The Shadows (Black Dagger Brotherhood #13) - J. R. Ward Page 0,100

a couple of blogs, and the New York Post and Daily News—and continued to ignore texts from Peyton. When her eyelids had finally started to drop, she’d put her phone aside and dragged half the covers over on top of herself, her Syracuse b-ball sweatshirt and her yoga pants the kind of pj’s she had slept in many, many times.

Annnnnd that was when the no-sleep thing had gotten its groove on.

Even as she’d closed her eyes, her mind had buzzed with what her father had told her she’d be doing at nightfall to help him with the King.

And then there was the fact that that long-lost cousin was alone with her father back at their house. What if he hurt her dad?

So, yup, she thought as she stepped in front of the mirror in the bathroom. No shut-eye … even when her lids had been down.

The good news was that the wait was over. And her father had texted her that his ETA was in about fifteen minutes—so clearly, he’d made it through the day okay, too.

Funny, she was shocked by how badly she needed to see him. After so many years of praying for some freedom, she had found the actual experience marked by a whole lot of homesick.

“But now I get to work.”

Turning to the side, she straightened her navy-blue blazer. Tugged at her white blouse. Fiddled with her strand of pearls.

As she stepped back, she decided she looked like a 1960s stewardess for PanAm. Like the ones they’d had in Catch Me If You Can.

“Ah, come on.” She yanked out the tie she’d pulled her hair back with, and fluffed things out. “Oh, yeah. That’s really different.”

Not.

Hair down so did not improve the situation. But she was out of time, and more to the point, who did she have to impress, anyway?

Okay, bad question to ask in any form if you were about to try to hold down your first job and it was not only for your father, but for the King of your entire race, and his personal guard of straight-up killers.

It was enough to get her praying to the Scribe Virgin.

Stepping out of her—

“Please, mistress. Allow me to make you some breakfast.”

Vuchie was standing just inside the room, dressed in her perennial gray-and-white uniform, her weight going back and forth between her crepe shoes. The doggen had brown hair, brown eyes and skin the color of white bread, but she was lovely in her own way—and probably only fifty years older than Paradise. The two had known each other since Parry could remember—as with many daughters of aristocratic parents, the pair of them had been matched with the hopes of a lifelong mistress/servant relationship being formed. In a lot of cases, one’s maid was the most important thing taken to your new home when you were mated to a male of similar privilege and breeding.

It was your tie to the past. Your sanity. And, a lot of times, the only person you could trust.

Boy, she much preferred this current relocation—that was because of a job, not some overbred hellren type.

“I’m fine, Vuchie.” She tried to smile. “Are you hungry yourself?”

“Mistress, you did not have Last Meal, either.”

Parry had no intention of coming clean with the truth—namely that if she had so much as half a nook or a quarter of a cranny, she was going to go golf sprinkler all over her stewardess-ness. That kind of candor was only to going to lead to a fight over bed rest, and likely, Vuchie calling in her father for R&R reinforcement.

“You know what I would love?” Parry forced a smile. “If you could prepare something for me to eat at my desk.” She went over and linked arms with Vuchie. “Come on, let’s do this.”

“But … but … but—”

“I’m so glad you agree. I just love it when we’re on the same page like this.”

Up at the top of the curving, rough-cut stone staircase, they stepped through a life-size portrait of a French royal into the parlor, where the receiving area was located.

“It’s so quiet,” Paradise said, stilling.

The room, like the rest of the house, was just so beautifully decorated, antiques everywhere, silks and satins on the walls and the floors, even the chairs people were to wait in covered in rich fabrics. It reminded her of articles she’d read in Vogue and Vanity Fair about Babe Paley and Slim Keith, the scale of the furnishings so perfect, the objets d’art little whimsies of jade and