep begging. It won’t work,” he said as he bent her over
the bed and kicked at her ankles until she parted her shaking
thighs. He pressed the barrel of the gun into her throat. “But
I like how you do it.”
Tossing the gun aside, he opened his pants and slammed
inside her. Her body clenched around him tighter with each
thrust. Despite her pleas and her protests, she grew wetter
the more he rammed into her, the harder he worked her. But he couldn’t come, not yet. Although he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Sex with Phoebe was business, not
pleasure, and he hated the work.
As she moaned underneath him, crying against the intrusion, Kingsley closed his eyes and disappeared to another place,
another time. The elegant and well-appointed bedroom he
stood in disappeared and dissolved. The hunter-green walls
and the modern art prints faded away and rough wood took
their place. The king-size bed adorned with silk sheets and