Hearing the threads of rage woven into Owen’s voice, Gigi knew further argument was pointless. Instead, she sank to the ground. Laying her cheek against the door, she listened to her brother’s despair and wept silently with him.
Chapter Six
Conrad woke up to the familiar scent of Eau de Regret—minus the cloying perfume.
He was alone at an inn in Chudleigh Crest. Situated a few miles from Chudleigh Bottoms, the larger village had advantages that its downtrodden neighbor did not. For one thing, it had been built at a higher elevation, which made the Thames a pretty view rather than a constant threat of flooding. The businesses and people he’d seen in passing looked far more prosperous. The inn where Conrad was staying offered polite hospitality, spacious suites, and privacy. His original plan had been to celebrate his purchase of the spa here with a bottle of bubbly (and perhaps a local lightskirt) and return to London the next day.
Of that plan, he’d only accomplished one thing. He’d imbibed an entire bottle of champagne and now had a megrim to thank for it. The rest of his agenda had turned to shite as well. After the mysterious “Gigi” had been dragged away by a pretty redhead who’d looked daggers at him, he’d told himself it was just as well—he didn’t need the distraction. Not that his focus did him much good. Leticia Caldecott was like a dog with a bone…that bone being her stupid spa. No amount of money—and hell’s teeth, he’d offered her a king’s ransom—could persuade her to sell to him. He’d left empty-handed, something that hadn’t happened since his early days in business.
He had returned to the inn to plan his next moves. He’d ordered up supper, and the wench who’d brought it up had been dark-haired, buxom, and available. Yet for some bloody reason, he’d turned down her advances. Actually, he knew the reason. He’d been panting after his nymph…no, Gigi. Her name suited her: playful yet sensually elegant. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She was also a meddlesome spitfire who ought to mind her own business and stay out of his. Nonetheless, an entire bottle of champagne hadn’t erased her from his head.
Instead, he’d taken matters into his own hands…literally. Frustrated and randy, he’d relived the moment Gigi had straddled him: when he’d felt her warm, wet pussy kissing his thigh. In his soused state, the setting of the ancient Roman temple had melded seamlessly into his dark fantasies of Pearl and Prickonus. He’d imagined catching his little nymph emerging from her bath. When he cornered her, naked and dripping wet, anticipation had sparkled in her violet eyes.
Rub that needy little cunny against my leg, he commanded. Make yourself come.
With a plaintive whimper, she obeyed, masturbating against his thigh. Soon, she was riding him with delightful alacrity, moans escaping her rose-petal lips. He played with her breasts, enjoying their perfect shape and weight. When he tweaked her nipples—the same pretty hue as her lips, he fancied—she came with a gasp. The slick gush against his thigh made his erection leap against her belly.
With a growl, he pushed her to her knees, and she went with willing grace. Winding her wet raven hair in one hand, he used the other to feed her his prick. The swollen head, glossy with pre-seed, looked almost too big for her mouth. Yet she gamely opened for him, and he thrust into the tight, wet ring of her lips. He withdrew and drove inside again, and when she started to suck, he felt his eyes roll toward the back of his head.
Take my cock, he growled. That’s my good girl.
Her muffled moan swelled his balls. He sheathed himself to the root, again and again. Her peerless violet eyes teared with effort, yet she urged him on with a sweet, feminine passion that shattered his self-control. He shot his seed, his release seeping through his clenched fingers and staining the sheets.
That had been last night. Now, he looked down and saw his erection tenting the bedsheet yet again. Grunting, he threw an arm over his eyes. A morning cockstand was hardly novel, but his obsession with Gigi was. While she was undeniably gorgeous, that did not justify her hold on him. She was just a woman—and one who spelled trouble for his ultimate goals.
Get your head on straight, Godwin. You didn’t come this far to be stopped in your tracks by some toothsome chit. Concentrate.
In the past, his ability to adapt had allowed him to turn defeat into victory. First, he had to accept the reality that Leticia Caldecott was not going to be motivated by money. This meant that he would have to obtain the property by other means…or, alternatively, he could ensure that the spa failed. Then Chuddums would continue its rapid downward spiral, exposing his enemy’s jugular.
Then I will go in for the kill.
The thought made Conrad’s cockstand jerk against the bedsheet. Bloody hell, he might have to bring himself off again. He wanted to have a clear head as he tackled his new agenda: to determine the best approach to take with the spa…and, if he saw her again, the mysterious Gigi.
Arriving in Chuddums, Conrad grimly noted the improvements since his last visit. While the low-lying village lacked the tidy respectability of Chudleigh Crest, it flaunted a certain slapdash charm. He noted the patchwork quilt of frost-glazed roofs and the new coats of paint sprucing up worn buildings. As his carriage took him into the square, he passed a tearoom called the “Leaning House”…aptly named since the building was visibly tilting. With each of its three stories painted a different pastel shade, the establishment resembled a giant, lopsided wedding cake.
The other shops along the square were equally eccentric. Some buildings were tall, others squat, some narrow, and others wide. There was no rhyme or reason to the design. Nonetheless, business appeared to be thriving. There was a line out of the butcher’s shop…at least, Conrad assumed it was the butcher’s shop since the proprietor hadn’t bothered to put up a sign. Passing the window of a snug establishment named “Hatcherds”—was the misspelling intentional?—he saw patrons curled up in chairs by the fireplace, nibbling on refreshments as they leafed through books.
When he’d last surveilled the village, many of the storefronts had lain empty. The street had looked like a smile without teeth. Since then, new shops had cropped up, and while there were still gaps, the new plate glass windows, brightly lit interiors, and painted doors conveyed cheerful optimism. Despite the chilly day, people bundled in winter coats wandered the square, their baskets full of purchases.
This is bloody unacceptable.
Conrad alighted from his carriage. Exploring on foot would give him a better sense of what was behind this inconvenient resurgence. In the center of the winter-touched green, he came upon a large tree with ghostly branches that seemed to claw at the overcast sky. He’d seen it last time, along with the small, rust-red stone that bore a plaque memorializing a member of Chuddums’s most influential family:
In memory of Langdon Pearce
Hero and Soldier of Justice
May He Rest in Peace
However, another monument had sprung up next to it. Constructed of pinkish granite, the obelisk was massive, thrusting into the withered branches of the tree. It resembled a giant prick…which was fitting, given who it was dedicated to.
In honor of Abel Pearce
A living Leader and Benefactor of Chudleigh Bottoms
Coldness crept through Conrad as he remembered his first visit to Chuddums over two decades ago. He’d been so young and afraid that he had taken little note of his surroundings. All he recalled was his mama using the last of her money to get them to an imposing house, slicking down his wayward forelock and straightening his jacket as they waited on the doorstep.
“We must make a good impression on Mr. Pearce,” she’d said.
