Page 38 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
Reynard removes his glasses and places them into his coat pocket. “We all have to sing for our supper, my darling,” he says gently. “We live and die at his leisure. You know this.”
Yes, I do know. But I’m still childishly wounded by Reynard’s betrayal. I look down, swallowing back tears.
When I stare at the ground a little too long, Reynard ta
kes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look up.
“I need to keep him thinking I’m loyal, Mariana.”
I jerk my chin from his hand. “He knows you’re not loyal. Which is why we’re in this situation in the first place.”
I unhook the clasp on the necklace with a practiced flick of my fingers. It slithers down my chest. I capture it in my hands, thrusting it at Reynard because I’m suddenly filled with disgust for it.
At least he has the manners to look ashamed when he takes it from me. “I’m sorry, my darling—”
“Don’t be. I knew what I was doing when I took the oath. And it was worth it, to keep you alive after everything you did for me. I’m just tired.”
I find the nearest chair and sink into it, dragging my hands through my hair. He watches me silently, examining my face.
Again I’m reminded of the American. He and Reynard have that same hard speculation in their gazes, the way of making you feel utterly exposed in spite of all your careful disguises.
Stop thinking about him, Mari. Don’t waste time on foolish dreams. Exhaling heavily, I pass a hand over my eyes.
Still holding the ruby necklace, Reynard speaks sharply. “What’s going on? You’re different tonight. What’s happened?”
I lift my eyes and I lie again, because I have to, because the notion of honor among thieves exists in the same place as Tinker Bell.
Neverland, where children never age, and all it takes to keep you alive is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie dust.
“Nothing,” I say, keeping my face as blank as my voice. “Now why don’t you tell me where I’m supposed to meet that son of a bitch so I can get it over with.”
Reynard opens a drawer in the Louis XVI cabinet and removes a black velvet bag. Into it he carefully deposits the necklace. Then he draws the bag closed, puts it back into the cabinet, and lifts his gaze to mine.
“He’s staying at the Palace. And please, Mariana. Be careful. He’s in a strange mood.”
“When isn’t he?” I mutter.
“You’ll need these.” Reynard opens a different drawer. Another black velvet bag appears, this one much smaller than the first. From inside comes the soft chink of metal sliding against metal as he carries it over to me and places it in my outstretched hand.
I open the bag and peer inside, then look at Reynard with my brows pulled together. “I only need one to get past the doorman.”
Reynard’s pause could mean anything. It’s short but weighty, and tells me he’s carefully considering his words. “You never know what you’re going to need when you’re in the Palace, my darling. Better safe than sorry.”
Those words echo in my ears long after I’ve had my tea and left.
* * *
From the outside, the Palace looks like a dump. It’s an abandoned, decaying textile mill in a dodgy part of town, near the docks, a block or two away from a large homeless encampment. Tourists don’t come around here. Neither do the police, who are paid handsomely to turn a blind eye.
The cabbie thinks I’ve given him the wrong address.
“Nuttin’ here but trouble, miss,” he says in a thick Cockney accent, peering through his window at the ten-story building outside.
It looks deserted. All the windows are blacked out. Old newspapers and the odd bit of trash decorate the sidewalk. A skinny orange tabby cat slinks around a corner, catches sight of the cab idling at the curb, and darts back out of sight.
“No, this is it. Thank you.” I hand him a fifty-pound note through the opening in the plastic screen that divides us and get out of the cab.
He doesn’t even offer me change before he drives off, tires squealing.
