from Kentucky to New York and to down painkillers for his splitting headache. Surely he had a concussion from whatever had hit him. But that was the least of his worries now.
All that mattered was getting Nora back. Whatever the price.
And this was part of the price, coming to this house that he’d never entered before but already hated. Nora had said on at least a dozen occasions that, love him or hate him, Kingsley was her go-to man for any crisis she couldn’t solve on her own. I trust Kingsley and I have good reason to. Even Søren goes to Kingsley when there’s a shitstorm, she’d said. And if I’m involved there’s usually a shitstorm. Wesley had decided then and there he never wanted to meet this Kingsley person, whom he considered to be nothing more than Nora’s pimp. Kingsley called her all the time on that damn red phone of hers and sent her into all sorts of dangerous situations that left Wesley in borderline panic attack mode until she got home again.
But he couldn’t deny this was the shitstorm to end all shit-storms. Only for Nora would he come to Kingsley begging for help.
Wesley paced as he waited and knew if someone didn’t get him in five seconds, he’d go hunt Kingsley down himself. Kingsley Edge—who the hell was this guy, anyway? Wesley looked around the room for any clues and found nothing but a well-appointed music room complete with grand piano, antique furniture in various patterns of black-and-white and no hint whatsoever about what kind of person owned this house except that he had good taste and a lot of money. Nora didn’t talk too much about Kingsley except to complain about him overbooking her back in her days as a Dominatrix. Although once she’d had a little too much to drink and spilled a few secrets about him, secrets she probably hadn’t remembered telling him the next day. But other than that, Wesley knew nothing about him except that he was French. He imagined Kingsley was older, much older than Nora, and probably not very attractive. If he was attractive Nora probably would have had much nicer things to say about him other than muttering her usual vitriol at him. If she wasn’t calling him “Kingsley” she was calling him “the Frog” or the “fucking Frog” more likely. She called him that so often that whenever Nora said “Kingsley” Wesley always pictured an actual frog wearing a beret. He hoped his imagination was somewhat close to the mark.
“So the future Mr. Nora Sutherlin has come to visit,” came a voice from behind him, a voice with an unmistakable French accent.
Wesley turned and discovered a prince where a frog should be—shoulder-length dark hair, olive skin, riding boots and a frock coat, handsome beyond reason. Did Nora not have any ugly men in her life?
“I think Nora Railey sounds better.” Wesley stood up as straight as he could and met Kingsley’s eyes from across the room.
“I’ll have my secretary start engraving the invitations.” Kingsley came into the room slowly. “Let’s hope we can find the bride before the big day arrives.”
“You know about Nora?” Wesley’s heart leaped, hoping against hope.
“I know she’s been taken. I know who has her. Where she’s been taken, I do not know that.”
“Does Søren know anything?”
“Søren knows more than you and I combined. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know where she is, either.”
“But you know who has her?”
“Oui.”
Kingsley turned around and started to leave the room. Wesley raced after him and grabbed the back of his long coat. Before he knew what had happened, Wesley found himself with his back planted hard into the wall and Kingsley’s face inches from his own.
“Young man, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Kingsley held Wesley immobile. “I used to kill people for a living. I never officially retired.”
“You don’t scare me.” Wesley hoped the pounding of his heart against his rib cage didn’t betray him. Kingsley dressed like someone off a romance novel cover but Wesley discerned genuine danger in the Frenchman’s eyes. Nora worked for this man? Called him the Frog to his face? She was braver than Wesley had ever given her credit for.
“You’re more attractive in person than you are in your photographs,” Kingsley said, giving Wesley’s face a close inspection. “I’m still not quite sure what she sees in you, however. Unless she lied to me about wanting a child of her own.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Not quite a man yet, either. Don’t worry. You will grow up quickly in this house. Peut-être …” Kingsley moved an inch closer to Wesley’s face and stared deep into his eyes. “She sees in you what I see in you.”
“What’s that?”
Wesley attempted to wrest himself out of Kingsley’s grasp. Kingsley didn’t let go.
“Everything she doesn’t see when she looks in the mirror.” With that, Kingsley released him and Wesley wrenched himself away. He felt a wave of nausea as if his brain bashed against his skull. But he didn’t give in to it. He breathed through his nose and stood his ground.
“I want to see Søren. Now,” Wesley said.
Kingsley straightened his jacket and smoothed his vest.
“Answer two questions first. Then I’ll let you see him.”
“Whatever. Fine. What?”
“Question one—is it true that you are affianced to her?”
Wesley narrowed his eyes at Kingsley, who stood waiting, tapping the toe of one of his stupid boots against the floor.
“Yes. Right before she got kidnapped, we went horseback riding. I asked her to marry me. When we got back to the stables, she said yes.”
Kingsley nodded as he rubbed his bottom lip with his fingertip before raising two fingers.
“Second question. Did you ask her to marry you before or after your head injury?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?” Wesley asked, coming up to him again. Cautiously this time, however. If Kingsley pushed him into the wall again, Wesley knew he’d lose whatever nothing was in his stomach for sure.
“Oui. But only once. I made sure they never said it again. Come along. You want to see the priest? I’ll show you the priest.”
Kingsley started up the stairs and Wesley had no choice but to follow. He noticed Kingsley wincing slightly as they turned a corner and headed to the third floor. Was he injured? Had someone attacked Kingsley, too?
“Are you all right?” Wesley asked, his loathing temporarily giving way to his better instincts. Kingsley might be the asshole of the universe, but Wesley hated to see anyone in pain.
“It is safe to say I’ve been better.”
“Did someone attack you, too?”
“I wouldn’t call it an attack.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“I’d call it one of the better nights of my life.”
Kingsley
