Page 26 of Final Cost

“Just so you understand: I know you’d do it anyway because you love her, but I consider it a personal favor to me that you take good care of Tamsyn. And if there’s anything you ever need, Lucinda, come to me. It would be my honor to be there foryou.”

I drop her hand and turn away before she can respond, not trusting myself to look her or Tamsyn in the eye now. My feelings are running way too close to the surface, which isn’t like me. Let’s just say I’m not in love with the sensation. I’d invited Tamsyn to come see my office, but I don’t want to test her goodwill any further today by reminding her. On the other hand, no guts, no glory, right? Before I can decide, a new interruption arrives in the form of an urgent knock on the front door.

“That must be the pizza.” Tamsyn ducks her head and hurries off to the foyer. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I think I see her wipe her eyes as she goes. But when she returns, it’s not with the pizza guy. It’s with Gray.

“Sorry for the interruption, Lucien,” he says. “I need to talk to you.”

“It’s not a good time, Gray,” I say. “I told you I’d be right back.”

“This can’t wait.” His expression tightens. “It’s Ravenna.”

One of the women makes a hissing noise, the kind of sound I imagine early citizens of Salem made when the topic of witches came up. As for me, I wince away from the name. Funny how this is her second death and we’re still talking about her as though she’s crouched and ready to spring into any room at any time and unleash new havoc. Knowing Ravenna, she probably is. If there’s a death loophole or a direct portal from the other side, she’d be the one to exploit it.

“What is it?” I say, noticing, for the first time, how ashen Gray looks.

He opens his mouth to answer, but his voice operates on a lengthy delay. “She gave an interview before she died. It’s airing tomorrow night. The network called to get your comment.”

12

Tamsyn

The summons comesafter eleven that night, when I’m lying across the bed in my little summer jammies, showered, bored, twiddling the necklace Lucien gave me between my fingers (I’ve started carrying it in my pocket with me to keep it close; don’t ask) and ripe for the picking. As I always am when it comes to Lucien and his demands disguised as pleasant requests. The text pings on my phone along with a single word guaranteed to kick my pulse rate up into the warning zone:

Nightcap?

I forget about what I was ostensibly doing, namely scrolling through news articles about the death investigation and Ravenna’s upcoming interview, and toss the phone aside, thinking hard.

I could sayno, thanks. Done. Easy. Even easier? I could ignore it. He’d eventually get the message. Not that I expect him to accept the message. But for tonight, he’d get the message and presumably regroup to plot and scheme on getting me back another day.

But the thing is — and this is always the thing — I want to see him. It’s been a long afternoon since I came home from Mrs. Hooper’s, where we were abuzz with her sudden reversal of fortune and pending sale of her townhouse. We both wondered why he did it. Maybe he just wanted to add to his portfolio, like he said. Maybe billionaires like him make it a practice to snap up all luxury housing that hits the market. But things with Lucien are never that straightforward. There’s alwaysmore, always hidden beneath the surface. Did he do it to buy my affections? Does he think a grand gesture toward the only parental figure in my life will get me to forgive him?

Good question. Will it?

I mean…no. Of course it won’t. But he keeps stacking up these reasons for me not to hate him. And assuming the role of Mrs. Hooper’s fairy godfather just zoomed right to the top.

Anyway, Lucien left abruptly, dashing off to meet with his lawyers and PR people. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say, but I got the feeling he wanted to block the interview if possible. He stayed in the city until late, only arriving home about twenty minutes ago. And how do I know that, you might ask? Because I’ve had my ear to the ground, listening for the sound of his footsteps. Of course I have.

Nowthis.

My response was always a foregone conclusion. I get up, put the necklace on the nightstand, throw on my little flip-flops and hit the hallway. No sign of Ravenna’s scent tonight, thank goodness. Things are weird enough without me fixating on her lingering presence around every corner. Then I head through the darkened house to his study downstairs, dodging the increasingly frantic voice of my self-protective instinct the whole way.

Don’t do it, you fucking idiot. You know what will happen.

She’s a persistent little bitch. I’ll give her that. She works hard to keep me safe. She remembers what happened this afternoon, when a simple horse ride turned into one of the sexiest interludes of my entire life. She knows how susceptible I am to his gleaming eyes, deep voice and skilled mouth and hands. Most of all, she knows how much I hated myself afterwards.

How many ways are you going to let him fuck with you, Tamsyn? You know better. You’ve got to be smarter than this. Please. Be smarter than this.

I keep going and do my best to ignore her. It’s okay this time. True, last time, I let the horse ride get out of hand. But this time, I have a colorable excuse for wanting to see him: to ask him about the interview. I’ve forbidden myself from asking or showing any interest in his life and circumstances. I’m sticking to that, if nothing else. But he bought Mrs. Hooper’s house right in front of me today. He was very gracious with her when he used to find her annoying. I’m allowed to comment on that. There’s nothing wrong with me asking him about the interview and commenting on the whole house thing.

Thank him in the morning over breakfast, you dumb bitch. This is a booty call, and everyone knows it.

“Shut up,” I tell her under my breath as I turn into the study and — he’s not here. The usual lamps are on and it’s the same romantic little scene as last night. Just no Lucien. And instead of feeling relief that he’s shown mercy, or at least given me a brief reprieve, I feel a crushing disappointment. Until I glance around and see what’s waiting in the middle of the coffee table for me this time. My romance books have been replaced with a note card of his heavy ivory stationary propped between the heavy crystal decanter of whiskey and the two fingers he’s already poured into a tumbler for me. I pick it up, my attention zeroing in on the single word scrawled in his bold black handwriting:

Sauna

There’s even one of his giant and ridiculously fluffy white bath sheets helpfully waiting for me. The kicker? He spritzed his delicious cologne on the card. I caught a faint whiff of it as soon as I picked it up, but now I press it to my nose, breathing deep and saturating my senses with it even as desire curls lower in my belly.

So there I am with another decision point. Not going isn’t even an option at this point. My self-protective instincts don’t bother trying to warn me against it. I think I hurt her feelings by telling her to shut up. Second decision point— if I’m going, I could go in my undies. I know nothing about sauna etiquette, but I’m pretty sure undies are allowed. Especially here in the United States, where I’ve learned modesty goes far deeper than it does in Europe. Or I could go nude.

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