Page 10 of Never Bound

And, yes, while there were many fairly obscene things near the top of my to-do list, support and hand-holding—no matter how the exam had gone—were also on the agenda, and, to my surprise, I wasn’t looking forward to those any less.

That might have been enough to still keep me upbeat despite it all. Except that after a few more messages last night and again this morning, Maeve still hadn’t answered my question about whether anyone had hurt her.

In fact, she hadn’t answered at all. And every minute she didn’t answer added to my swirling cloud of dread. I knew there was a good chance that someone on her end had confiscated whatever device she was using and was now using it to try to trackme, which meant the phone was radioactive. I’dalreadykept it a week longer than I should have. Louisa herself had warned me about this. The smartest thing to do would be to start a brush fire out in the garden and toss it in.

But then there was a chance I’d never hear from Maeve again, ever.

And just as I had taken shelter under a paloverde, desperate for even a minute or so out of the brutality of the sun, a tall shadow blocked it all out.

It was Max Langer, standing there in tan linen suit trousers, floral shirt, and aviator sunglasses, dark hair artfully sculpted, looking as cool and breezy as could be, with a bottle of Luxembourg blackcurrant liqueur and two glasses full of ice under his arm.

Fuck, he’d beenserious. Not to mention that once again, I hadn’t heard a car pull up or a door open, but there Langer was, anyway. Just … there.

“Um, Master Wainwright-Phillips is away,” I said as I reluctantly stood up, even though it was already obvious that if that was who Langer was looking for, he wouldn’t behere.

“Good thing I didn’t come to see Keith,” he replied, whipping off the expensive shades to reveal calm but maddeningly inexpressive blue eyes. “I came to see you.”

It was official: he was here to cash in the chip he’d won by getting rid of the gardener and not turning us in, exactly as I’d predicted. So much for Lucky Sevens magic. My hot streak was as dead as I was no doubt about to be.

Let’s review: he knew about me. He knew about Louisa. He almost certainly knew about Maeve and probably was the one holding her captive himself, assuming she was even still alive. He had wealth that rivaled the GDP of small nations and influence to bend the will of kings. And here I was, trying to go up against him armed with nothing but hope and a garden trowel.

In fact, I think there was a story in the Bible about this kind of situation. Which I now really wished I’d paid more attention to back when the old professor had ordered me to read it, rather than entertaining myself by working out pericyclic reactions in the margins.

Besides, slaves didn’t haveguests.What, was I supposed to show him into the parlor for cucumber sandwiches? I wasn’t even allowed to use the furniture, let alone invite anyone else to. Besides, the timing couldn’t be worse. Thanks to the reflection I’d caught in the sunglass frames, I knew that besides a healthy sheen of sweat, I had dirt and blood all over my hands, embedded under my nails, and streaked across my face from all the times I’d pushed my hair out of my eyes. The least this guy could have done was wait until I got a chance to spray myself with the garden hose.

But Langer didn’t seem to care. He handed me a damp, plush, lavender-scented towel from inside the house—the kind decidedly reserved for guests, not slaves—and watched as I gratefully dabbed it over the bloody streaks.

“Courtesy of your housekeeper, same as the ice,” he said, holding up the fancy glasses. “She’s a gem. Total efficiency, total discretion. Of course, the box of German chocolates I gave her didn’t hurt,” he said. He set the bottle behind a boulder, uncapped it, and poured. “Now’s our chance to have the conversation we didn’t get to have the other night with all the company around. In English, even.”

“I don’t know, Max,” I said. “Are you sure this meeting can’t be an email? I’ve got a really packed agenda today. When it comes to javelinas, time is money.” I picked up the spade and gestured behind me, indicating the wooden posts and the chaotic piles of bloody wire.

“Seriously? He’s got you digging pig holes?” Langer coolly surveyed the mounds of earth and the chewed-up cactus. “Come on. Forget this stupid shit and walk with me.”

“But—”

“You can tell Keith if he has a problem with his pigs, possums, rats, raccoons, or any other species of furry mammal, he can take it up with me. I’ll send one of my security guys over with a high-powered rifle, no charge.”

“Um, thanks, but then I’m left with a pile of dead pigs to explain.”

“I guess you’re right.” Langer fished out a phone from his pocket, dialed, and probably spoke a total of five words before hanging up. “Fence’ll be done by this afternoon.Prost.”

I stared at the proffered glass. I wasn’t so arrogant as to think a billionaire would choose to waste his entire afternoon driving all the way across town to personally murder a slave in an elaborate poisoning caper, but Max Langer had already proved himself a surprising man.

But since there was no use protesting in the face of the power of the almighty dollar, I shoved the spade under my arm and yanked the glass from Langer’s hand, drinking it as we made our way down the stone path into the cooler parts of the garden, weaving in and out of the paloverdes and chollas.

I hadn’t been allowed to drink this kind of thing regularly, but there were always opportunities during summer garden parties when, after the guests had been suitably inebriated, I’d been able to slip away easily with Maeve and some of the other young slaves and lie in the grass for a few minutes and listen to the crickets.

Grass.That was one thing I missed. And forests, real forests full of evergreens. Damn, here I was getting nostalgic. Was this part of Langer’s plot to lower my defenses so he could strike?

Walking side by side with any free man was surreal enough, let alone a would-be billionaire tech mogul. We were the exact same height, in fact: eye to eye, nose to nose. The rich guy in his spotless clothing, jacket draped over his arm, and me in dirt-covered work clothes. How very appropriate.

“How did that happen?” Langer pointed to the pus-filled blister on my palm. “Accident?”

Your intern.“Let’s go with that.”

“I had ‘accidents,’ too, growing up.”

I raised my head curiously.

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