“You could say that.” Sutton leans forward and sets down the beer between his boots, studying the ground like it has the solution to life’s problems. “There’s this woman.”

  I groan. “No talk of women. Not today.”

  His eyebrows go up. “You love talking about women.”

  “Only good things. And I have no good things to say today.”

  He laughs. “Don’t tell me Hugo Bellmont finally met his match. The virgin?”

  She’s not a virgin anymore, but I don’t mention that. I’m sure he can fill in the blanks. I put up a finger for the cocktail waitress, because today we are drinking early. “Apparently you’ve met your match, too. Tell me about her.”

  “It’s not like that. I mean, she’s beautiful. Smart. Like crazy smart.”

  “Does she use words too big for you?”

  He snorts, not bothering to argue the point. Sutton is basically a genius, he just hides it behind a Southern drawl. “That’s not exactly the problem.”

  “Then what is it?” The waitress brings my brandy, and I take a sip.

  “Christopher. She’s his stepsister. Or at least they used to be. I’m a little hazy on the background except that I know there’s something there.”

  I look into the fire so he can’t see that it troubles me. There’s history between Christopher and this Harper. And if it comes between them it will disrupt more than the company. It will disrupt the Thieves Club, a friendship I’ve come to enjoy greatly. “History is in the past, my friend. So what are you going to do about this?”

  “The only thing I can do. The only thing I’ve ever done.”

  The answer is simple for a man as hard and ambitious as Sutton. “Go after her.”

  He nods. “I would prefer that it didn’t interfere with business.”

  “I would have preferred that also, but here we are drinking at three in the afternoon.”

  We lapse into a contemplative silence. I didn’t come here expecting to see anyone I knew. Sutton knows better than to push me when I don’t want to talk. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it usually has to do with Melissande. And history. But history is in the past, as I said.

  So what am I going to do about it?

  The moments that follow are a brief reprieve, but in the back of my mind I know what I have to do. Revenge has been the thing that drove me for years. Now it will be something else, but no matter what I choose to do, I’ll be left alone. That’s all I deserve, really.

  The waitress returns, this time with a note on her tray. Hugo Bellmont, it says on the front.

  And inside: Come upstairs. – D

  “I have been summoned,” I say to Sutton, dropping the note on the small oak table between us.

  He reads it with surprise. “What’s your business with him? Do you need backup?”

  It does feel good to have friends who would have my back, but he has his own problems. Problems of the female persuasion. And I need to solve this one myself. Need to solve it alone.

  At the bottom of the stairs I pass by Penny, who is Damon’s girl. I recognize her from around the Den and from our one meeting at Beau Ciel. “Good afternoon,” I tell her with a small bow.

  Her cheeks turn a little pink. It used to bring me pleasure that I could make any woman—even ones contented in their relationships—blush, but instead there’s only emptiness. “Damon’s waiting for you,” she says, revealing that she knows more about his business than some people would suspect.

  “Merci. And do you have any words of advice for me? He has quite a reputation.”

  “Don’t believe a word they say. I mean, some of it’s real but you’ll never really know which parts.”

  “Very reassuring,” I say drily. “You are a good match for him, to be sure.”

  She laughs. “He’s a softie inside.”

  I’m still shaking my head, a small smile on my face, when I reach the top of the stairs. It is only such a ridiculous statement as Damon Scott being a softie that could make me laugh. It occurs to me that perhaps that’s Penny’s goal, to cheer me up against all odds. In which case she truly is a good match for the man who sits at a desk set far back in a dark room.

  He does not look up when I enter but I know he hears me. There’s nothing that happens in the Den that he doesn’t know about. Maybe even in the whole of Tanglewood.

  “Good afternoon,” I say, neutral. “You asked for me?”

  Of course he did not ask, it was a command. I do not take offense, not if he delivers what I need him to do. He looks up and sets his pen down. “Our deal. Do you still want it?”

  I step farther into the room but don’t bother to sit, not even when he inclines his head at the oversized leather chairs in front of the desk. This isn’t a deal I want to sit for. “Melissande. You want her ruined. You haven’t told me why and I don’t imagine you will. But I agree to that.”

  “And in return I will ruin Edward Marchand. The owner of L’Etoile.”

  This is what it feels like to be torn in half, the halves pulled away completely. I’m two pieces now, the one from the past and the one adrift. “No.”

  One eyebrow rises. “No?”

  Well, that’s something at the least. I have managed to surprise Damon Scott. “Instead I wish for you to purchase the hotel for me. I will provide the money, but the owner may take some persuasion.”

  Damon leans back, pondering. “I have some knowledge of your portfolio. It’s significant. Probably enough, but only barely. You won’t have anything left.”

  And with Melissande ruined I won’t be able to work in this town. At least not for the prices I normally command. She will do her best to blackball me and probably succeed.

  It does not matter. I don’t matter, not if it means Bea can be safe.

  “Do we have a deal?” I ask, my voice even.

  “Consider it done.”

  I set down a flash drive on his desk. It contains photographs I took in her office late last night of her ledger, written in her own handwriting. Names and dates and dollar amounts. The fact that she’s a madam is well known in the underworld of the city. No cop would make a move on her for selling sex. Half of them are under her payroll. And the other half… well, she would be out within twenty-four hours and make it her mission to destroy them.

  That’s why I’ve circled the names of boys and girls I know to be under eighteen. It’s a dark truth of the sex industry that this happens. When they don’t have a good family, when the system fails them, it’s the only way they survive. There are clients who prefer the young ones.

  Which is one of the reasons Melissande wanted me all those years ago. She probably enjoyed that I worshipped her at the beginning, as well. But it wasn’t long before she put me to work.

  Damon nods. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

  No, I have experience with pleasure. This was something else. “You’ll let me know?”

  “It will take a couple days. I’ll be in touch.”

  And this is how you make a deal with the devil. By selling the most valuable thing you have for the only person worth anything to me. Losing L’Etoile will be nothing to a man like Edward Marchand. It will not ruin him, not when he has a hundred other more valuable properties. Decades of searching for revenge, only to give it up in a single afternoon.

  But it will mean freedom for Bea, which is the most important thing now. The only thing. I traded everything for her to feel safe, for her to never again tremble in fear.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I have an entire bottle of brandy sitting on the counter.

  And beside it is a stack of papers that constitutes the signed and executed contract rendering me the new owner of L’Etoile. When Mama worked as a maid I looked at the hotel with awe, with anger, with distrust—but I never imagined I would own a place like it.

  Now I am the proprietor.

  Well, I won’t become too comfortable with the title. I will have to face Bea soon so that we can transfer the title to her name. It won’t matter if I promise never to evict her or coerce her into anything. Only when she owns her suite free and clear will she truly feel safe.

  Not tonight, however. Tonight I plan to get very drunk. After spending all day at a lawyer’s office, signing away almost every last cent I own, it seems the only fitting thing to do. At least I did not have to see Edward there. He signed the night before. Putting up quite a protest, Damon said, but in the end the Scott name held enough clout—and enough fear—in the city to convince him to sign. And Edward ended up fairly compensated for the hotel, something that I cannot help but dwell on tonight, with my bank account and investments depleted.

  I reach for a glass as the door buzzes. Is it Melissande? I haven’t heard from her, but I imagine that won’t last. She will have some words for me once she realized what I’ve done. Unless Damon makes it hard enough for her that she has to leave Tanglewood.

  My phone is open to Bea Sharp’s page, where nothing new has been uploaded for a week. Her longest break, except for the one time she had the flu, one of the comments says—but even then she posted an update to let everyone know. The fans are in a frenzy about the absence, worried and dramatic, but none of it compares to the intensity of my own guilt.

  I felt bad for making her cry the first night, but this is worse. I hurt her. Not her beautiful body but the tender heart inside. No wonder she kicked me out.

  My finger flicks across the screen and the security app appears. I stare at the photo a long second, trying to blink away the mirage. It’s dark outside, but the light clearly illuminates her upturned nose, her green eyes. Her copper curls. “Bea,” I breathe.

  She’s here. Why is she here? How is she here?

  I press the button to buzz her in the main door downstairs, but I don’t wait for her to climb the stairs to my loft. Instead I’m out the door and running down to meet her, my heart pounding louder than my footfalls, hope a wild and unmistakable beat. I catch her up in my arms as she falls, trembling, afraid. “What are you doing?” I demand, my throat tight with fear for her. Not that she would be in danger in the world, but she will feel as though she is. Her body will undergo the same stress, the same reactions as if she were kidnapped by Somali pirates even if nothing happens.

  “I took a cab,” she whispers, her voice shaking.

  “Mon Dieu.” I don’t wait for her to give me permission this time. I lift her up and carry her up the stairs, my stride fast and steady. Once we’re inside the loft I shut the door and think about where to put her. Nothing about this place is what she’s used to. Sleek modern furniture instead of embellished antiques. Crisp leather instead of thick brocade.

  The bed, I realize. The white sheets on my bed aren’t trimmed with lace, but they’re close enough. No other woman has ever spent the night with me in the bed, but it feels completely natural that Bea would be there. I stride into the bedroom and set her down gently, pushing the hair back from her face. “Why did you do it, Bea?”

  “I had to see you.” Her lower lip trembles, and I’m terribly afraid she’s going to cry.

  “You could have called me. I would have come.”

  “No,” she says, a little too loud. This is when I realize that she is more than afraid. She’s perhaps tipsy. “I have to apologize to you. God, you had just seen the man who… And then I told you to leave.”

  She’s definitely crying now, tears thick in her throat, fat drops on her copper lashes.

  “You are killing me,” I tell her honestly. “Don’t cry.”

  Her lip trembles while she makes a valiant effort to stop. It isn’t quite enough. “I couldn’t stop thinking about your face when I asked you to go. And after everything you’d done. The picnic. You wanted me to get out of there, and I should have, a long time ago, and now I have to leave—”

  “Shhh.” I consider telling her about the sale of L’Etoile. I could show her the contract in the next room, but that will only raise questions of why Edward had been willing to part with it. The important thing is that she calm down now. I’ll tell her about the hotel later. “Don’t worry about that. Everything will work out. I promise, Bea.”

  “It’s fine,” she says, quite loud, and I realize she’s more than tipsy. She’s completely wasted. “I did it. Look! I’m outside the hotel right now and I’m not freaking out.”

  Except that she had to get drunk before she could come. And what happens when she sobers up? I’m afraid we’re in for an even worse panic attack than before. “You amaze me,” I tell her gently. “This is a beautiful first step. But right now I want you to go back with me.”

  She looks crestfallen. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have a piano, and I want to hear you play.” As I say the words I discover that they’re true. This loft doesn’t suit her. It’s an impersonal husk, rather like myself. Even if she is able to leave L’Etoile on a regular basis, that penthouse is her home. And when she plays music, her soul.

  She starts to cry again. “I do want to play. I do.”

  “And you will,” I tell her. “Very soon.”

  “No.” Her green eyes are deep reflective pools. “I haven’t played since you left. How crazy is that? For years it was almost the only way I could speak. And then nothing.”

  I don’t think it has anything to do with my absence. More likely she’s terrified of being forced from her home after the confrontation with Edward. “You remember my Bugatti?”

  She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Noooo.”

  Oh, she is an adorable drunk. I would enjoy the experience more if I didn’t know how little time with her I have left. “You watched me arrive the first night,” I remind her. “It’s very pretty. Not as pretty as you, but still. Shall we take it back to L’Etoile?”

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll try not to throw up. The cab driver was not happy.”

  I decide to bring both the contract and the bottle of brandy with me. Something tells me I might need both of them before I’m done.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning I wake up with a massive hangover and a pair of yellow eyes staring down at me. It takes me a moment to make the world stop spinning and orient myself.

  Where the hell am I? The penthouse of L’Etoile.

  What is that? Ah, that’s right. The cat.

  She’s apparently warmed up enough that she’s cuddling on my chest. Either that or she was plotting ways to kill me in my sleep. Gingerly I move the kitty aside and wander out of the bedroom.

  A room service tray sits on the small table, filled with pastries and an omelet. I must have been sleeping very hard not to notice it arrive. And from behind the closed door I hear music playing. I believe the song is Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson, though it’s been changed enough that I’m not sure. It’s softer now, almost haunting. Feeling like an intruder I knock softly and step inside.

  Bea sits at the bench looking impossibly fresh. Her hair is still dark and damp from the shower. I probably could have slept through an earthquake. Only vaguely do I remember working my way through the bottle of brandy while Bea played the piano beside me. There is an even hazier memory of singing Hotel California as a duet. We were both drunk, and now we’re both hungover.

  Though Bea’s smile is too bright and too genuine. “Are you hungry?” she asks.

  So apparently I’m the only one hungover. “No, thank you. Is it all right if I shower?”

  “Of course. You don’t have to ask me that.”

  Actually I do, because you’ll soon be the new owner of this hotel. That’s what I should say to her, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. Because I know that the sooner I say that, the sooner this ends. And she looks so lovely in a silk and lace robe. So lovely in her casual majesty. It makes me want to fall to my knees, to beg her to stay. But anything other than leaving would be a way to tie her down, to make her owe me. I need to give her the hotel, outright, without any strings attached or demands. And then I need to leave. I won’t do to her what Edward did.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say roughly, because I need a cold shower and approximately ten thousand gallons of coffee before I’m ready to have that conversation.

  In the bathroom I find a drawer with a couple unused toothbrushes wrapped in clear plastic, the kind the hotel probably sends up to forgetful travelers. I feel much better after I brush my teeth, but I need a shower. In the end I’m not quite self-flagellant enough to make the water cold. I make it hot instead, standing under the spray and letting it pound away some of the tension.

  A sound catches my attention, and then a gust of cool air as the shower door opens.

  Bea stands on the marble tile, looking shy and knowing at once in a gold silk robe. A virgin. A siren. I’m not sure my mind will ever wrap itself around her. I’m not sure I’d ever want to. I crave both parts of her, all of her.

  “Can I come in?” she asks.

  Already my body reacts to her, hardening, turning hot and eager. “There’s nothing I want more, Bea. But I don’t know if I can be gentle right now.”

  She tugs on the silk holding her robe together, revealing the glory of her body—pale skin and dusky nipples, high breasts with freckles across the slopes of them. Her belly narrows and then flares out again to hips I long to hold as I pound into her.

  Between her legs her hair is a darker color, almost bronze. My cock throbs just looking at her.

  The silk pools behind her, and she steps into the shower with me. “Then be rough.”

  It’s been so long since I’ve had sex for only myself. Have I ever done that?

  Have I ever touched a woman’s breasts only to feel them in my hands? Have I ever sucked her nipples because I love the feel of her? Have I ever slid my fingers through her slit, blunt and greedy, because I needed to feel where my cock would be?

  Bea gasps and arches, giving me better access to her pussy. “Whatever you want.”

  “Yes,” I mutter, letting the need overtake me. For the first time. This is how she felt that night, being a virgin. It’s the way I feel right now, doing this with her. I push two fingers inside her, slick from her arousal and the hot spray of the shower. “I want this.”