In Total Surrender (10 page)

She didn’t separate her emotions and thoughts on paper or in her head. Personal bled to business and back again.

She couldn’t allow him to see what she had written about him.

Yet she needed to stay here. It was the right move, she
felt
it. People—Christian, Henry, Edward—would call her ten times a fool for doing it, but unlike them, she knew there were
two
people Andreas Merrick was attached to, not just the one that everyone knew. That second person was the reason she had dared this move, putting her father within Andreas Merrick’s reach. Staking her family’s welfare and future on one piece of evidence and a large amount of intuition.

“Perhaps we can compromise.”

“Oh?” It was darkly uttered. “What do you offer as your part of such a promise?”

She looked into his eyes. They were a blue so deep that they appeared black on first glance. She had a feeling that most people would say his eyes
were
black, if questioned.

She had noticed their true color in her first close glimpse, though. Like the sky when it deepened to night, midnight with fathomless pinpoints of light streaking through.

The real question was what wouldn’t she offer this man?

“I could help with your affairs here.”

What wouldn’t she offer?
It was a question to scare a rationally minded person.

“Doing what? Baking biscuits?”

The man in front of her would never claim to be anything but rational. Yet, he frequently made decisions based on emotion. He just didn’t seem to realize that negative emotions counted.

At times she could no more understand him than she could the gargoyles wrapped around the edges of his building. Ferocious creatures snarling above. She’d always found gargoyles interesting and delightfully symbolic creatures, though. Guarding churches and homes, threatening fiercely any force that might oppose that which they loved.

It was something she keenly felt they had in common.

“There are other things I might help with,” she said softly.

She looked at his exposed wrist, mostly healed now. Could still picture it as it had been that first night, singed, dark and raw. It had to have hurt, and yet he had taken care of those five men who had come to murder him and had uttered not a hissed word of pain during the entire ordeal.

He didn’t follow her gaze. “I need no help in exacting revenge.” There was almost a savored twist to how he said it, as if it was his one true pleasure in life.

Unnerving. And yet like the gargoyles, she felt the draw as if it were a living thing reaching out its tendrils to draw her in.

“Perhaps I can make it so you need never gain revenge again,” she said softly.

He was very still for a moment, then suddenly he threw his head back and laughed, the vibrations of it spreading out like he was spreading the nine layers of hell, sin incarnate.

“Will you?”

His eyes traveled over her, a perusal that could not be deemed lazy, as nothing that this man did ever seemed to match that description. It was focused and overwhelming. Intense. Smoking all areas he touched with brimstone fire—the wispy hair framing her face, the curve of her neck, the dips of her body, pulling the feeling over her in a blanket, smothering and tight. A dark, seductive mass of sensation and loss of breath.

“And yet that tells me nothing of what you will actually do for me while you stay here.”

“I can help you with your parliamentary procedures, for one. Christian is . . . was . . . somewhat obsessed with politics. I’ve been handling such matters along with him since Father . . . since Father gave us those concerns.”

A true statement, if rather hiding the fact that “gave” was perhaps not the most accurate word.

He watched her for a long moment, and she could barely keep stiff under such a gaze. How did people think this man was made of ice? How did
he
believe it of himself? He all but seethed with heat. Every time that gaze touched upon her, she felt the need to divest herself of any outer garments. To strip bare under the flames.

“And you won’t need to leave this building either anymore,” she added.

His eyes narrowed suddenly, but the heat kept pressing. “No?”

“There won’t be need to seek
outside pursuits.
” She hoped that was adequate in telling him that he would no longer need to stand outside to guard their house. They’d be right here.

There was something quite odd about his reaction, though. His muscles tensed as if he were readying for a fight. She had the strange notion that reading wasn’t correct though. What made a man react like that?

“Is that right?” Was there something . . . sensual in those words?

“Yes.” She cast off the odd notion and nodded instead.

He shook his head suddenly, scowl reappearing, the lines around his eyes tightening. She could see her chance slipping through as he opened his mouth.

“I will give you a share of the company,” she blurted out. His gaze went from resistant to unreadable. “And staying here will stop me from doing anything . . . hasty. That has to be a boon, correct?”

It stung her pride, but sacrifices were sometimes necessary.

“And if you need me to stay away from you. I, I can do that. I actually enjoy speaking to you, of course. I find you fascinating, and”—she clamped her lips together, a bit mortified for once—“I will give you thirty percent of the company.”

He studied her for long moments, muscles shifting beneath his shirt—it suddenly occurred to her that he was quite underdressed, and that was the reason she could discern the play of the cords at all.

“And I can get Lord Garrett to leave England,” she added.

He stilled completely.

“I, I won’t do anything to cause Edward or Henry harm, I won’t disgrace the family and have one evil set of deeds brought to bear upon the rest. But I can make it so their father
has
to leave. I have Christian’s notes.”

He was so, so still. Statuesque.

“Very well.” His usual surly tone was all but a purr suddenly. “As Roman likes to say, let us see how this plays, Miss Pace. And if you regret it”—he shrugged, but his eyes pinned her, dark and glittering and intense—“don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yes,” she responded, though her heart was beating entirely too quickly. Her response anchored to the collection of darkened intentions that stole over his face.

He leaned forward, spreading the path of scorching heat over her, tightening it around her, like the dark manacle on his wrist that was still not fully healed, and her heart hammered, not unlike it had when cool steel had rested against her neck, as he smiled darkly. “Then welcome to hell.”

Chapter 9

H
e tapped.

Taut like the cord of a clock one wind too tight. Watching her disappear again.

Upstairs.

He tapped harder.

Dangerous, dangerous thoughts. Ones that he could not convert to reality. Promises made—promises that she thought something else entirely.

He could call Donald. Donald was in charge, after all, and it was who Roman would have wheedled everything out of if he’d been here. But there were obstacles with whomever Andreas called tonight.

Normally, he would coldly question Donald without fear. Because normally he felt little more than disregard. But Donald, skilled in showing no emotion around anyone other than Roman, would deduce both Andreas’s interest and his lack of complete knowledge. Andreas lived by the reputation that he knew everything, all of the time, without having to interact with anyone. It was the gift of his partnership with Roman.

He tapped his finger again on the desk, lips tight at the admission, even to himself, that emotion was involved. He needed someone he could verbally batter and coerce without exposing himself in return.

Andreas eyed the third cord on the wall with something akin to resignation. He loathed that cord. He reached out and yanked three times.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs moments later. Three sets of feet stopped outside his door—two sets quick, the other dragging behind.

“Enter,” he barked.

Two boys tumbled into the room, one large and fearful, one reedy and eager. God, he hated that cord. The third stalked in behind, small arms crossed, jagged scar the length of his forehead. Belligerent little fuck. Andreas remembered Roman skirting the boy around him when the boy had first come to their fold.

“Sir, sir, what needs doing?” the eager one asked. He had carrot-top red hair, his skin irreparably spotted from an overabundance of freckles. His eyes held the sort of glazed eagerness of an unintelligent puppy.

Andreas dearly wished for Milton or One-eye at the moment. Someone with proper respect, fear, and intelligence. It seemed like the boys before him comprised only one characteristic each.

But One-eye was with Roman. And Milton was still on assignment. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t sent Milton off.

If he had been the type to snort, he would have done so. Milton would have probably carried all of her bags inside himself.

“I want to know about our . . . guests.” He let the word roll off his tongue. He could do nothing at this juncture but pretend he had known they would be moving in all along. Anything otherwise would undermine him. Perhaps that was her ultimate goal. She was doing well by it, all in all. “How they arrived, what they’ve been doing.”

“They came in a week ago. They are living in Mr. Roman’s old rooms.”

Two sentences containing nothing. Eager and blank.

He gave the boy a cold stare. “Do you not know how to report? Or should I dismiss you now for the imbecile you are?”

Carrot-top looked confused.

“Imbecile means
idiot.
” Andreas tapped his pen harder.

“Oh!”

Andreas continued the painful tapping on his desk, and he saw the fearful lug of a boy nudge Carrot-top in the side, his pupils nearly overtaking any color surrounding them.

Carrot-top tripped over his words. “Right. Johnny and Tommy helped ’em move out the house, Benny, Trip, and Lefty made sure everythin’ got tossed upstairs. We didn’t break anything, swears. And we’ve had fresh baker bread and lil’ cakes and—”

The scarred boy elbowed Carrot-top hard.

“Er,” Carrot-top continued. “That’s it. We did everythin’ right, swears.”

He wasn’t going to pull that cord again. He could bully Donald so hard that he couldn’t tell his ass from his judgment center next time. “And the occupants themselves?”

“The lady, course. An older lady too, and . . . another old lady.” He nudged the scarred boy, chortling. “Right? Another lady.”

The scarred boy kept his gaze straight ahead, eyes narrowed on Andreas. Snotty little shit. “A man dressed as an old lady,” the scarred boy corrected crisply. “
Sir.
”

Carrot-top continued, as if the interruption had been part of their act. “Wouldn’t believe it at first. Great big side whiskers on a hunched granny.” He pulled the hair in front of his ears out. “Me maw would have had a . . .” He trailed off, as he finally looked at Andreas. His face turned an unattractive shade of green. “That is . . . there are three of them, sir. The servants disappeared. Oh, and there’s a dog. Tommy’s been walking him.” He motioned to the scarred boy, then quickly backed away, leaving Tommy to the figurative canines.

Tommy was eyeing him mutinously across the desk. Andreas gave him a black look in return and turned to the third boy, who was quite a bit bigger than the other two. “And what have you observed?”

The boy’s mouth worked for a moment with no sound emerging. He was a hulking little beast really. He’d be a force to be reckoned with in a few years. When his mouth kept working, Andreas wondered if perhaps his tongue had been removed. He eyed the boy with anger and distaste. Roman would have taken care of the perpetrators upon being introduced to the boy, but he slashed a quick note to himself to check to make sure. If appropriate measures had not been undertaken, he would do it himself.

He turned to the little shit, Tommy, to continue his questions, but a croak emerged from the hulking boy.

“She said my cooking is good,” the low voice whispered, some sort of apology edged with defiance, then wrapped up in a terrified package.

He looked closely at all three faces, eyes narrowed. His lips pressed together hard enough to hurt due to what he read there. They had claimed her as one of their own.

He thought of six ways to insult a man’s mother.

But he would bend this, or break it, to his will, just as he did everything. Roman was always trying to coerce him into giving people what they thought they needed while taking everything he wanted, whereas Andreas would rather simply take what he wanted and be on with things.

He addressed Carrot-top. “Send Donald to me. Tell Lefty to put the building on medium lock starting now.” They would move the gaming tables on the ground floor to the hell on Third Street. Slowly, night by night. “Start spreading the rumor among the ranks that we are renovating here in order to expand.”

He needed to get the building secured. No more invited attempts—his lips thinned further, and the boys across from him shifted at the action—she had been right on that guess.

Now with his new . . . guests . . . he couldn’t skirt the edge of death. Not here.

“Who knows our guests are here?” he asked.

“No one, sir.” Carrot-top looked eager for redemption. “The lady asked real nice-like.”

He simply stared at the boy, tapping again.

“She requested our silence on the matter very politely.
Sir
,” came the belligerent addition from Tommy. Andreas shifted his gaze and gave the boy a dark look. Belligerence lifted the small chin, trying vainly to cover all other emotion. “And we’ve all held true to our word.”

Penetrating little gaze as if the bastard were daring him to say otherwise. Roman had been right to keep this boy away from him. It was like staring in a mirror that reflected one’s core personality instead of one’s face.

“You had better. Tell Lefty. Send Donald.” When they seemed to be waiting for additional instructions, he said somewhat more forcefully, “Leave.”

They exited the room in much the same ways they had entered. He half expected Tommy to send him a rude farewell gesture as he shut the door.

No one would guess the Paces were here from the procedures he was implementing. This was something most people in his position would have done long before now. Hell knew Cornelius cowered down like the rat he was when his location was known.

His enemies would simply think Andreas was scared. Let them. A cruel smile curved his lips. This would be over soon.

The smile abruptly dropped. Until then, he needed to maintain the safety of others. It was unnerving, really, that he was allowing her to stay. Had allowed the net to reach forth and tug him too, entwining him in his own plot.

Which turned his thoughts to the occupants upstairs. He had hoped the boys would trip over themselves to give any information, no matter how superfluous. They usually did, especially when he leveled that stare on them. But . . . tonight, though they had revealed the answers to his direct questions, they had been more reserved, as if they needed to watch what they said. She had infected them too. The large boy and scarred boy held that tight-laced zeal when speaking of her—like they would jump in front of a bayonet should one be pointed her way.

Stupid biscuits laced with warm poison.

He tapped his pen, then tossed it across the room. Shit.

He had no presumptions that any of the others would be less immune. He would search, though, and see anyway.

The bigger problem was that his mind kept saying that if he did find someone less than enamored of her, he should get rid of that person instead. The thought did not endear itself to him.

Andreas could hear Donald walking down the hall—identifying him by the sound of his long and even strides. Donald almost stood eye to eye with him.

“Enter,” he said before the stride fully stopped.

Donald slipped in, long hair sweeping across his forehead. He casually flung his head to remove the sweep, and it worked for a second, then slid back down. The hair had never changed, not since Andreas and Roman had met him when they were, what, seventeen? Yes. It had been just after the main street revolt. Seven years on the streets, and Roman and Andreas had been making headway toward taking them over.

He took the chair in front of Andreas and waited, his eyes steadily watching. Steadiness was why Donald was in charge of this particular hell. Their other hells had overseers as well, with Milton acting as a sort of overall manager and enforcer across the establishments. But this one, where Andreas lived and worked, had required someone who could deal with him on a day-to-day basis.

He was well aware of what an ass he was. Only Roman could tolerate him, really. Stupid, charming bastard.

“I am giving the order for a security lock. Medium now, full in a week.”

Donald just inclined his head, waiting.

“Have you observed our guests?” He couldn’t help his somewhat surly tone, not that he was trying to help it.

“Yes.” The normally stoic man surprised him by continuing. “They haven’t asked many questions. Yet.”

That questions
would
be asked eventually hung between them. Andreas didn’t shift though his leg pinched. Scratching. He’d have to visit Mathias soon.

“The girl is persistent though,” Donald added.

“I want to know who she is particularly close to among the staff here.” Who is
besotted
with her. Hell, they probably all were. Except Donald, who rarely broke his stoic façade. And Andreas. “And what questions she asks.”

Donald inclined his head, hair slipping a fraction more. “It will be done.” He watched Andreas for a moment. “And she and her family will be safe here,” he said, gaze steady, eyes just an extra bit bright.

Andreas nodded sharply back, dismissed him quickly, all while trying to hold back the curses layering his tongue at the words that were both said and unsaid. Donald was infected too.

Goddamn biscuits.