The Mistress. Tiffany Reisz

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      “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.”

      

       4 THE ROOK

      As soon as she got to the hotel, Grace Easton decided she’d stay only one night. What was the point of such a beautiful room with a view of the ocean if she didn’t even have Zachary with her to share it? She stared out the window onto the beach and saw two birds dancing at the edge of the water, dancing and biting each other. A mating ritual, perhaps? Or fighting? Or both? Nora would say both, wouldn’t she? Grace smiled as she dug her phone out of her purse and called Nora’s number. When voice mail picked up, Grace left a quick message.

       “Nora, it’s Grace. Zachary had to fill in for someone at a conference in Australia. I’m all alone in Rhode Island on holiday. Thinking of coming to the city. I’d love to get into some trouble with you.”

      Grace knew such a message would surely get Nora’s attention. That woman had been threatening Grace with all sorts of scandalous fun if Grace ever dared cross into Nora’s territory again. Nora had said she would introduce Grace to Søren if she was feeling up to the challenge. Hopefully Nora would call back tonight so Grace could make some new plans. Nothing more depressing than staying alone in a honeymoon suite at a New England ? and B. Why had she come, anyway, other than habit? She and Zachary had vacationed here almost every year of their marriage. It was the one time Zachary could see his best mate Jason from university who’d moved here ten years ago. But now Zachary was trapped at a conference and Jason and his wife had canceled on them because of a family emergency. Grace was trapped alone on holiday in America. What would be better than getting into a little trouble with the one and only Nora Sutherlin? Maybe … maybe Nora was the reason she’d come without Zachary. Nora had practically dared her to take a walk on the wild side with her. Grace did love a challenge.

      With a jet-lagged sigh, Grace pulled away from the window and dug through her carry-on bag. From it she pulled out her eReader and stretched out on the bed, deciding to read until she heard back from Nora. She’d gotten to the good part of the book right as her plane had landed.

       “Harry?”

      “You can do better than that,” came a voice from behind him. Blake turned around and saw Harrison sitting cross-legged on the floor. He’d laid down a plaid blanket and had a lantern sitting by his knee. The light from the flickering wick cast a golden shadow across his face. During the day at school all anyone saw of Harrison were his black retro glasses and the books that never left his hands. But Blake saw past the glasses, past the books.

       “Better than what?”

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