Read Online In Total Surrender by Anne Mallory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Mallory
Tags: Fiction, Historical Romance
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of eyes and arms he could use. The man would need to be moved so Andreas could question him further later.
He forced his voice to stay neutral. A feeling coursed through his body—one he hadn’t had in a long time. That pause before his heart stuttered faster. “What exactly do you know? And whom else have you told?”
T hree minutes later, he brushed off his hands, content that his directions would be followed, and shifted his long-term plans once again. He would bring all of them to fruition regardless of Phoebe Pace.
Chapter 5
F ruition was the fruit that realized its own rotting carcass.
He stared at the devil’s basket in front of him from under the shade of his fingers, which were pressed to his brow, hair falling too long over the top. Hell’s mistress whistled a tune full of seductive entreaty that pierced right through the glass and drapes.
All it had taken was one whiff of the fresh, new damn basket, and one glance at her overly cheerful note the day after apprehending Barton’s son, to make him promptly . . . implement none of those new plans.
He didn’t sleep or eat well on the best of days, but the last week had been worse than most. He violently suppressed any of the dreams that slipped around his nightmares, dreams that all carried the same face. He had woken in a cold sweat from both the dreams and nightmares.
And still, he had . . . done nothing. He had invoked none of the plans that he could have, instead continuing on in a sort of half-witted daze. Listening. Inhaling. Pushing away every damn morsel of sweetness that he could. Who the hell knew what would happen if he ate one?
He could hear her again. He heard her every damn day. In the halls, outside, in the kitchens downstairs when he slipped inside to grab something to eat, in the dead of night in bed—her voice overlapping all of his thoughts of the day.
And the smell of honey had overtaken every other sense he possessed. Honeyed biscuits wrapping her scent firmly in a knot around his neck.
He had lived a wretched life. He was an all-around bad person. He both acknowledged and had never cared about these facts. That Phoebe Pace might be some type of hell-spawned punishment was not out of the realm of possibility. He wondered if the end of twenty years of vengeance and street life had finally marked him for justice. If it had, he would face it like the blackened soul he was and stride home to hell. After his revenge was complete.
Twice he had opened his mouth to tell Milton Fox to get rid of her. To turn her out, to chase her away, to threaten her, to do whatever he had to.
Milton had stood there waiting on the other side of the desk, with a suspicious glint in his eyes. The edge of humor.
And Andreas had said nothing. What was he going to say? That he was scared of a lady? A little girl?
Of course, that just brought to mind that she wasn’t, nor did she look, like a little girl at all. And he’d angrily dismissed Milton, who should have known what to do without being told.
“Oh, Mr. Fox, that is very sweet of you,” that damned voice in the alley said as she did the weekly sweep she had set up.
It was obvious, when it came to it. Milton had to die.
He struggled with the thought for a minute. They needed Milton. And Roman would be upset. Their weekly card games— family card games, Roman called them—would be one short. Roman would probably invite Charlotte then, and Andreas would have to shoot himself.
“I would be honored.”
His pen slipped and dragged a line on the page. Honored to do what?
“Yes, ten tomorrow is fine. I will be there.” The ever-present warmth in her voice hinted at an unfettered smile as well. One given to Milton.
Andreas carefully blotted the trail of ink.
Charlotte was not the worst addition to the card games. And Roman always understood.
M orning shadows were replaced by the sun’s rays as it rose toward midday. Andreas could tell by the sliver of light that slipped its way around
He forced his voice to stay neutral. A feeling coursed through his body—one he hadn’t had in a long time. That pause before his heart stuttered faster. “What exactly do you know? And whom else have you told?”
T hree minutes later, he brushed off his hands, content that his directions would be followed, and shifted his long-term plans once again. He would bring all of them to fruition regardless of Phoebe Pace.
Chapter 5
F ruition was the fruit that realized its own rotting carcass.
He stared at the devil’s basket in front of him from under the shade of his fingers, which were pressed to his brow, hair falling too long over the top. Hell’s mistress whistled a tune full of seductive entreaty that pierced right through the glass and drapes.
All it had taken was one whiff of the fresh, new damn basket, and one glance at her overly cheerful note the day after apprehending Barton’s son, to make him promptly . . . implement none of those new plans.
He didn’t sleep or eat well on the best of days, but the last week had been worse than most. He violently suppressed any of the dreams that slipped around his nightmares, dreams that all carried the same face. He had woken in a cold sweat from both the dreams and nightmares.
And still, he had . . . done nothing. He had invoked none of the plans that he could have, instead continuing on in a sort of half-witted daze. Listening. Inhaling. Pushing away every damn morsel of sweetness that he could. Who the hell knew what would happen if he ate one?
He could hear her again. He heard her every damn day. In the halls, outside, in the kitchens downstairs when he slipped inside to grab something to eat, in the dead of night in bed—her voice overlapping all of his thoughts of the day.
And the smell of honey had overtaken every other sense he possessed. Honeyed biscuits wrapping her scent firmly in a knot around his neck.
He had lived a wretched life. He was an all-around bad person. He both acknowledged and had never cared about these facts. That Phoebe Pace might be some type of hell-spawned punishment was not out of the realm of possibility. He wondered if the end of twenty years of vengeance and street life had finally marked him for justice. If it had, he would face it like the blackened soul he was and stride home to hell. After his revenge was complete.
Twice he had opened his mouth to tell Milton Fox to get rid of her. To turn her out, to chase her away, to threaten her, to do whatever he had to.
Milton had stood there waiting on the other side of the desk, with a suspicious glint in his eyes. The edge of humor.
And Andreas had said nothing. What was he going to say? That he was scared of a lady? A little girl?
Of course, that just brought to mind that she wasn’t, nor did she look, like a little girl at all. And he’d angrily dismissed Milton, who should have known what to do without being told.
“Oh, Mr. Fox, that is very sweet of you,” that damned voice in the alley said as she did the weekly sweep she had set up.
It was obvious, when it came to it. Milton had to die.
He struggled with the thought for a minute. They needed Milton. And Roman would be upset. Their weekly card games— family card games, Roman called them—would be one short. Roman would probably invite Charlotte then, and Andreas would have to shoot himself.
“I would be honored.”
His pen slipped and dragged a line on the page. Honored to do what?
“Yes, ten tomorrow is fine. I will be there.” The ever-present warmth in her voice hinted at an unfettered smile as well. One given to Milton.
Andreas carefully blotted the trail of ink.
Charlotte was not the worst addition to the card games. And Roman always understood.
M orning shadows were replaced by the sun’s rays as it rose toward midday. Andreas could tell by the sliver of light that slipped its way around
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