only reason Griffin Powell had accepted Jillian and Gil Russell’s invitation to their dinner party was a long, lean, luscious redhead named Laura Barrett. Laura and Jillian had been best friends since their sorority days at Vanderbilt, and Griff and Laura had become casual lovers when he’d invested in her father’s faltering horse-breeding farm several months ago. He found Laura, as a person, mildly interesting; as a lover, she was quite talented. Even though she might have originally had a misguided idea that their relationship would lead to marriage, Griff had set her straight, in his own subtle, gentlemanly way. They both understood that this trip to Knoxville would be her last, that their affair was coming to an end.
Laura tightened her grip on Griff’s arm. “There’s someone you simply have to meet.”
“Is there?” Griff replied.
“Yes, darling. It’s Royce Palmer.” Laura all but dragged Griff across the crowded room.
“Who’s Royce Palmer?”
“My ex-fiancé.”
“Oh.”
“You’re not the least bit jealous, are you?”
Before Griff could think of a diplomatic response, Henry Lewis waylaid them. The UT professor placed his thin, bony hand on Griff’s shoulder. “Still getting all the pretty girls, I see.”
Griff smiled at Hank despite the fact that the feel of the man’s hand on his shoulder made him slightly uncomfortable. Even when they’d been students together at the university, Griff had sensed something a little off-center about the guy. They had never been friends, but now ran into each other occasionally at various functions because they both belonged to the alumni association and traveled in the same social circle. The only difference was that Hank had been born rich and thus entitled. Griff had come by his vast wealth through a combination of blood, sweat, and tears.
“Laura Barrett, may I introduce Hank Lewis.” He eyed the lanky, slightly balding man. “Or would you prefer to be introduced as Professor Henry Lewis?”
Laura faked a smile. Hank removed his hand from Griff’s shoulder and grasped Laura’s hand, much to her surprise. She gasped softly.
While Hank babbled his way through what he probably thought was some witty repartee, Griff zoned out and leisurely scanned the Russells’ massive living room. The crème de la crème of Knoxville society was in attendance, along with several out-of-towners. Interior designer Mark Crosby spied Griff, raised his hand and waved. Mark was the best in the state, and that was the reason Griff had hired him to decorate both his office suite and his home.
Who was the man talking to Mark? Griff wondered. He looked vaguely familiar, but Griff couldn’t quite place him.
“Who’s the fellow with Mark?” Griff interrupted the going-nowhere conversation between Laura and Hank.
Gazing up thankfully at Griff, Laura said, “That’s Cary Maygarden, from Nashville. We met him at the Fentons’ New Year’s Eve Ball in Atlanta. Don’t you remember?”
“Is he in the country music business?” Hank asked.
“Goodness, no.” Laura laughed. “The Maygarden family is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most prestigious in Nashville. Cary’s great-great-something-or-other was a contemporary of Andrew Jackson.”
Griff grunted.
“Please excuse us, Hank.” Laura tugged on Griff’s arm. “We simply have to say hello to an old friend before we leave.”
“We’re leaving?” Griff grinned. Nothing would please him more.
“Of course we are. I’m returning to Louisville in a few days. I want you all to myself for a little while this evening.”
Hank choked on his own saliva and awkwardly excused himself.
“Very effective,” Griff said, once Hank was out of earshot.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You as good as told old Hank that you intend to have your way with me tonight.”
“I do,” Laura said, a wistful expression on her lovely face. Then her expression changed, hardened; and she laughed. “Let’s call it what it is, shall we?”
“And that would be?”
Still smiling, she lowered her voice ever so slightly. “A farewell fuck.”
Never let it be said that Laura didn’t know how to make a point. Griff placed his hand on her back and let it trail slowly downward, stopping just below her waist. When she started to speak, he grasped her elbow and maneuvered her forward, directly toward her former fiancé. Before they reached Royce Palmer, Griff leaned down and whispered in Laura’s ear.
“I think a farewell fuck should always be memorable, don’t you?”
As if she hadn’t even heard him, Laura held out her hand to the man she had once been engaged to. “Royce, darling, how good to see you.” She turned to Griff. “Sweetheart, this is Royce Palmer, an old and dear friend.” She hugged closely to Griff’s side as she zeroed in on the other man. “You know Griffin Powell, don’t you? The Griff Powell, UT legend, and one of the most sought-after bachelors in the state of Tennessee.”
Shortly after three in the morning, Pinkie removed his tuxedo jacket and hung it in the closet, then removed the diamond cuff links from his white shirt and placed them in the jewelry case. He’d left the party rather early because he’d been bored.
Pinkie hated being bored.
But a man in his position had to attend a certain number of these mundane affairs. It was expected.
After removing his shoes and stripping out of his other clothing, he retrieved a pair of silk pajamas from the wardrobe drawer. He stroked the luxurious fabric. Pinkie bought only the best.
Once attired in his pajamas, leather house slippers, and quilted satin robe, Pinkie went downstairs and entered his study. After pouring himself a small nightcap, he walked straight to the wall of bookshelves on the right, removed a specific book, pressed the button on the wall, and waited for the secret compartment to open. That’s what he loved about this old house—the secret chambers. Like something out of a 1930s movie. How utterly delicious. There was one chamber between the study and the front parlor and another in the basement. Since he seldom went down to the basement, except when he personally retrieved a bottle of wine, he preferred the small, private, upstairs chamber.
Entering this room transported Pinkie into another world, a realm of pleasure and satisfaction that he had created for himself four and a half years ago. He flipped on the light switch. Soft, mellow illumination filled the eight-by-fourteen-foot room. He moved slowly along the back wall, studying the photographs mounted side by side. Thirty-two enlarged photos of sixteen different women, each one a true beauty. Pinkie paused in front of the most recent addition to his collection: Gale Ann Cain—before and after. The before photograph had been taken years ago when she’d won the Miss USA contest and gone on to compete in the Miss Universe Pageant. The after snapshot had been taken with Pinkie’s tiny digital camera moments after he had killed her, less than forty-eight hours ago.
“Thank you, my pretty flower,”
