Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,75

pretty fucking paranoid. Which means he has something to hide.

Simone and I start to search the rooms. She keeps watch outside the door, while I look through each space in turn.

Kenwood has all kinds of weird stuff up here.

First, we find a massive billiards room with fifty or more taxidermy heads on the wall. They’re all exotic animals, some that I couldn’t even name. Their glass eyes look down blankly over cheetah-printed chairs and zebra-striped chaises.

Next to that, a room that appears to be an exact replica of the Star Trek Enterprise bridge. I don’t know what purpose it serves for Kenwood. I can only assume he comes in here and sits in the captain’s chair, and stares at the wall painted to look like outer space.

“That’s just creepy,” Simone whispers, peering through the doorway.

“What?”

She points. There are hidden cameras in two corners of the room. In the next room as well. Probably all over the house.

“We better hurry up,” I tell her. “He might have spotted us already.”

Simone follows me further down the hallway. We haven’t seen anything that looks like an office yet. Just a guest room, a bathroom, and another guest room.

“Come on,” I mutter to Simone. “Let’s check the doors at the end of the hall.”

She’s right next to me, not touching me, but walking so close that I can feel her body heat on my bare arm. It’s colder on this upper level than it was downstairs. I can hear the air conditioner whirring. And I can see Simone’s nipples poking through the shiny silver material of her dress. I look away quickly.

“Wait here,” I say to her as we reach the double doors at the end of the hall. “If you hear anyone, come find me.”

I slip inside what looks like Kenwood’s master suite.

I walk across an acre of carpet. Kenwood’s room looks like it was designed by Liberace. His bed is up on a raised circular dais, bookended by hanging curtains and two massive vases of hothouse flowers. I can smell their heavy perfume from here. Everything is tasseled, gilded, or mirrored. The whole ceiling is a mirror, as well as several of the walls, which gives the room a creepy funhouse feeling. I keep catching glimpses of my reflection from different angles, and it makes me jump every time, thinking there might be someone else in here.

I start searching Kenwood’s nightstand and drawers, looking for an extra phone, tablet, or laptop. I look behind the paintings for a safe. I’m not as good at cracking locks as Nero, but I might be able to get a safe open, given enough time.

Over in the sitting area, I see a whole wall full of photos of Kenwood shaking hands with famous people. He’s got mayors, governors, senators, and presidents, all giving him that weird shoulder-clapping handshake they seem to love.

Then dozens more pictures of Kenwood with actors, singers, models, CEOs, and athletes. He’s even got a shot with an astronaut, signed and everything. I doubt Kenwood is actually friends with all these people, but it’s obvious he’s a collector. Obsessed with shining bright by standing in other people’s spotlights.

When I come to what I think is Kenwood’s closet, I get a surprise. Behind the door is a little room with a single chair. The whole wall is stacked with monitors, and each monitor shows one of the camera feeds from the house. There are cameras in every room, except the one I’m occupying currently. That includes the half-dozen guest rooms scattered throughout the house.

I’m assuming the guests aren’t told. Because right now, I could watch several different couples fucking, or the threesome currently taking place in the hot tub. If I was a lecherous fuck like Kenwood.

I’m guessing that’s how he gets his jollies—sitting here watching the girls he hired servicing his wealthy friends. Or maybe he uses the footage for blackmail. That would explain how he managed to wiggle out of the charges brought against him by the Freedom Foundation and the Chicago PD.

The computer connected to the monitors is encrypted. But I could grab the hard drive. I know plenty of people who could break into that thing, given several hours and the right financial incentive. Hell, I bet Nero could do it.

I unplug the drive and tuck it in the front of my jeans, under my t-shirt. It’s not a great hiding spot, but it’ll do for now.

I head back to the doors, wondering if I should tell Simone I got