Breathe Me Smith and Belle (Royals Saga #11) - Geneva Lee Page 0,83
a hundred muted shades of nothing, except her eyes. They are bright glittering emeralds against the day’s gloom. Even after five years, I’d know them anywhere. A lot has changed. I’ve changed. Maybe she has, too. But those eyes are the same.
Nothing registers on her face as she turns to accept the hand of her companion. He leads her to the front of the crowd, where she belongs. With them.
I skipped the service and the viewing. I’m not here to pay my respects. I came to see him put in the ground. I came to smell the dirt as it hits his coffin and seals the fate of the MacLaine family. Business can be attended to later. I want the pleasure of watching a man fade to nothing but a legacy—a legacy I intend to destroy. But that’s not the real reason I’m here. It’s a perk that I made it back to town in time for the funeral.
A priest says a few words. The rain continues to fall. When the ceremonial dirt hits the coffin, I’m watching the redhead. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away. I guess she didn’t change after all.
Adair MacLaine.
The only woman I’ve ever loved.
That bitch? She’s the real reason I came back.
An hour later, I pull into the paved, circular drive of Windfall, the MacLaine family estate, and hand the keys of my Aston Martin to a parking attendant. Judging by the slight bulge protruding from the left side of his cheap blazer, he’s doubling as security. He scopes out the Vanquish appreciatively before his eyes skim over my Italian wool suit, pausing at the Breitling on my wrist and sweeping to the black Berlutis on my feet. Nodding toward the house, he steps to the side. It seems the only identification they’re checking is material status.
That’s a mistake.
Mourners are distracted. Some by grief. Some by a preoccupation with social responsibility. The MacLaines suffer from the latter.
People hosting a funeral have blind spots. Ever wanted to see inside someone’s house? A funeral is a perfect opportunity. Thieves, paparazzi, and assassins all know it’s an in. Need to get to a high value target? Kill someone close, but easier to reach, and wait for their funeral.
Not that I killed Angus MacLaine. Even though I would have liked to. I’m guessing I’m not the only one.
The former senator had no shortage of enemies. Some he’d made on his own. Others he had inherited along with the family newspaper empire. For every legitimate bit of journalism he had, he owned ten tabloids. His television networks ran more propaganda than an army recruitment office.
But it wasn’t his business practices that made me hate him—although they didn’t help his case. It’s that he was a soulless son of a bitch. Maybe he’d had a heart at some point, but he sold it for a fortune that amassed five billion dollars. Then he’d gone to Washington to protect it at all costs, like his father before him. That was then. This is now. And I’m the devil come to collect.
A smile crooks across my face as I survey the kingdom I’m about to take. The MacLaine estate sprawls as far as I can see in every direction. Thirty years ago, Angus MacLaine built it for a couple million dollars. Today it’s worth ten times that, and yesterday I bought the lien on it. I read once in an interview that he wanted his family home to recall the glory of the Old South without all the baggage of the past. I assume he meant slavery and the Civil War. It was just like a MacLaine to believe he could simply erase a problem. The architect had managed the feat, creating an estate that occupies fifty acres in Valmont, Tennessee—the most prestigious enclave outside Nashville. Stone columns rise from the veranda to support a second story porch that runs the length of the main house’s front. Unlike traditional antebellum homes, the house extends to wings on each side. The east wing houses the family bedrooms and private areas—places I was once not allowed to enter. The west wing is comprised of a solarium that empties into the grounds. Those are completely blocked by the behemoth white mansion, but I know it won’t have changed. Past the outdoor kitchen waits a swimming pool, tiled in Venetian glass. His and hers pool houses offer a much needed, if entirely bullshit, air of propriety. Then there’s the tennis court, and, if you walk far enough, stables that shelter the family horses.
I don’t give a fuck about the house, though. Or its tennis court. Or its swimming pool. I’m not here for the modern art coveted by collectors throughout the world. I’ll sell all of it, eventually. Just not yet. That’s the difference between reciprocity and revenge. Reciprocity evens the score. Revenge, when done correctly, is slow, like lovemaking. It lingers. It builds. It lacquers pain, coat by coat, until you crack.
I’m in the business of vengeance.
The inside of Windfall is more extravagant. MacLaine was unfamiliar with the concept of too much. Most American homes could be parked on the marble floor inside the foyer. The ground floor boasts all the standard rooms—the dining room, a sitting room, the kitchen—and then some: a ballroom, the staff kitchen, the breakfast room, a gentlemen’s parlor, and God knows what else. I stare for a moment at the split staircase that curves toward the upper rooms, remembering the first time I set foot in this hellhole. Adjusting my tie, I swallow the thought into the pit I use for past memories.
MacLaine would be pleased at the turnout, even if half the people here despised the bastard. People you’d recognize from Forbes magazine covers or television, if anyone still watches it, mill throughout the ground floor. It’s a sea of black, groups moving in surges from one empty conversation to the next as easily as they run through the canapés.
A man near the bar glances in my direction, his face blanching paper-white. I’ve been recognized. Not that he’ll tell anyone who I am. Then he’d have to admit that he knew me—that he knows what I do. I move past him without a second glance. He won’t be any trouble—and I have bigger prey to hunt.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” an older gentleman says when I pause in the dining room.
I know who he is, but I feign ignorance. He wouldn’t appreciate it if I told him we were acquainted. Not Mr. Moneybags who paid to have the barrier to his takeover of his largest competitor permanently removed last year. No, he wouldn’t want me to tell him that we’ve worked together distantly. Not in such a public gathering of self-proclaimed people of importance. Instead, I shake his hand, locking my grip firmly. Statement enough.
“Sterling.” I’m not listening when he introduces himself. My thoughts are elsewhere in this house, memories warring with desire as I wait for her to make an appearance.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“Asset management.” I snag toast with caviar off a passing tray and pop it into my mouth.
“What firm? My man is retiring…” he continues on and I resist the urge to walk away. Death can’t stop networking. Not with people like this.
“I’m a private contractor.”
He waits for more information—maybe a business card. I don’t offer any. So like a good member of the greatest generation he fills the void between us with mindless market chatter. I nod enough to look like I’m listening—and then I feel it—feel her—approaching. The room is electric, humming with the undercurrent of static building toward a strike—and the inevitable crash.
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About the Author
GENEVA LEE is the New York Times, USA Today, and internationally bestselling author of over a dozen novels, including the Royals Saga which has sold two million copies worldwide. She lives in Washington state with her husband and three children, and she co-owns Away With Words Bookshop with her sister.
Geneva is married to her high school sweetheart. He's always the first person to read her books. Sometimes, he reads as she writes them. Last year, they were surprised by finding out Geneva was pregnant with their third child. They welcomed a beautiful baby girl in 2020.
When she isn't working or writing, Geneva likes to read, bake ridiculous cakes, and watch television. She loves to travel and is always anxious to go on a new adventure.