The Mistress
Page 59
A car passed them and Wes watched as it drove away.
“Yeah? Well, then, where the hell is Kingsley going?”
21
THE QUEEN
Nora spent the entire day in Søren’s childhood bedroom, searching it for anything she could possibly use against her kidnappers. Apart from the razor blade she found nothing else hidden away and for that she was almost grateful. Søren had made her promise to not think about, not to imagine, what had transpired between him and his sister. She wanted no reason to break that promise to him. Hopefully the one razor blade would be enough if Nora could keep it, save it, use it, if and when the time came.
The hours ticked by with excruciating slowness. She knew Marie-Laure was waiting for...something. Some move to be made by Søren or Kingsley...or perhaps even Nora herself. Marie-Laure had put the pieces into play. Now she sat back and waited for someone else to take their turn. But who?
An hour after nightfall, Nora heard footsteps outside her room. She’d been hearing them all day...random squeaks of the hardwood, the slight creak of leather soles. She knew one of Marie-Laure’s boys was out there making noise to scare her. It worked. With every sound she sat up straight as her heart hammered in her chest. She slept a little but not enough. Every sound the house made sent her into immediate fight or flight mode. The constant surges of adrenaline exhausted her. She wanted nothing more than to be at home in Søren’s bed and to sleep for weeks, sleep until every moment in this house felt like it was nothing more than the absurdity of a dream, and when she woke up, she would tell Søren, “I had the craziest dream last night—your wife was still alive and she came for me....” And he would laugh and tell her to stop eating Cajun food before bed. By noon the last embers of the dream would have burned out entirely, and she’d remember nothing of the dream except that she’d had it.
Nora smiled at the thought as the door opened and Damon stood staring down at her on the floor.
This was no dream.
“Story time,” he said. Nora stood up and reluctantly joined him in the hallway.
He followed behind her, his right hand in his pocket, his left hand resting like a silent threat on the back of her neck.
Deciding to test the waters, Nora cleared her throat and opened her mouth.
“Don’t,” he said before she could get a word out.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t even bother. You can threaten me, flirt with me, bribe me all you want, it won’t work.”
“True love, then, is it? You and her?”
“Not even close.”
“Do I get a hint?”
“Threaten me,” Damon said, “and I’ll laugh. Her dead husband made all his money smuggling drugs and guns. I used to work for him. He killed people for amusement when he got bored and he died a billionaire. No one you know is scarier than he was. No one you know is richer than she is. And as for the flirting, I’ve heard all about you. I’ve f**ked Eastern European prostitutes with fewer miles on them than you. No thank you.”
“I do have a lot of STDs. Most of them raging and fatal.” Nora hoped she sounded slightly convincing with that. She didn’t have anything but they didn’t need to know that. She’d never been so grateful for her bad reputation in her life.
“I don’t doubt it.”
“What about the other guy? Any use bribing, f**king or threatening him?”
“No.”
“Same reason as you?”
“You were right the first time.”
Nora laughed mirthlessly.
“He’s in love with her? Well, how sweet. I know a good priest if they decide to get married.”
“I’m sure they’ll send you the invite. It can be a double ceremony. Their wedding. Your funeral.”
He pushed her hard through the door of Marie-Laure’s bedroom, hard enough she almost hit the floor, but she managed a graceful recovery and remained on her feet, her back to the bed.
“Très bien,” Marie-Laure said from the bed. She sat in her nightgown and robe, her left foot propped up on a tissue as she painstakingly painted her toenails. “You’re very graceful. Were you ever a dancer?”
“I can do a mean Davy Jones ‘Daydream Believer’ shimmy. But no formal training.”
Marie-Laure shrugged. “Too bad. You’re short and that’s an asset for a ballerina. Not thin enough, though, and your br**sts are too large.”
“Mother Nature’s a bitch.”
Marie-Laure capped her polish and stretched her leg out on the bed. Even at fifty years old, she still retained her dancer’s physique. She must work at it constantly to stay so lean and graceful. Marie-Laure might be thin and older than her, but Nora didn’t doubt for one second that she was strong enough to seriously hurt her.
“Have a seat.” Marie-Laure tapped the edge of the bed. She knew what was next and, sure enough, Damon brought out rope to bind her to the bedpost before leaving the two women alone in the room. “Did you have a nice day?”
Leaning back against the pillows, Marie-Laure gave her a broad innocent smile. One could almost believe they were nothing but two schoolgirls having a slumber party.
“Lovely day. Stared at the wall, stared at the ceiling, counted cobwebs.” Nora pulled on her bonds—rope only. Thank God for small mercies.
“You’ve probably stared at a lot of ceilings in your life.”
“Not too many. I like being on top. Except with Søren, and then it’s a lot of floor staring. Unless I’m blindfolded.”
“Yeah? Well, then, where the hell is Kingsley going?”
21
THE QUEEN
Nora spent the entire day in Søren’s childhood bedroom, searching it for anything she could possibly use against her kidnappers. Apart from the razor blade she found nothing else hidden away and for that she was almost grateful. Søren had made her promise to not think about, not to imagine, what had transpired between him and his sister. She wanted no reason to break that promise to him. Hopefully the one razor blade would be enough if Nora could keep it, save it, use it, if and when the time came.
The hours ticked by with excruciating slowness. She knew Marie-Laure was waiting for...something. Some move to be made by Søren or Kingsley...or perhaps even Nora herself. Marie-Laure had put the pieces into play. Now she sat back and waited for someone else to take their turn. But who?
An hour after nightfall, Nora heard footsteps outside her room. She’d been hearing them all day...random squeaks of the hardwood, the slight creak of leather soles. She knew one of Marie-Laure’s boys was out there making noise to scare her. It worked. With every sound she sat up straight as her heart hammered in her chest. She slept a little but not enough. Every sound the house made sent her into immediate fight or flight mode. The constant surges of adrenaline exhausted her. She wanted nothing more than to be at home in Søren’s bed and to sleep for weeks, sleep until every moment in this house felt like it was nothing more than the absurdity of a dream, and when she woke up, she would tell Søren, “I had the craziest dream last night—your wife was still alive and she came for me....” And he would laugh and tell her to stop eating Cajun food before bed. By noon the last embers of the dream would have burned out entirely, and she’d remember nothing of the dream except that she’d had it.
Nora smiled at the thought as the door opened and Damon stood staring down at her on the floor.
This was no dream.
“Story time,” he said. Nora stood up and reluctantly joined him in the hallway.
He followed behind her, his right hand in his pocket, his left hand resting like a silent threat on the back of her neck.
Deciding to test the waters, Nora cleared her throat and opened her mouth.
“Don’t,” he said before she could get a word out.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t even bother. You can threaten me, flirt with me, bribe me all you want, it won’t work.”
“True love, then, is it? You and her?”
“Not even close.”
“Do I get a hint?”
“Threaten me,” Damon said, “and I’ll laugh. Her dead husband made all his money smuggling drugs and guns. I used to work for him. He killed people for amusement when he got bored and he died a billionaire. No one you know is scarier than he was. No one you know is richer than she is. And as for the flirting, I’ve heard all about you. I’ve f**ked Eastern European prostitutes with fewer miles on them than you. No thank you.”
“I do have a lot of STDs. Most of them raging and fatal.” Nora hoped she sounded slightly convincing with that. She didn’t have anything but they didn’t need to know that. She’d never been so grateful for her bad reputation in her life.
“I don’t doubt it.”
“What about the other guy? Any use bribing, f**king or threatening him?”
“No.”
“Same reason as you?”
“You were right the first time.”
Nora laughed mirthlessly.
“He’s in love with her? Well, how sweet. I know a good priest if they decide to get married.”
“I’m sure they’ll send you the invite. It can be a double ceremony. Their wedding. Your funeral.”
He pushed her hard through the door of Marie-Laure’s bedroom, hard enough she almost hit the floor, but she managed a graceful recovery and remained on her feet, her back to the bed.
“Très bien,” Marie-Laure said from the bed. She sat in her nightgown and robe, her left foot propped up on a tissue as she painstakingly painted her toenails. “You’re very graceful. Were you ever a dancer?”
“I can do a mean Davy Jones ‘Daydream Believer’ shimmy. But no formal training.”
Marie-Laure shrugged. “Too bad. You’re short and that’s an asset for a ballerina. Not thin enough, though, and your br**sts are too large.”
“Mother Nature’s a bitch.”
Marie-Laure capped her polish and stretched her leg out on the bed. Even at fifty years old, she still retained her dancer’s physique. She must work at it constantly to stay so lean and graceful. Marie-Laure might be thin and older than her, but Nora didn’t doubt for one second that she was strong enough to seriously hurt her.
“Have a seat.” Marie-Laure tapped the edge of the bed. She knew what was next and, sure enough, Damon brought out rope to bind her to the bedpost before leaving the two women alone in the room. “Did you have a nice day?”
Leaning back against the pillows, Marie-Laure gave her a broad innocent smile. One could almost believe they were nothing but two schoolgirls having a slumber party.
“Lovely day. Stared at the wall, stared at the ceiling, counted cobwebs.” Nora pulled on her bonds—rope only. Thank God for small mercies.
“You’ve probably stared at a lot of ceilings in your life.”
“Not too many. I like being on top. Except with Søren, and then it’s a lot of floor staring. Unless I’m blindfolded.”
