The King: The Original Sinners Book 6 (37 page)

“What does it mean?”

“It means ‘I love you, my son, and God loves you, too.’ It’s the last thing I tell him every night before I put him in his crib. He said...” Grace stopped and smiled. She looked on the verge of tears, but whatever tears there were she kept to herself. “He said that’s how his mother told him good-night when he was a little boy.”

“
Jeg elskar dig.
He told me that was Danish for good luck.”

“It’s Danish for ‘I love you.’”

“He’s a bastard, that blond monster.”

“You know you love him.”

“Entirely against my will,” Kingsley said, “and with all my heart.”

Grace kissed her fingertips and pressed them lightly to Fionn’s head. She straightened his blanket and whispered her Danish prayer to her son.

They stepped out of the nursery, and Grace noiselessly closed the door behind her.

“You’ll call me if you need me,” Kingsley said, an order, not a request. “If anything happens, anything at all, you’ll come to me first.”

“Of course,” Grace said as they stood by her front door.

“You don’t have to work any more if you don’t wish to. You or Zachary. You can work from home, buy a new house in the country, travel. I don’t care. The money is yours and your son’s. I know you’ll put it to good use.”

“We will, yes. I can’t... Give me a few days to wrap my mind around all this.”

“You have plenty of time.”

“If Zachary has a heart attack tomorrow morning, I’m blaming you.”

“Have an ambulance on standby.”

“My God, Kingsley. I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Kingsley said. “After all that’s happened, we should be able to believe anything by now.”

Grace laughed, and he embraced her again.

“You’ll tell him Fionn’s well?” she asked.

“I will.”

“Do you think he’ll come visit his son?”

“When he’s ready. Give him time. He doesn’t want to interfere.”

“It wouldn’t be interfering. Tell him that.”

“I will,” Kingsley said. “He’ll be jealous I held him.”

“Kiss your beautiful girl for me,” Grace said.

“With pleasure. Both of them.”

“Where are you going now?”

“Paying a visit to an old friend,” Kingsley said. “That’s all.”

“Speaking of old friends, what happened to your Sam?”

“What happened to Sam? Four years after she came to work for me the worst thing possible happened. She fell in love.”

“That’s terrible,” Grace said. “Happens to the best of us, though.”

“She moved out to California with her girlfriend. They got married a few years ago.”

“Did you go to the wedding?”

“I was her best man. We wore matching tuxedos.”

“Sexy penguins?”

“That was us.” Kingsley threw his bag over his shoulder, crossed his arms over his chest. “I haven’t thought about that year in a long time. Blaise and Lachlan are married now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He stole her from me. Not that I blame him or her. She always had a weakness for accents. Australian beat French, apparently. They live in Sydney. Felicia moved back to London a few years after the club opened. Justin runs a home for gay runaways.”

“Quite a crew you assembled.”

“I was always a good talent scout,” Kingsley said. “I knew what Nora would be the moment I saw her.”

“You did. You were right.”

“Twenty years ago... It feels like yesterday. Yesterday and a lifetime.”

“I imagine it does.”

“Twenty years,” Kingsley said again. “All that time, Søren’s been the constant. Him and her.”

“Nora?”

“Twenty years ago she got arrested and that brought Søren back to me. Twenty years later she gets kidnapped and that brought my son back to me. I’m almost looking forward to the next time she gets herself into trouble. I always benefit.”

“Nora get herself into trouble? I doubt you’ll be waiting for very long.”

Kingsley gave Grace a kiss on both cheeks and pressed his forehead to hers a moment.

“We’re family,” Kingsley said. “Søren is my family, and that means Fionn is, too. You understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “If Nora’s his godmother, you can be his godfather. Then he’ll have four wonderful fathers who love him.”

“Four?”

Grace glanced skyward. Four. Of course.

He let her go and walked from her home with a light step, buoyed by a deep contentment that left him feeling half his forty-eight years. It was good to finally tell someone the story of what Søren had done for him and why. He felt unburdened now by the telling of his tale, like a man walking from confession with his soul lighter and cleaner. But his confession hadn’t been to a priest but about a priest, the priest he loved not despite all the sins they’d committed against each other but because of them, because the sins were what bound them together.

And the love. Of course the love. Always the love.

* * *

At dawn Kingsley boarded his plane. A short flight but the hour of sleep he caught was enough to refresh him. And when he emerged from the airport, he closed his eyes and for the first time in two decades, breathed in French air.

France, yes, but not home. Home was Juliette. Home was Céleste. Home was Søren. But even if it wasn’t home, it was part of him. His parents were buried in French soil. His life had begun here, and when the time came, he, too, would be buried in the same Paris cemetery where they had laid his parents to rest. He’d already told Juliette those were his wishes. And because she loved him and knew how to obey an order and give one at the same time, she’d answered, “
Oui, mon roi.
But you’re never allowed to die.”

And he’d promised her he’d do his best to never let something like that happen.

He was tempting fate by coming back to France. He’d made enemies here, important ones. And certain people he’d known once had likely not forgotten his name. But he wasn’t afraid. Twenty years had passed. He was a low priority now. He didn’t plan to stay long anyway. Just long enough to do what had to be done.

He hired a car in Paris and drove into the countryside. The country had changed in twenty years, but not the beauty. The beauty remained. The rolling hills, the ancient churches, the crumbling castles on the roadsides, the farms, the cottages, old Europe, old magic... He would bring Céleste here someday.

By late afternoon he arrived as his destination. He parked the car at the end of a long dirt road and walked barefoot on the French soil all the way to the door.

He knocked and waited. A few moments later he heard footsteps.

The door opened.

Nora looked at him across the threshold of his son Nico’s house.

She didn’t look shocked to see him. She didn’t look surprised. In fact, she looked as if she’d been expecting him. Maybe she had.

“Before you say anything else,” Nora said without any trace of remorse on her lovely face. “Just answer one question for me. How much trouble am I in right now?”

Kingsley smiled.

“All of it.”

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt form THE SAINT by Tiffany Reisz.

Acknowledgments

WRITING IS A
solitary profession, but editing takes a village. Thank you, Karen Stivali, Alyssa Palmer, Miranda Baker, Robin Becht, Melanie Fletcher, Cyndy Aleo and Andrew Shaffer who helped me beat
The King
into shape. Thank you, Gitte Doherty for your help with Søren’s Danish. Thank you to Susan Swinwood, editor extraordinaire, who has claimed Søren as her book boyfriend (sorry, ladies, I can’t fight my own editor for him). And thank you to Sara Megibow, my dream agent who is a dream agent because she’s helped me make all my dreams come true. Thank you, Andrew Shaffer, my fiancé, for being my best friend and toughest critic. Special kisses and pets to Buckley Cat and sad little Honeytoast Kitteh for keeping me entertained during long writing hours. Thank you to the good people at the Jesuit Spiritual Retreat Center in Milford, Ohio, for giving me an internet-free sanctuary in which to write
The King
. Apologies if I gave any Jesuits a heart attack when I honestly answered the question, “So what do you do for a living?”

“I worship at the altar of Tiffany Reisz! Whip smart, sexy as hell—the Original Sinners series knocked me to my knees.”
—
New York Times
bestselling author Lorelei James

If you loved
The King,
be sure to catch all these other great titles in the steamy Original Sinners series. Available to order now in ebook format!

The Siren
The Angel
The Prince
The Mistress Files (Novella)
The Mistress
The Last Good Knight
(Parts 1–5)
The Saint

Still can’t get enough Tiffany Reisz? Then be sure to catch her Cosmopolitan Red-Hot Read from Harlequin,
Misbehaving.
Available now wherever ebooks are sold!

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Dedicated to St. Ignatius of Loyola, His Holiness Pope Francis and all the soldiers of God who serve in The Society of Jesus.

“He was part of my dream, of course—but then I was part of his dream, too.”

Through the Looking-Glass
Lewis Carroll

1

Nora

NORA SUTHERLIN WAS
being followed.

She didn’t know she was being followed as she drove through Bavaria and into the heart of the Black Forest. Who would follow her, after all? And why? No one back home knew why she’d left, and no one at all knew where she’d gone. She kept her eyes on the road ahead and didn’t once think to look behind her.

A vague uneasiness, a quiet sort of dread, had burrowed into her mind and made a home there. The sun, which had seen almost as much as she had in her lifetime, chased her car as she raced down a road shrouded in towering pine trees. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Nora sensed the shadows wanted to catch her and keep her. She pushed the accelerator and fled deeper into the forest.

At last she came to the end of the road and spied a small thatched-roof cottage hidden among the pine and fir trees. Two stories and made all of stone, the little house seemed an exile from a fairy tale. A kindly woodcutter could live in that house—the sort who’d save a little girl from the jaws of a wolf. If the cottage were part of a fairy tale, who was she? The woodcutter? The girl?

Or the wolf?

She gathered her things from the car and strode toward the cottage. The owner had warned her there was no lock on the door but promised she would be safe. This part of the woods was on private land. No one would trouble her. No one at all.

Ivy covered the cottage from the ground to the chimney. She felt as if she’d stepped back four hundred years when she crossed the threshold. Gazing around the interior, she made her day’s plan. She’d build a fire in that great gray stone hearth. She’d drink tea out of ruddy earthenware mugs. She’d sleep under heavy sheets in a rustic bed with posts of rough-hewn wood. In another time and under different circumstances, she would have loved it here. But grief clawed at her heart, and her task lay hard before her.

And it wasn’t in Nora’s nature to relish the prospect of sleeping alone.

She took her bags upstairs to the sole bedroom and knelt on the floor by the smaller of her two suitcases. She unzipped the bag carefully, slowly, reluctantly. From a bed of velvet she pulled out a silver box the size of a pew Bible and held it in her shaking hands.

As the cottage owner had promised, she found the cobblestone path that led to the lakeshore. The smell of pine surrounded her as she wandered down the path. It was April but the scent called Christmas to mind.... “O Holy Night” playing on the piano, red and green candles, silver bows, golden ornaments and Saint Nicholas coming to hide coins in the shoes of all the good little children. Idly she wished Saint Nicholas would see fit to visit her tonight. She’d welcome the company.

The path widened and ahead of her she saw the lake, its dark clear waters silver tipped in the sunlight that peeked through clouds. She stood on the stony shore at the water’s edge.

She could do this. For days now she’d been preparing herself for this moment, preparing what she would say and how she would say it. She would be strong. For him, she would do this, could do this.

Nora swallowed hard and took a quick breath.

“Søren...” As soon as she spoke his name she stopped. She could get no more words out. They backed up in her throat and choked her like a hand around her neck. Turning her back on the water, she half walked, half ran to the house, the silver box clutched to her chest. She couldn’t let it go yet. She couldn’t say goodbye.

She set the silver box on the heavy wood fireplace mantel and turned her back to it. If she pretended it wasn’t there, maybe she could believe it hadn’t happened.

Outside the cottage, the wind picked up. The rickety, ivy-covered shutters rattled against the stone walls. Electricity brushed against her skin. Ozone scented the air. A storm was rising.

Nora started two fires—one in the great stone hearth and one in the smaller bedroom fireplace. The owner of the house had stocked the refrigerator and cabinets for her. An unnecessary kindness. She hadn’t had much of an appetite for two weeks now, but she’d make herself eat if only to stave off the headaches hunger inflicted on her.

The day passed as she kept herself busy with small tasks. The cottage was clean but it gave her a sense of purpose to wash all the dishes in a large copper kettle and to sweep the hardwood floor with a witch’s broom she found in the pantry. She worked until exhaustion overtook her and she lay down on top of the bed and napped.

Nora woke from a restive, dreamless sleep and ran water in the claw-foot porcelain bathtub. She sank into the heat, hoping it would seep into her skin and relax her. Yet when she emerged an hour later, pink and wrinkled, she still felt tight as a knot.

She dressed in a long white spaghetti-strap nightgown. The hemline tickled her ankles as she walked and brushed the tops of her bare feet. To distract herself, she stood in front of the mirror twisting and pinning her hair this way and that, taming the black waves into a low knot with loose tendrils that flowed over her neck and framed her face. When she finished, she almost laughed at the effect. In her white nightgown, with understated makeup and her hair coiffed in curls, she looked like a virgin bride on her wedding night. An older bride, of course—she’d turned thirty-six last month. But still the woman in the mirror looked demure, innocent, even scared. She thought grief aged people, but tonight she felt like a teenager again—restless and waiting, aching for something she couldn’t name but that she knew she needed. But what was it?
Who
was it?

She wandered downstairs and considered eating. Instead of feeding herself, she fed the fire. As the wood crackled and burned, lightning split the sky outside the kitchen window. Thunder rumbled close behind. Nora stood at the window and watched the night rip itself open. Bursts of thunder rattled the forest again and again. Between rumbles, Nora heard a different sound. Louder. Clearer. Closer.

Footsteps on stone.

A knock on the door.

Then silence.

Nora froze. No one should be out here. No one but her. The owner had promised her privacy. This cottage was the lone house for miles, he’d said. He owned all the land around it. She would be safe. She would be alone.

Another knock.

The cottage door had no lock. Whoever stood outside could walk in at any moment. For two weeks now the only emotions she’d felt were sorrow and grief. Now she felt something else—fear.

But Søren had trained her too well—Hebrews 13:2, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” And such a night was fit for neither angel nor demon, saint or sinner.

She threw open the door. A man, not an angel, stood on the opposite side of the threshold.

“Sanctuary?”

Rain drenched his dark hair and beaded on his leather jacket.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, self-conscious about the low cut of her nightgown. She should have thrown on a robe.

“Begging for sanctuary. Should I do it again? Sanctuary?”

“Did you follow me?” she asked. She’d flown into Marseille last night and had dinner with him. She never dreamed he’d chase her all the way to Germany.

“I would have come sooner, but I took a wrong turn at Hansel and Gretel’s. A girl in a red cloak gave me directions, and now I’m here, Snow White.”

“You found your way here, Huntsman. You can find your way back,” she said. “I can’t give you sanctuary.”

“Why not?”

“You know what will happen if I let you in.”

“Exactly what we both want to happen.”

“It can’t happen—you and me. And you don’t need me to tell you why.”

The smile faded from his face.

“You need me,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter. I have to do this alone.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.” He took an almost imperceptible step forward. The toes of his rain-soaked buff-colored boots touched but did not cross the threshold. “You do too much alone.”

“I can’t let you in,” she said, and felt that fist in her throat again.

“Would he want you to face this alone?”

“No,” she said. “He wouldn’t.”

“Let me in.”

“That sounded like an order. I told you what I am. You know I give the orders.”

She could already feel her resolve crumbling. Twenty-five years old, tall, deeply tanned, dark hair with the slightest wave to it that demanded a woman’s fingers run through it again and again, clear celadon eyes—an inheritance from his Persian mother—and a face that someone should sculpt so it would endure even after both of them turned to dust and ashes... How could she turn him away? How could anyone?

“Then order me to come inside,” he said.

She closed her eyes and held the door to steady herself. This was wrong. She knew it. She’d sworn before she’d even seen him that she wouldn’t do this, not ever, not with him. But then she’d met him. And now, after all that had happened and the grief that threatened to overwhelm her, could anyone blame her for taking her comfort with him? One man would blame her. But was that enough to stop her?

“Order me in,” he said again, and Nora opened her eyes. “Please.”

She could never resist a beautiful man begging.

“Come in, Nico,” she said to Kingsley’s son. “That’s an order.”

Copyright © 2014 by Tiffany Reisz