Edge stood in front of the mirror in his large walk-in closet studying his wounds as he changed from his torn shirt into another. The layers of marble-colored bruises Søren had left on him after their one night together had already turned from red to black. He could have hated the priest for the reminders upon his body of a night he feared would never be repeated. Still, he cherished the bruises now as much as he did when they were boys at school. Far more than the scars on his chest, gifts from enemies with guns, he wore them as badges of honor.
He raised his hand to the worst of his old wounds—a scar on the left side of his chest a few inches below his heart. A strange injury that looked more like he’d been stabbed than shot. Who knows? Maybe he had been.
The mission that had left him with that scar, with two of his four bullet wounds, he remembered almost nothing of. His mind had buried the memory, and he had no desire to dig it back up. Waking up in the hospital in Paris … That moment he would never forget. He would probably think of it on his deathbed. That hospital bed … it should have been his deathbed, could have been …
But for the visitor.
He had come to consciousness slowly, arduously, crawling through the deep dark on his way back into the light. He had dragged himself up through the trench of drugs and pain, bitter pain and the failure of the mission. Sensing white light in the room, he’d kept his eyes closed, unable yet to confront the sun.
From over his shoulder he’d heard low voices—one female, crisp and careful, and one male, authoritative and unyielding.
“He will live,” the man’s voice said in French. It wasn’t a question he asked the woman, but an order given.
“We’ll do what we can for him, of course.” Of course, she said. Bien sûr. But Kingsley had heard the lie in her voice.
“You will do everything for him. Everything. From this moment on he is your only patient. He is your only concern.”
“Oui, mon père. Mais …” Mais … but … Her voice betrayed her fear. Mon père? Kingsley’s muddled mind had tried to wrap itself around the words. His father had been dead for years. Who was the father she spoke to?
“Consider his life as precious as your own. Do you understand that?”
There it was. Kingsley would have smiled in his half sleep were it not for the tubes down his throat. He knew a death threat when he heard it. Consider his life as precious as your own…. That was French anyone could translate. He lives and you live. He dies and …
But who cared enough about him anymore to make even an idle threat? When joining le Légion he’d put one name down on his next-of-kin line. One name. The only family he had left. And yet, he wasn’t family, not at all. Why would he of all people come to him now?
“He will live,” the woman had promised, and this time she spoke no “mais.”
“Good. Spare no expense for his comfort and health. All will be accounted for.”
The nurse, or perhaps she was a doctor, had sworn again she would do everything. She’d pledged that the patient would walk out whole and healthy. She’d promised she would do all she could and then some. Smart woman.
Kingsley heard her high heels retreating on the tile, the sound of her shoes as crisp and efficient as her voice. The sound died and Kingsley knew he and the visitor were now alone in the room. He struggled to open his eyes but couldn’t find the strength.
“Rest, Kingsley,” came the voice again. And he felt a hand on his forehead, gentle as a lover’s, tender as a father’s.
“My Kingsley …” The voice sighed and Kingsley heard frustration mixed with amusement. Amusement or something like it. “Forgive me for saying this, but I think it’s time you find a new hobby.”
And even with the tubes in his throat, Kingsley had managed a smile.
The hand left his face and he felt something against his fingers. The dark came upon him again, but it wasn’t the deep dark this time, merely sleep, and when he awoke again the tube was gone and he could see and speak and breathe again. And the thing that had touched his fingers was an envelope containing paperwork for a Swiss bank account someone had opened in his name—a Swiss bank account that contained roughly thirty-three million American dollars.
He took the money and he took the advice of his one and only hospital visitor. He returned to America, to the country where he’d once experienced true happiness.
And in America he did as he’d been ordered.
He found a new hobby.
Kingsley finished dressing. He tucked his shirt in and pulled on and buttoned his embroidered black-and-silver vest. Once more he looked dashing and roguish all at the same time. The household knew something had happened and for their sake he would act the part of their fearless leader as always if only to comfort their minds. In truth, he’d never been so scared in his life, not even that day in the hospital.
He yanked on his jacket as he stepped away from the mirror. Never before had he dealt with a crisis of this magnitude in his world. As soon as he’d built his Underground, his Empire of S&M clubs that catered to the wealthy and the powerful as well as the scared and the shamed, he’d begun stockpiling blackmail fodder on all the police chiefs and politicians, on the media and the Mafia, anyone who could potentially threaten his borders. Now the thing he’d feared most, harm—real harm to a citizen of his kingdom—had befallen them. And he had only himself to blame.
As soon as he left his bedroom, his night secretary, Sophie, met him in the hallway. She rattled off half a dozen messages and meetings.
“Cancel all the meetings,” he ordered as they reached the stairs. “Ignore the messages.”
“Oui, monsieur. Master Fiske is in your office.”
Good. Griffin was on time today.
He dismissed Sophie and headed to his private office on the third floor. When he reached it, he found Griffin standing by the window talking in hushed tones to the young man with him. Kingsley watched them a moment, waiting for them to notice him. But they had been afflicted with the tunnel vision of new love. Griffin raised his hand and cupped the face of Michael, his new lover. One kiss turned into a second one followed by a whisper. Michael nodded and leaned into Griffin, and when Michael’s silver eyes finally looked at something other than Griffin, Kingsley saw the terror in them.
He could sympathize.
“You should have left your pet at home,” Kingsley said, unable to resist goading Griffin.
Griffin raised his chin as he wrapped an arm possessively around Michael’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest.
“Somebody has Nora, King. I’m not going to let Mick out of my sight until we get her back.”
“Your pet is not in danger. I don’t think la Maîtresse is, either. Not yet.” He spoke the words with confidence and hoped they believed the half-truth.
“I don’t care. We protect our property. You and Søren taught me that.”
“C’est la guerre.” He sighed. Kingsley
