Page 84 of Cruel Pleasures

No one’s here.

“What the fuck?” I let out a frustrated breath, my hands shifting through my hair. “But I just saw…”

I cut myself off as I wander the room and notice what’s on the desk. Various sheets of paper scattered across the surface that would be inconspicuous if not for the fact that they’re all about me.

Every last one of them.

I know this because I spot a printout of the Cyber Fans conversation I’d with Francesco.

There’s a photocopy of my driver’s license and a sheet detailing my employment history. Someone’s been tracking every small detail about me. They’ve poured over my life for a reason that remains steeped in mystery.

I pick up the sheet of paper that’s my photocopied driver’s license and feel the chill slide down my spine.

Before I can begin to process what I’ve walked in on, the door to the study springs open. I’m caught red-handed with no means of escape and no explanation for what I’m doing in a room I shouldn’t be in. My arms quickly twist behind my back to hide the piece of paper I’m holding.

Though it’s no less obvious I’ve been snooping.

I feign an innocent, wide-eyed look of shock as Timothee barges inside. The tall, lithe man, always in his neat and prim caretaker uniform of a buttoned down shirt and pinstriped vest and pants, marches into the room. His nostrils flare, the rest of his face contorted in a scowl.

The door slams shut, and we’re left facing each other from opposite sides of the room. Uncertainty hazes the air as I think fast, and he glares reproachfully at me as though considering how best to skewer me over hot coals.

“I was looking for the library. Looks like I took a wrong turn.”

I move left in a direct shot for the door, but he takes a right step to block my path. He has no intention of letting me go anytime soon.

“Are you going to move out of my way?”

He lifts his chin, regarding me from under his heavily ridged brow. “Depends. Are you going to tell me why you’re snooping around the Hostess’s study?”

“I didn’t know that this was?—”

“Why every time I seem to find you, you’re snooping around somewhere you shouldn’t be,” he presses on, his tone tight. “Please explain to me, Ms. Makune, why you seem to think you have the right to trespass on a private club’s property and then proceed to disrespect that club at every available opportunity?”

“You sound confused. You might want to address me by my legal name.”

“I just did.” Then his scowl twists into a nasty grin. “Do you really think it’s smart to play pretend when we’ve established we know you’re nothing but an actress? You might have some of the dolts like Belini fooled, but we’re well aware of who you are. What you’ve come here to do.” He takes an ominous step toward me. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you.”

“Back up or be prepared to catch my fist colliding with your face.”

“Do it, Ms. Makune. Go on.” He leans even closer, his crooked teeth showing more the wider his grin becomes. “I dare you.”

I ease back to give myself a buffer, straining my foggy memory for every maneuver I learned during my Easton U days when I took women’s self-defense. I’ve only had to use a move a few times in the past when confronted by a drunk at an old bar I worked at or some guy at the corner store who got too touchy.

It seems today I’ll be forced to again.

Timothee looms closer for every inch I shift back. One or two steps escalate into me rushing backward and his lunge forward. My mind blanking on what else to do, I swing. My knuckles connect with the side of his head, though the hit’s hardly enough to do the kind of damage I hoped.

But it is enough to buy me another second.

“ARGH, DAMN IT!”

As he scrambles for me, grunting out in pain, I reach for a book that’s resting on the desk and take another swing. Timothee is ready for me this time. His spindly fingers latch onto the other end of the book before it can hit him across the head. We struggle for the upper hand, bumping into the desk and then veering off to the right where we run into the bookcase.

I lose the battle. Timothee wrenches the book free and decks me across the jaw. I’m knocked to the ground, landing like a turtle stuck on its shell. Panic triples the beat of my heart as I look up and Timothee stands over me wearing a feverish glint on his face, his arms above his head, ready to crush me with the book in his hands.

He never gets the chance.

Archer rushes in from behind and drives a knife into the back of his skull.