Page 7

“How’d you manage that here at the Chateau de Prison.”

“You really should pay more attention to your help. The gardener hooked me up for a modest fee.”

Swiping one of them up from his palm, I drag it across my nose, inhaling the scent of crisp herb and wood. “We’ll meet down in the cave tonight, after my mother takes her Valium.”

“And the girls?” he asks, tucking both joints back into his pocket.

“Forget the girls, man. There’s nothing in this town that would interest you.”

They’re a strange breed in Tempest Cove. The kind who smile and flirt, while spreading their gossip behind your back. I once made out with a local girl, nothing more than kissing and some fumbling of hands, and by the end of the week, half the town was talking about my dick.

I hadn’t even bothered to whip it out.

That’s how they operate here, though. For whatever dirt they can spill, they’ll dig as deep as they have to.

The forest breaks up for the open lawn of Blackthorne, and we stride past Easton, the gardener, who flashes a smirk that makes a whole lot more sense than it would’ve ten minutes ago.

“I think you’re wrong, my friend.” Slowing his steps, Jude grabs hold of my shoulder. “I think there’s definitely something interesting.”

I follow the path of his gaze, toward where a woman gathers up her suitcase in the circular drive in front of the manor.

Jude strides ahead of me. “Please, allow me to help you.”

As the woman turns around, my heart screeches to a halt inside my chest.

Her eyes are a deep gray beneath long black lashes, in a narrow face framed by long, lazy curls that tumble over slender shoulders, which widen with the edges of large breasts stretching her tight sweater. When she smiles back at Jude, one of her teeth in front is twisted just enough to lift her plump lip into a crooked sort of smile. A painfully beautiful woman who must be at least ten years older than me, judging by the maturity in her features.

“Merci,” she says, her lips pursing when she slides her gaze to mine. “My name is Solange. I’m here to clean.” A thick French accent only adds to the sultry nature of the woman.

“Jude.” My forward friend prods a hand in front of her, but her eyes remain locked on mine as she rests her palm in his. Jude leans forward to kiss the back of her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Solange.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she says, smiling as she slips her hand out of his. “You must be Lucian.”

My name rolling off her tongue sends a shiver down my spine. “You know my name?”

Her gray eyes dip from mine and back. “You’re hurt,” she says, rather than answer the question.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re bleeding.”

A quick glance at my arms reminds me of the ass-kicking I suffered at the beak of a bird. “I’m fine.”

“Lucian! I’ve been calling you for the last hour.”

At the unwelcomed clamor of my mother’s voice, I cringe, trying to ignore her, where she stands at the front of the castle, hands crossed in front of her conservative beige pantsuit.

“And what happened to you?” As the fussy woman makes her way down the stone staircase toward me, I groan, waiting for the onslaught of motherly concern. “You’re a bloody mess!”

“Ah, you’re picking up my dialect, Mrs. B.” Jude says, his snicker dying beneath the clearing of his throat.

Expression more stern than before, my mother snatches up my arm, and my cheeks instantly heat as I catch the amused look Solange shoots Jude. “Mother, I’m fine.”

“You’ve got literal gouges in your arm, Lucian. What did this?”

“He tangoed with the wrong bird.” The humor in Jude’s tone grates on me, while my arm is twisted and tugged in examination.

“As I said, I’m fine.”