The Original Sinners: The Red Years. Tiffany Reisz
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town houses. It wasn’t just a private home but the headquarters of New York’s most thriving underground business. She handed the keys to the doorman and climbed the front staircase to the third floor. Striding down the hallway, she went through the double doors at the end without knocking.
Four huge black Rottweilers charged at her.
“Down, kids.” She laughed as she petted the massive beasts.
“Brutus, Dominic, Sadie, Max, down,” the man behind the desk ordered tiredly and snapped his fingers. All four dogs sat and stared up at Nora as if waiting for her to countermand the order.
Nora left the whimpering dogs by the door and headed to the ebony desk. Behind it reclined a man she knew no one would believe owned such a posh establishment. He’d pulled his long dark hair into a low ponytail tied with a black silk ribbon. He wore a stylishly rumpled black Victorian-era suit with a long tail and a black vest with silver buttons. His cravat was carelessly tied but that was nothing unusual. On his feet he wore his signature black riding boots. He looked like a handsomely roguish pirate someone forced into a suit and acted liked one, too—the one and only Kingsley Edge in person.
“I was at the window when you pulled up.” He paused and sipped his cocktail. “You drove the Martin, maîtresse. You really are a tease.” He didn’t so much speak as he allowed words to saunter out of his mouth.
“I only tease the ones who pay me to tease.” Nora came around the desk and sat on the top. Not even Kingsley had an Aston Martin. She liked to remind him of that. “Miss me?”
“I miss you. My bank account misses you.”
“Your bank account is bigger than the GDP of Luxembourg, King.”
“Oui, maîtresse.” He took a bigger swig of his drink. “But Luxembourg is such a small kingdom.”
“Cough it up,” she said. “I’ve got news.”
Sighing, Kingsley slowly rose out of his chair and strolled across the room. He picked up a small black briefcase and handed it to her. Nora tossed it aside and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders.
“None of that,” Kingsley said as Nora nibbled delicately on his ear. She wanted him in a good mood for the bad news. Her hand wandered down his taut stomach. Damn beautiful Frenchman, she hated to see him pout. “And none of that, either. What’s this news of yours?”
“I quit,” she whispered.
Kingsley pulled back and raised his eyebrow at her.
“Quit?”
“Oui,” Nora said. “I adore you, Kingsley. You are annoying and frustrating, and I don’t know what I would have done without you. But my editor’s going to sign my contract. It’s time I started behaving like a real writer. Comprende?”
Kingsley sighed and kissed both of her cheeks.
“Notre prêtre will be thrilled to hear that. And God knows I’ll be happy to go a day without him threatening my life and manhood on your behalf. It wouldn’t be so troubling except—”
“Søren means it.”
“Bien sûr, ma chérie,” Kingsley said and kissed her on the lips. Nora tried not to enjoy it but it was Kingsley after all. The man was half-French but his tongue was all-French. “Now that you’re a free woman, care to spend a little free time avec moi? I’ll tip you for old time’s sake, oui?”
“Je suis désolée. But I’m seducing my editor this week. And besides, we both know you’re a terrible tipper.”
Nora pulled away and headed to the door.
“Elle?” Nora turned around to face him. Kingsley had changed her name to Nora Sutherlin four years ago. If he ever called her Elle anymore, it was because he wanted her complete attention. He sat on top of his desk with his cocktail again. “I tease you but your books… You make us all proud, chérie. La communauté. Bonne chance avec le roman, ma belle dame sans merci.”
Good luck with the novel, my beautiful lady without mercy. Nora smiled.
“La belle dame avec merci,” she replied with a curtsy, touched by his kind words. Usually Kingsley had nothing but disgust for the other job that often kept her from her clients. “Merci, monsieur.”
He was still laughing when she left him.
* * *
Nora drove to Zach’s building, parked in the garage and tipped the attendant a hundred dollars to keep an eye on her car. Tipping generously came easily with the ten thousand dollars in cash Kingsley had just given her.
She tipped Zach’s doorman with equal generosity and claimed she had something to drop off at his apartment. Good thing Zach had a male doorman or sweet-talking her way inside might not have worked.
Nora found number 1312 and knocked lightly, praying Zach wasn’t working from home today. She waited and heard nothing. Opening her bag, she pulled out her small lock pick set.
The lock took less than a minute to jimmy open. With a deft hand she turned the tumblers and felt it give way. She slipped inside the apartment and looked around.
The impressive neatness didn’t surprise her. Zach was quite fastidious when he wanted to be. The apartment was austerely furnished, everything dark wood, dark leather and sparse. On the side table next to the black sofa she found a stack of manuscripts and on top of them sat Zach’s silver-rimmed glasses that he wore only when line editing. She’d seen them on him only a couple of times and it was good for both of them he didn’t wear them more often. He looked so intellectual in them that it was all she could do not to bite him. Only Zachary Easton could make proofreading that sexy.
She glanced at his one bookshelf and saw his private reading was of astonishingly high quality—Stanley Fish and Noam Chomsky. The man read literary theory for fun.
“What a nerd,” she said to herself, grinning.
Nora poked her head in the bathroom, inhaling with pleasure the warm scent of his soap and shaving cream. Men simply had no idea how profound an effect their masculine scent could have on a woman. She already felt her pulse beginning to surge with every invasion of his privacy.
Back in the living room Nora glanced at the stack of manuscripts again. Hers wasn’t among them. She picked up a small box lying next to his glasses on the stack of manuscripts. It still had some of the brown paper wrapping around it. It must be his latest gift from the office prankster who was anonymously torturing him for working with her. She opened the box and grinned—nipple clamps, she nodded her head appreciatively. She looked at them more closely and made a nervous discovery—they were handmade Eris brand, a kind not for sale anywhere. A local dungeon master gave them to his guests as party favors. They were two-ways—nipple clamps that doubled as clip-on earrings. She even had a pair somewhere. Whoever Zach’s office prankster was, he or she was an insider. Nora put the nipple clamps back in the box and set them on the top manuscript where she’d found them. Surely if the prankster knew she was on the underground payroll he would have already told Zach, she comforted herself.
A closed door beckoned and Nora passed from the living room into his bedroom.
There was nothing in his bedroom but the bed itself and a small table with his alarm clock. She appreciated his priorities—a bed was all they’d need. The bed was made, she noted. That wife of his had him so well-trained. She opened the closet and found a white shirt with French cuffs that Zach wore on occasion. She never told him how insanely attractive she found him when he wore it. Knowing him, he’d stop wearing it around her just out of spite.
Nora pulled it off the hanger and laid it on the bed. She tapped something with her foot, and bent and pulled the mysterious object from underneath Zach’s bed. It was a copy of her manuscript. Zach had apparently reserved her book for bedtime reading. She took that as a compliment.
Nora pulled off her boots and undressed quickly. It felt delicious standing naked and alone in Zach’s