Julia stared at the vision in horrified silence.
The freeze hit her ankles again, swirling around her calves and thighs and Julia staggered back from the frenzied Master while trying to escape his Mistress.
“What’s going on?” Julia breathed.
She felt as if the entire house swayed with motive, as if trying to voice some eerie foreboding.
Then she saw him by the illumination of the outside light.
Nick, running toward the front door. She knew from seeing him that something was wrong because he was running hell-bent-for-leather.
Julia’s heart leapt into her throat, panic seizing her at remembering another night not long ago when Douglas had come home with Nick, wounded and bleeding.
The draught of Lady Ruby moved, surrounding her, almost squeezing her but she ignored its clear warning, turned on her heel and fled the room, running as best she could on her slim heels towards the front door.
When she arrived, Nick had forced his way through the heavy front doors (doors that only Douglas seemed to have no trouble shifting) and was careening down the hall, motioning to her by flailing his arms.
He shouted, “Run, goddammit, Jules, run!”
And then the world tilted, the house darkened ominously, closing in on itself. It felt as if the stone walls flexed inward, the shadows everywhere lengthened, stretching out like claws as a gunshot exploded followed closely by a strange “ping” sound and Nick went down like dead weight, cracking his skull with a sickening thud against the flagstone floor.
Leaving Julia to face three men, all pointing guns at her and speaking what she knew was Russian.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Curse
“The Royal Crescent Hotel has confirmed, of course,” Sam was saying, “you’ll arrive in the suite greeted by champagne and strawberries –”
“Isn’t that a bit trite?” Douglas interrupted curtly, wanting everything to be perfect.
“Well, I suppose you can call your intended’s preferences ‘trite’ but I would never presume to do so. Patty says Julia loves champagne and strawberries.”
His silence was the only indication of his apology and his jaw tightened at Sam’s referral to Patricia as “Patty”. All the women in his life were becoming the banes of his existence.
They were, he realised, ganging up on him.
Charlotte, Mrs. Kilpatrick, Sam and Patricia called him day after day to check this detail or that detail of the wedding or of that evening’s dinner (or tomorrow’s) or of his schedule. Or simply to check on him to ascertain he’d done nothing to make Julia run screaming into the night and the clutching arms of certain death.
Their lack of faith in him was appalling.
Although, he had to admit, he hadn’t handled their courtship to his usual exacting standards. However, she had said yes (rather spectacularly), she was wearing his damned ring (rather proudly), she was sharing his bed (or her bed or the couch in the study or the wall of the billiards room, depending on his level of creativity, a heretofore unknown skill he found, through necessity, he had in abundance).
“If you want to buy a ten foot ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower and set it up in the bloody garden, I don’t care. Your budget for the wedding reception, from now on, is unlimited,” he’d informed Mrs. K (somewhat shortly) just that afternoon.
Instead of taking offense, the woman seemed downright jolly.
He’d spent nearly twenty years making a fortune (quadruple fold) and one small wedding and four pushy, nagging women were going to bankrupt him in a single day.
Fortunately, Julia was a calm amidst this storm. With her never ending lists, her capacity to interpret (and control) her mother’s dramatics, to find Charlie hilarious and to delegate to Mrs. K and Sam when needed, she was taking all this on with a level head – all the while starting a new consultancy, dealing with the children and giving into a (very) demanding Douglas (though he couldn’t help but note that the last seemed to be the most favourite of her tribulations).
“Why on earth don’t they phone you with these details?” Douglas found himself grumbling (actually reduced to grumbling) the evening before.
They were on the couch in his study. Douglas was sitting at one end looking through some papers. Julia was lying on her back with her feet in his lap, Fred, The Cat (his name had been grandly, yet unnecessarily, lengthened by Ruby) sleeping on her belly and she was reading a book.
“I think they’re enjoying torturing you, you haven’t exactly been, um,” Julia hesitated, Douglas cut his eyes to her and she grinned sheepishly, “approachable for the last thirty-eight years.”
“I’m not approachable now,” he ground out. “I’m considering hiring hit men.”
She laughed, the sound throaty and sexy and making him immediately want her. If the children hadn’t been in the house watching television in the lounge, he would have taken her.
When he was going to have his fill of her, he didn’t know and he was beginning to doubt he ever would. Every time he had her, he wanted more, needed more, she was like a fucking drug.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Julia joked, taking him from his thoughts then her smile drained away as she took in his bland look and arched brow.
He saw a worried expression crossed her face and then he turned away, satisfied at her reaction yet unable to stop his lips from twitching.
She set Fred, The Cat aside and launched herself at him, a playful attack he had no idea how to defend. He’d never played with anyone, not even Tamsin.
He wrestled her gently, not wanting to cause her harm but he soon found he didn’t have to worry because the whole time, she was giggling herself silly. He couldn’t help but recognise the strange feeling coursing through him (mingled tantalisingly with desire) was enjoyment.
She ended the tussle on her back, Douglas on top, Julia’s arms pulled over her head with his hand holding her wrists. She was still laughing, her body shaking under him while he smiled down at her, revelling in the pleasure of her happiness and that it was Douglas who was giving it to her.
“You’re just too funny, sweetheart,” she giggled. “I just love…” she stopped, gulped then gave a short, strange, uncomfortable chortle of laughter before finishing, “love your sense of humour.”
Her words sounded forced and wrong and his body stilled when he heard them but then she lifted her head and kissed him and he could think of nothing else.
This time, it was Sam who broke into his thoughts.
“The room will be littered, their word, not mine, littered with white roses.” Sam was continuing to tell him his plans for Valentine’s evening. “They’ll serve your dinner at nine in the room.”
“Right. Thanks,” Douglas replied, no longer listening to her, preferring to think back to what happened on the couch and what it might mean.
After a lengthy hesitation, Sam asked, “What did you just say?”
“Right,” Douglas repeated distractedly.
“Then you said, ‘thanks’.” Her voice was somehow breathy with pleasure and he realised he’d never thanked her before.
Jesus, had he always been such an unfeeling bastard?
Bloody hell, he had.
A feeling stole over him that he now recognised. Guilt.
“You did a good job, you always do,” he offered this statement like a throwaway comment, immediately uncomfortable with the conversation. “Are we done?” His voice was now curt.