different angles.”
“Oh. Why doesn’t anybody tell me things? What’s the name of the club?”
“The Royal Dawn Hotel on Crete.”
“Hound . . . thank you.”
“Aw, shucks. Maybe you won’t say that next month when the credit-card bill comes in.” He hung up before she could respond.
Maliha had an American Express Platinum account with cards for her team members. She’d recently switched to the black card for herself, partly because she liked the official name of it: Centurion, the rank Lucius had held in the Roman army.
Well, I guess Hound is having a good time in Chicago.
Chapter Nine
E lizabeth almost snorted at the pathetic conversation, but caught herself in time. She was talking to Fred, and he was giving her suggestions on how to, as he put it, “secure the assassin.”
Stay out of what you don’t know, asshole.
She was relaxing in her bathtub, talking on a speakerphone. Fred had wanted a video connection, but she’d refused. She wasn’t about to let him invade the privacy of her home, at least not yet. Both of them wanted to be making the decisions, so Elizabeth had to carve out her territory. She’d held off his sexual advances so far, but she knew that eventually she’d have to give in.
When I say so.
“I appreciate your suggestions, Fred, but I have a plan that’s already in the works.”
“You’re not a very good communicator. I need updates on this project daily.”
Project—he calls planning assassinations a project? I wonder if he’s ever gotten his hands dirty.
She dipped her hand in the bathwater, rose-scented and pale red, and dripped some between her breasts. She was in a slipper tub, a claw-foot tub with one end raised and sloped for support for her back. The tub was located in a room adjoining her master bedroom, on the second floor of a redbrick home in Wildwood, in northwest Chicago. It was a family neighborhood, filled with trees, meandering streets, and parks, and it was adjacent to the Bunker Hill Forest Preserve. The bicycle trail, prairie, and woods of the preserve would have been convenient hunting grounds, but Elizabeth had learned her lesson about soiling her nest.
“What if nothing happens on a particular day? You expect me to call you and say nothing happened?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t wear well on your pretty face. Tell me your plan.”
She slid down into the tub until the water was neck-high.
“I should have an update on that for you soon.” She ended the call smiling. She liked keeping him on edge and pissed off at her.
The bathwater was getting a bit cool. She waved over her bath servant, a seventeen-year-old runaway.
“Run some hot water.”
“Yes, Lady.” The girl ran enough to warm the tub and went back to her position kneeling near the door. As she walked away, Elizabeth could see blood striping the back of her thin dress. The girl— what was her name? Debbie? Deidre? —had been whipped earlier in the day. She hadn’t done anything wrong. It was just her turn. Elizabeth needed to keep her servants in line so they knew that their situation was hopeless.
Hanging above the bathtub, upside down, was a naked girl whose pitiful body showed whip marks, bruises, and broken bones. Her throat and wrists had been slit, and her blood drained into the tub. Elizabeth lifted her right foot out of the water and let the blood drip between her toes.
Ashley didn’t do anything wrong. It was just her turn.
Chapter Ten
M aliha flew into Heraklion International Airport, the largest one on the island of Crete. The Royal Dawn Hotel, built into a rugged hillside on the eastern coast, was pleased to welcome internationally best-selling author Marsha Winters, including the expansive gesture of sending a car to pick her up at the airport. Maliha had been there several times before, and once had rented a villa for six months to soak up the Mediterranean sun and Cretan hospitality.
In December, there were fewer tourists, and the eastern coast of
“Oh. Why doesn’t anybody tell me things? What’s the name of the club?”
“The Royal Dawn Hotel on Crete.”
“Hound . . . thank you.”
“Aw, shucks. Maybe you won’t say that next month when the credit-card bill comes in.” He hung up before she could respond.
Maliha had an American Express Platinum account with cards for her team members. She’d recently switched to the black card for herself, partly because she liked the official name of it: Centurion, the rank Lucius had held in the Roman army.
Well, I guess Hound is having a good time in Chicago.
Chapter Nine
E lizabeth almost snorted at the pathetic conversation, but caught herself in time. She was talking to Fred, and he was giving her suggestions on how to, as he put it, “secure the assassin.”
Stay out of what you don’t know, asshole.
She was relaxing in her bathtub, talking on a speakerphone. Fred had wanted a video connection, but she’d refused. She wasn’t about to let him invade the privacy of her home, at least not yet. Both of them wanted to be making the decisions, so Elizabeth had to carve out her territory. She’d held off his sexual advances so far, but she knew that eventually she’d have to give in.
When I say so.
“I appreciate your suggestions, Fred, but I have a plan that’s already in the works.”
“You’re not a very good communicator. I need updates on this project daily.”
Project—he calls planning assassinations a project? I wonder if he’s ever gotten his hands dirty.
She dipped her hand in the bathwater, rose-scented and pale red, and dripped some between her breasts. She was in a slipper tub, a claw-foot tub with one end raised and sloped for support for her back. The tub was located in a room adjoining her master bedroom, on the second floor of a redbrick home in Wildwood, in northwest Chicago. It was a family neighborhood, filled with trees, meandering streets, and parks, and it was adjacent to the Bunker Hill Forest Preserve. The bicycle trail, prairie, and woods of the preserve would have been convenient hunting grounds, but Elizabeth had learned her lesson about soiling her nest.
“What if nothing happens on a particular day? You expect me to call you and say nothing happened?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t wear well on your pretty face. Tell me your plan.”
She slid down into the tub until the water was neck-high.
“I should have an update on that for you soon.” She ended the call smiling. She liked keeping him on edge and pissed off at her.
The bathwater was getting a bit cool. She waved over her bath servant, a seventeen-year-old runaway.
“Run some hot water.”
“Yes, Lady.” The girl ran enough to warm the tub and went back to her position kneeling near the door. As she walked away, Elizabeth could see blood striping the back of her thin dress. The girl— what was her name? Debbie? Deidre? —had been whipped earlier in the day. She hadn’t done anything wrong. It was just her turn. Elizabeth needed to keep her servants in line so they knew that their situation was hopeless.
Hanging above the bathtub, upside down, was a naked girl whose pitiful body showed whip marks, bruises, and broken bones. Her throat and wrists had been slit, and her blood drained into the tub. Elizabeth lifted her right foot out of the water and let the blood drip between her toes.
Ashley didn’t do anything wrong. It was just her turn.
Chapter Ten
M aliha flew into Heraklion International Airport, the largest one on the island of Crete. The Royal Dawn Hotel, built into a rugged hillside on the eastern coast, was pleased to welcome internationally best-selling author Marsha Winters, including the expansive gesture of sending a car to pick her up at the airport. Maliha had been there several times before, and once had rented a villa for six months to soak up the Mediterranean sun and Cretan hospitality.
In December, there were fewer tourists, and the eastern coast of
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