The Thorndykes 1: Dispossessed (3 page)

“I swear that man was born old. He might be good-looking and all, but he ain’t the kind of man you need.”

Unfortunately Missy was right. Ryan’d be even more persistent about trying to change her mind on settling down.

She grimaced. “He thinks our marriage is a done deal. I haven’t said yes, and I won’t if he believes he owns me.”

“On paper, you could do worse. He’s rich, considerate, and respected.” Missy shrugged. “He’s also boring as a plank. Dump him.”

They drew up before the big gates to the ranch, which were for a change open.

Two guards stood waiting, both dressed in smart blue-and-gold uniforms like doormen at a swanky hotel. One examined the invitation, passed an ultraviolet light over it. For heaven’s sake. Then he produced a clipboard with two pieces of paper fastened to it and a pen. “The usual disclaimer.”

Lucille couldn’t believe her eyes, but she scanned the short form. It said the signatories wouldn’t talk about what happened at the party tonight to anyone. A bit fancier language, but the request sounded reasonable. She signed and pushed the board at Missy so she could scrawl her signature. Only then did the guards allow them through.

Missy chuckled. “Great way to build the excitement. Now we’re thinking, who will we meet? What will they be doing?”

They carried on to the main house.

Since the first person they saw outside the front door was a man starring in one of the juiciest soaps on TV, Lucille guessed the security was anything but exaggeration.

The man was sex on a stick, long hair caught back, devilish face, dark eyes, but something about him warned Lucille away.

The man—and when she worked really hard, she recalled his name was David something—glanced in their direction. He did a theatrical double take before he tossed his cigarette butt carelessly aside, narrowly missing a budding magnolia, and strode down the steps leading to the entrance.

This place was a cross between a plantation house and an ancient English country mansion, two wings either side of a huge portico supported by white Corinthian columns. Appropriate for tonight’s theme.

“Good evening, ladies.” David bestowed a broad smile on them and crooked his arms. “May I escort you inside?” His cod-British accent wasn’t working properly, or perhaps Lucille’s exposure to the real thing earlier had spoiled her for the fake.

If he had articulated it aloud, he couldn’t have said
Fresh meat
any better. Reluctantly Lucille accepted his arm. Not so unwillingly, Missy did the same.

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” she murmured in her best Regency style, and David tilted his head as if sharing a confidence with her.

Once up the steps and in the main hall, David gave Lucille a vague grin and bore Missy off. She glanced back at Lucille, made a “look at me, Ma” face, eyes and mouth wide, before she disappeared through one of the doors in the big hall.

The space held at least half a dozen doors and one of the sweeping staircases Lucille had only ever seen in movies before. It should have Scarlett O’Hara or Bette Davis swanning up them. Instead, they had to make do with her. The least she could do was have a look around.

Maybe she’d sneak off home then. Call a cab. She had her cell phone tucked in the pocket of her dress together with some cash, her keys, and a lipstick. A quick tour of the premises and then an equally quick getaway seemed in order.

JAY STROLLED THROUGH the rooms, careful not to stop for too long, or someone would trap him. Some had their own Regency costumes, and some had taken advantage of the wardrobes he offered for their convenience. Nobody got in here without at least making the effort to dress in period.

He’d had his own clothes created by a tailor who knew what he was doing. His skintight pantaloons were topped by an ivory-toned waistcoat embroidered delicately with gold thread, and a formfitting collarless coat in dead black, the shade that cost so much to produce before chemical dyes made colors more vivid. He’d brushed his hair a la Brutus, the short, choppy style he’d favored back then, and tied his neckcloth himself into the elaborate confection of folds called the Waterfall. A diamond solitaire pin nestled lovingly at his throat, and he wore a gold watch and chain with a quizzing glass hanging from a loop at his waist—one he knew how to use, if anyone dared challenge him. He completed the outfit with the obligatory mask, but his was a black silk bandage executioner-style with slits for his eyes, in startling contrast to the elegant, expensive clothes.

He wanted to remind people, even the ones who didn’t know about his Talent, what he could do, who he was. He strode through the crowd, people staring at him, trying to catch his attention. Deadly ennui crept through his veins, insidiously pressing at him. By the time he’d walked through the rooms set aside for the affair, he let it take its usual grip on his senses. One of the worst emotions because of his inability to fight it. Horror, terror, disgust—he could combat those, but not the paralyzing flatness of boredom, always his deepest enemy. One of his reasons for throwing these elaborate parties was to try to ease the emotion, but even that distraction had stopped working recently.

She wasn’t there, the woman who’d piqued his interest earlier today.

He nodded to some of the people sitting or lying on the sofas he’d provided, broad, heavy affairs with cylinder-shaped pillows, so useful for sexual invention. He watched a man position a woman over one, her ass in the air, legs wide apart, and waited until the man rammed inside her. Jay observed them for a minute or two, wondering if it was worth joining in. She had plump breasts made fuller by her position, sweet treats for anyone who felt so inclined to lend a hand.

Something tingled his nerves, but not the sight of the woman clearly preparing to take all comers. A dish of condoms lay close to hand. One of his few rules was that everyone should use them—a definite improvement on his day.

That tingle— The woman screamed, sidetracking him for a bare second, then sensation flashed across his mind, and his senses went on high alert.

He knew every Talent he’d invited here tonight—their sigils, their mental signatures—but not this one. The presence too fleeting for him to properly identify, only the sex—male—and the Talent, shape-shifter. That was all.

Why would a Talent arrive and not announce himself to the others who’d attended? Jay didn’t know this person. But the scream had distracted the unknown Talent for a brief fraction of a second longer than it had him. Then the shield had snapped shut.

Fuck
. He had to assume the enemy had found a way in. Not all Talents worked on the same side.

Until a moment ago, deep disappointment had filled him that Lucille hadn’t showed, but now he was glad. Someone as young as Lucille was best staying away from possible danger. She could fuzz her thoughts to the curious, no question, but he didn’t know the strength of her powers. Or how well she could fight a hostile mind.

He lingered, watching the play, spreading his senses to detect some trace of the Talent who’d hidden his presence so effectively until that one swift reveal. Nothing. He scanned again.

A man straddled a pile of cushions, spread-eagled, only his hands on the floor. The rest of him lay open to anyone who wanted to use him. Cyprians came in both sexes. A woman shoved a dildo up his ass, showing no mercy, and the man obligingly cried out, his shivering shriek dramatically loud.

Jay brushed the man’s mind. The only pain the guy was suffering was what he desired, but sharing the man’s thrill didn’t have its usual invigorating effect on Jay. Spectators resting from their labors watched, sipping wine or brandy from their crystal glasses and munching the treats his cook made especially for this gathering. With a slash of amusement, Jay saw the shapes his cook had fashioned them into. Every cookie a phallus, every cake a breast.

Shit, what he’d give for an unwilling white throat pulsing with life, a tracery of veins beneath, fresh and untouched.
Her
unwilling white throat. Just like the pretty throat belonging to the woman sitting at the edge of the room. He focused his attention on her, and shock shivered through him, sensitizing every nerve. Her mental disguise was better than he’d thought.

She’d come after all. Lucille.

She sat scrunched up untidily in a big brocade chair. She wore a lilac silk gown that had a vague resemblance to one someone from his time would have worn. And probably sneered at, he had to admit. Not that it disappointed Jay, because she’d come. Avid fascination marked her gaze as she watched the man getting fucked.

Jay crossed the floor to sit next to her, aware of the attention he was attracting from the regulars. He ignored them.

He favored her with a curt nod. “Good to see you. Dance with me.”

“Fuck off,” she said.

A sharp intake of breath, not from her, from the people sitting nearby. He heard it over the delicate music of the string quartet he’d engaged. He couldn’t contact her telepathically. She wouldn’t respond. She’d thrown up her barriers, blocking him.

She didn’t try to ingratiate herself with him, but turned her back as much as she could while seated. Intriguing. Slightly concerning because she radiated more than nervousness, almost fear.

“Why did you come? Or is it not for me? Do you want to dance with somebody else?” He kept his voice deliberately soft and unthreatening, and he refrained from reading her mind deeper, forcing the fragile barrier open. That would spoil the fun, remove the tension, and he badly needed some fun in his life. He needed her. Needed to show her what he could do, and why she shouldn’t come here as a tourist as so many did. Of course she wanted to see his house and his art. Not.

LUCILLE STARED AT Jay wide-eyed. It didn’t matter that he was dressed in snug biscuit-colored breeches, or that a diamond flashed disconcertingly from the white linen folds at his neck. Gold glittered from his waistcoat. Despite the black strip mask obscuring the top part of his face, his keen stare ensnared her as it had in the daytime. She couldn’t look away. Dark eyes the color of rich chocolate burned with an inner fire and defied her to take her attention from him. Her resistance melted, her last barrier shattered. Seeing him this way after the surprisingly enjoyable conversation today added to her fascination with him. Their kiss notwithstanding.

From the moment she’d walked across the floor of this room, head high, heart quailing, she knew she’d made a mistake coming here. She didn’t belong. Not every person wore a mask, and she recognized local politicians—hell, a senator having sex with two women in one room she’d entered. He’d asked her to join them, and she’d beaten a hasty retreat. So that disclaimer meant something. And she sensed other Talents, minds grazing hers, then moving on, satisfied she wasn’t a threat. She’d only come across that kind of community when she visited Houston.

She wanted to see Jay’s art, to see him again, to change her life. A threefold mantra that had plagued her until she’d given in. She could have said no to Missy if she’d really wanted to. Jay had stirred her, induced a sense of recklessness she couldn’t deny. She’d thought maybe this Regency orgy might be the answer, but no. She didn’t like it after all. The sights and sounds of this place instilled curiosity. It didn’t turn her on. At least, not until she’d seen him crossing the room in powerful strides with her in his sights.

She shifted, preparing to get to her feet. “I should go,” she said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have come—”

“I warned you what happened at my parties,” he said, silky tones barely masking hidden threat.

“Yes.” She shrugged. “My mistake.”

His lips twitched in what was either a smile or a grimace. She couldn’t tell which in the dim light.

She fidgeted. How did people wear these dresses for more than an hour at a time? The bones of the bodice dug painfully in to her breasts.

A scream shattered her calm as the man taking his third or fourth dick of the evening shivered in agony or ecstasy. She scarcely suppressed her start of shock, but although she was almost sure she hadn’t revealed her alarm, the corner of his mouth flicked up. He knew.

“I don’t belong here,” she said.

The smile turned into a full-blown one. Lucille caught her breath. The expression transformed him from a stern, scary aristocrat into a man. Confident, but not one-dimensional. The Jay she’d met earlier today.

She shifted, unable to stop the dress poking her. She must have put on weight since she wore it last. Her breasts bulged uncomfortably over the top of the garment, unlike most of the women here. Their gowns cinched in below their bosoms, pushed up their breasts to spill or swell in a tempting display. Not everyone had corsets on. Not everyone wore anything on their upper half, but their clothes were obviously expensive, made to fit. Now she felt stupid. Out of place.

“You don’t like it here,” he said abruptly. “What is it?”

Dropping her gaze to the toes of his glossy dancing pumps, she knew it was futile for her to deny it, pointless too. “I’m okay.”

A pause before he spoke again, one that stretched an agonizingly long time. “I see.”

She licked her lips. She couldn’t say more, despite the strange feeling of safety he gave her. An illusion. Always an illusion.
Keep safe and quiet.

Closing her eyes tightly, she forced her attention to remain on his shoes. No looking up though now she wanted the recognition in his eyes.

“Were you curious,
mignonne
?”

The caress in his words shivered through her mind. “I wondered.” She took a sharp breath. “I was wrong. These things interest me, but they don’t…”

“Turn you on?” The intimacy in his tone told her far more than mere words. “Time you spread your wings, perhaps?” He wasn’t sitting close to her, but she didn’t need to look at him to know how his countenance would warm. Nevertheless, she looked. So much more than warmth waited for her there. Desire. Nothing else would do to describe the stark, open expression on his face. He knew, and she didn’t. They were unequal in experience, probably in temperament and in sexual needs, if this party was anything to go by.