Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(94)

The help comes back out with a warm smile. “He’ll meet you in the library, Mr. Lockhart. Right this way.”

She leads me into a room lined with walls filled with all the literary greats. It smells like leather and wood and paper and is rather impressive, but I wonder if it’s all for show. Not a single thing in the room looks as if it’s been touched in years.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks. “Water, soda, wine?”

“I won’t be staying long. Thank you, though.”

“Just let me know if you change your mind.” She heads to the doorway. “He’ll be right in.”

Alone, I move toward the rows and rows of books. Each literary work looks like it’s an original, with spines bound in leather and creased from being used at some point.

I hear him when he enters the room. The hum of his motorized wheelchair. The rasp of his breath. The stop and start of the joystick controlling his movements. But I don’t turn around. I let him sit in his feeble state and wonder what this strange man is doing in his house. I let his curiosity build.

“Those are all first-print publications,” he finally says. His voice has a hint of New England with the lilt of aristocracy.

“I noticed.” I run my hands along them, knowing if these truly are his prized possessions, he’s cringing at the oil from my hands running across them. I keep touching them on purpose.

“Dickens. Austen. Bront?. Twain.” He moves his chair closer.

“I was expecting to find something more along the lines of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings or Lolita,” I say, referring to books that deal with child molestation. “Those are more up your alley, aren’t they?”

I turn to face him. To see the weak man with pale skin and dark hair shorn short. He’s dressed in expensive clothing—a sweater over a collared shirt, slacks, and shoes that cost more than most people make in a month. His eyebrows are raised, his lips twisted as he studies me the same way I am him.

I hate him instantly.

Our eyes lock, and I swear to all things, my flesh crawls. Chills run over my skin and tighten my scalp.

“So Beatrice told me that you said we have some kind of connection besides both knowing Chance?” he asks as if I never made the comment about the books.

“Yes. It’s quite funny how it came about, actually.” I move now, around the massive couch, so I’m able to rest my ass on its arm and sit directly in front of him.

If he moves his chair, he’ll show me he’s uncomfortable. If he stays where he is, he has no choice but to see the vitriol in my eyes.

“Funny? How so?”

Absently, I pull Lucy’s, formerly Samantha’s, necklace with the key on it from my pocket. I don’t look at it, I don’t even acknowledge that I’m doing the action, but James sure as hell does. He tries not to look but can’t resist. And then looks again, eyes widening, mouth falling lax. The swallow he’s trying to work down his throat seems like it’s a battle.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.” My smile is wide and unforgiving. When I hold out my hand, I make a show of transferring the necklace from my right to my left hand to free it up. “Ryker Lockhart. Nice to meet you, James.”

We shake hands the best he can with his atrophied muscles, and then I resume my spot on the arm of the chair.

“And the connection?” he prompts.

“You know, I was surprised when I looked you up to find a man of such stature. The John Bates Clark Medal for economics? Your family must be so proud.” I clasp my hands in my lap, the worn key resting against the dark fabric of my slacks.

“My family is very accomplished. It’s one of many medals that gets lost in the accolades in our lineage.”

“Don’t play it down, James. You should be proud of it, just as they should be proud of you.” I smile. “I mean, it’s not the Nobel Prize, but it’s pretty damn close. They should be as proud of you as a family can be of a man who preys on and rapes children.”

“What?” He chokes on the word. Then sputters to connect thoughts for a few seconds. I enjoy the show—his face turning red, his eyes widening, his lack of coherency.

“You heard me just fine. You might be paralyzed—we’ll get to that in a moment—but you’re not deaf.”

“Beatrice!” he shouts as he moves his chair back.

I step toward him, my foot going behind the wheel to stop his progress, and then lean down to his face. He smells of cigar smoke and Old Spice and urine. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I whisper the warning. “We wouldn’t want your secret to get out. The only award for a child rapist is one you can get behind bars.” I move my foot from behind his wheel and look him in the eye without flinching. “Do I make myself clear?”

He nods, his head moving up and down slightly, his body trembling, his eyes wide and wild.

“What do you want?” he asks in a strained voice.

“A villa on Lake Como. World peace. Fuckers like you to die a slow, painful death.” I shrug callously. “But beggars can’t be choosers. We all can’t get what we want.”

“Why are you here?”

“So a rich, brilliant”—I roll my eyes—“man like you gets custody of your sister’s two girls. Most people would try to give them the best life possible. They’d love them and nurture them. They’d treat them as their own. But you’re not most people, are you, James? No. You figure it’s the perfect way to feed that urge you have. The one that only sick fucks have whose dicks need to be cut off for even thinking such thoughts let alone acting on them.”