man to put a riding crop in her hand. A riding crop used properly merely stung like fire when applied to the body but it sure as fuck could do a lot of damage if used improperly. Kingsley’s number-one word of warning to her when he gave her the first of her little red riding crops—never go near the face, never go near the eyes. I met a boy in India who’d been blinded when a rich man hit him across the eyes with a riding crop. Don’t get me sued, chérie.
The door started to open. Nora strode toward it.
A man stepped in the rom.
Nora aimed for the eyes.
From the look on his face, he’d been expecting an attack, but not of this variety. He caught the brass bar an inch from his skull and with his other hand grasped Nora by the wrist and slammed her into the floor. She hit hard and the air rushed from her lungs.
“You should have seen that coming, Andrei,” came Marie-Laure’s mocking tone from above her. Nora put up a struggle but gave up when the man, Andrei, put his full weight into the knee holding her down.
“I saw it coming. Thought she’d go for the groin,” the man said.
“I only do CBT when paid,” Nora grunted through gritted teeth. She could hardly breathe with this Andrei bastard on her back. The other guy, Damon, probably weighed one-fifty wet. This guy weighed two tons dry.
“CBT?” Marie-Laure repeated.
“Cock and ball torture.”
A trilling laugh filled the room and Nora saw Marie-Laure floating down to the floor in a sea of diaphanous black satin.
“You’re delightful.” Marie-Laure pushed a stray strand of black hair off Nora’s face. “This is good. I’m having so much fun right now. I have my husband dancing for me. I danced for him thirty years ago. Now it’s his turn.”
“What do you want with Søren?”
“Only to play awhile.” Marie-Laure took another lock of Nora’s hair in her hand and twirled it girlishly around her finger. “I’m being so silly with him. I burned his bed. And Damon, he killed one of my brother’s dogs. He even wrote a message in blood.” Marie-Laure giggled like a schoolgirl. “It’s ridiculous. I even gave him until noon on Friday to make up his mind about us. High noon. I’ve seen too many movies, haven’t I?”
“And not enough therapists.”
The dig didn’t seem to make any impact. Marie-Laure kept grinning.
“Pull her up,” she said, nodding at Andrei. The man grabbed Nora by the upper arms and dragged her to her feet. “You’re disgusting.” Marie-Laure looked Nora up and down. “And you smell.”
“I’m doing the French thing. I’m down to one shower a week.”
“Is pissing yourself a French thing?” Marie-Laure batted her eyelashes at Nora and wrinkled her nose like a little girl.
“Your fault for knocking me out. I’ll take a shower if you’ll let me. I have a nice shower back at my house. I can find my own way there. I’ll see myself out.”
Wanting to test the waters, Nora took a step forward and Andrei swiftly and efficiently pushed her into the wall. He did a good job with it—pushed hard enough to make a point, not so hard she hurt herself. Nice technique.
“You promised to be my houseguest, remember?” Marie-Laure reminded her. “The little girl is on her way to my brother’s with her message for my husband. And you’re staying with me. I’m looking forward to it. I don’t spend much time with women. I much prefer the company of men.”
“I don’t have many women friends, either. Less drama, more cock. I get it.”
“You never stop talking, do you?” Marie-Laure tilted her head to the side and studied Nora like she’d encountered some sort of alien species.
Nora replied by saying absolutely nothing.
Marie-Laure nodded. “You’re funny,” she said in an approving tone. “It’s très chère. Is that why my husband loves you? Because you make him laugh?”
“I’m pretty entertaining, but I don’t know if that’s the main reason he loves me.”
“Any theories?” Marie-Laure gave a dismissive shrug that was so very French Nora wanted to slap her.
“None that make sense.”
“That’s what I want to understand.” Marie-Laure looked Nora up and down again. “I want to know … why you? Long ago I thought, peut-être, he could love only another like himself, a man, a boy. I forgave him for not loving me because he couldn’t help it. I even left so he and my brother could be together. But he can love a woman and of all the women in the world—elegant women, intelligent women, women of poise and breeding and loyalty.” At that Marie-Laure glanced down at Nora’s left hand. Nora felt the ring on her finger heavy as deadweight. “So many better women in the world, and he picks you.”
“I know. Nuts, right? If you figure it out, be sure to let me know.”
“We will figure this out, you and I. Come along. You’ll stay with me. But first we have to clean you up. I can hardly look at you. Andrei, bring her, s’il vous plaît.”
Marie-Laure spun around to the door, graceful as the dancer she once was. The man took Nora’s elbow in his stern grip and escorted her to the door.
“Do you mind if I ask where we are?” Nora glanced around the hallway. It all seemed so familiar and yet …
“You don’t know?”
Nora tried not to roll her eyes.
“I know I’ve been here before.”
“Have you? I’m surprised he brought you here. I imagine he comes here as little as possible.”
“Søren brought me here?” As she said the words, Nora noticed a painting hanging in the hallway. A young girl of about eight in a white dress sat in a rocking chair, a small stuffed horse clenched in her hand. The artist had painted a smile on the girl’s face but left her violet eyes empty of hope and happiness.
Nora had seen those eyes before.
“Elizabeth …” she whispered, meeting the painted child’s broken gaze. “We’re in Elizabeth’s house?” Once Nora made the connection, the memories of her one trip here came flooding back. Søren’s father’s funeral. Nora had been only seventeen years old. Ostensibly he’d brought her to the funeral for the sake of Claire, his half sister, who was about her age. But Nora knew better even then. Something had happened in this house, something bad, something Søren wanted to tell her but had been waiting for the right time. When his father was dead and buried six feet under, that had been the right time.
The fireplace poker … now she understood why it had felt like a memory in her hand. An eleven-year-year-old Søren had wielded it against his own father in that room to stop him from raping Elizabeth. And Elizabeth had wielded it herself to stop her father from killing Søren.
“Where’s Elizabeth?”
