Page 20 of The Pearl (The Godwicks 3)

Crossing his arms, Arthur stared at his long-dead great-grandfather. “What are you up to, old man?”

There was no answer, of course. Malcolm offered nothing but his Mona Lisa smirk. Yet Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow Lord Malcolm was a part of all this. He certainly wasn’t an innocent bystander.

Arthur turned his attention to the painting above the small fireplace, the one Regan had referenced in her note. It was a delicate and diaphanous scene, a winsome young woman gazing at her profile in her cheval mirror. She was wearing a filmy white shift, falling off one shoulder. The sort of painting that would hang in the bedroom of a fine young lady. An intimate scene of a pretty girl enjoying the sight of herself.

“There’s my Brat.”

Regan stood in the bedroom doorway, hand on the knob, leaning casually against the frame. She wore a grey skirt and jacket to match her eyes. She looked like she’d come straight from work though it was past nine.

“You summoned me,” he said.

“Like a witch summons her favorite demon.” She smiled and shut the bedroom door behind her. “You like the painting?”

“This one?” He pointed at the Morisot. “It’s very nice. That one, however,” he said, pointing at the portrait of his great-grandfather, “has to go.”

“Go where?”

He glared at her. “You’re not really going to leave his painting hanging across from the bed, are you?”

“What? We don’t want good old Great-Granddad Malcolm watching us fuck?”

“Would you want your great-grandfather watching you?” Arthur asked.

“It’s just a painting, yes?”

“Of course it’s just a painting. Still.” He pleaded with his eyes. Surely she had some pity in her soul.

“If you’re so sensitive about it…” She went into her closet and brought out a gauzy paisley-patterned scarf. She draped the scarf over Lord Malcolm’s portrait.

“Better,” Arthur said. “A bit. Thank you.”

There. It was happening again. She did something cruel and cold and then stopped it upon request, forcing him to be grateful for the tiniest crumb of decency. And he ate that crumb like it was a feast for a king.

“Don’t thank me,” Regan said. “Lord Malcolm was a notorious pervert. If he wants to watch, he’ll find a way to watch.”

She came to him and put her hands on his chest. The heat of her touch permeated all the way through his t-shirt to his bare skin underneath.

She met his eyes, forcing him to meet hers. “How is my Brat tonight?”

“Fine,” he said, and since he couldn’t help himself, added sarcastically, “and how was your day, dear?”

“Oh, the usual. Busy. Stupid.” She didn’t seem to be joking.

“You don’t like your work here?”

She laughed coldly. “Running a hotel was not what I expected to be doing at thirty.”

“Why do it then? You have enough money to retire for a hundred years.”

When she answered he heard a false note of levity in her voice. “Have to do something to keep from thinking. Managing The Pearl does the job.”

He looked at her. “What are you trying so hard not to think about?”

“Stop. I’m done answering questions. Your turn. How did you feel after Monday night?”

He had to laugh a little at that. “I work out every day,” he said. “You have to if you’re going to survive Sandhurst. But after you, I was sore in places I didn’t know I had places. And I had a bit of rug burn.”

“On your wrists?”

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