Wishing Well(45)

“I didn’t kill her,” he said, approaching me, his green eyes locking to mine, his broad shoulders rolled back, his demeanor triumphant, daring me to say something.

“How did you get out of the basement?”

I was so shocked by his appearance, I could barely formulate a logical thought. Concern trickled down my spine followed by disappointment. Had he killed Penelope and lied to me just now? Had he torn apart a beautiful girl that was showing so much potential?

“Same way you get in,” he answered, a challenge in his grin. “I also didn’t kill the man you sent with my dinner. But he has been bound for an hour by now. I had to make sure he didn’t come running to tell you I’d escaped my prison.”

“We need to get downstairs, Maurice. Before anybody sees you.”

There was no strength to my voice, my shoulders withering with the weight of my anxiety, my fear that Penelope Graham breathed no longer.

As if intuiting my thoughts, he repeated, “I didn’t kill her.”

I blinked slowly and swallowed down the knot clogging my throat. “Did she behave for you? Was she scared?”

Anger flashed behind his eyes, shame, satisfaction and something else. “She called me Vincent. I didn’t like that. But it was my cock she came on, wasn’t it? My tongue, my words, my hands, my teeth.”

Grin stretching wider with the knowledge of having beat me to her, he moved past me toward the elevator, not fighting to remain free of his cage.

I turned and watched my brother stalk off, and I realized as he moved smoothly down the long hall that this was the first time I’d ever seen him so calm.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


I spent two weeks avoiding Penelope after the night of the ball, two weeks avoiding Maurice, two weeks staying away from Wishing Well as much as possible so that I wouldn’t have to face what had occurred. The morning after the ball, I’d checked in with Theresa to ensure Penelope showed up to work, and after discovering she was alive and well, I’d taken off to stay at one of my other properties, avoiding everything but emails from work.

Taking my anger out on women in bed had done nothing to soothe my rage, and no matter how I busied myself, how I gorged on food, on alcohol, on sex and on entertainment, I couldn’t shake Penelope from my thoughts.

That night was supposed to be mine. The first taste of her should have been by my mouth and not my brother’s, yet Maurice had proven to me that his prison wasn’t as secure as I’d always thought it was.

Why that night? Why her? Why hadn’t Maurice broken free before that moment and alerted me to his ability to escape? It was my own arrogance that I’d locked him down sufficiently that led to a night where he gnashed his teeth and broke free of his chains.

I’d wanted to give him as much freedom as possible by having the basement of Wishing Well modified for his use, and in doing so, I’d put lives at risk. I’d put my business at risk. And I’d put my own welfare at risk.

After three weeks, however, I couldn’t stand being away any longer, and from what I’d been told by my hotel manager, Maurice hadn’t again attempted escape. I wondered about his sudden good behavior after discovering there were ways to breach his cage.

Returning to the hotel, I’d worked for most of the day before deciding to take a walk through the garden. While wandering down the path, I wasn’t surprised to find Penelope standing over the well, her hand opening to drop a penny to the bottom, the copper coin flashing in the afternoon sunlight as it fell from her palm. Unable to resist the siren’s song, I stepped up behind her silently, leaning down so I could whisper against her ear, “If you could wish for anything in the world, Penelope, what would you wish for?”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. She reached up to swipe the tears away, but I caught her wrist with one hand while using a fingertip of the other to catch the tear for myself. “Why are you crying?”

Penelope sniffled, the sound wrecking the silence. “No reason,” she answered, her voice curt, defensive. “Just had a bad day, is all. It’s nothing important.”

Attempting to step away from me, she gasped when I refused to release her wrist, snatched her close and spun her to face me. I knew why she was crying. I knew it had to do with me. But I wanted to hear the words fall from her lips. Despite everything, I was still a cruel, greedy bastard.

“Tell me why you’re crying.”

“Why do you care?” she hissed, wanting to scream but keeping her voice quiet so as not to disturb the other people who were wandering down the paths. More tears spilled over cheeks that were stained pink, and like the first time I’d given her a tour of the gardens, I dragged her away from the well and into the private alcove.

I wouldn’t lie and claim her anger didn’t turn me on, it was just another example of the rebellious nature she harbored inside her beautiful body.

“Why wouldn’t I care?” I asked, my hand still wrapped firmly over her wrist. When she scowled up at me, I had to fight not to spin her around and bend her over my knee. Three weeks hadn’t been enough to rid the obsession I had for her. If anything, it had only dug the obsession deeper.

What had she been like when Maurice deceived her? What had he taken that was mine?

After several failed attempts to yank her arm free, Penelope gave in, gave up, practically withered beneath the understanding that she was battling a far stronger opponent. I admired her for the fight, and wanted her for the ability to acquiesce and submit. “You used me,” she finally admitted, a rough edge to every word doused with sorrow, anger, and insecurity. So confused as to my behavior, she was lost, and I wouldn’t be the one to chase away the shadows that held her - not yet. Not until I knew exactly what had occurred the night of the ball.