Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“I can’t be dead,” Oz croaked, “because I feel so bloody rotten.”

“You’ll feel better after you eat.”

Oz turned his head, was gratified to find that his eyeballs didn’t explode, and slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. He was lightheaded and unsteady, and everything from head to toe that could ache, ached. “I think,” he said, conscious of his stench, “first I need a bath.” Carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he waited until the ringing in his ears stopped before he tried to stand.

Achille was at his side, his arm out to steady him. “You’re hard to kill.”

“My enemies will discover that to their regret,” Oz said, waving away his help, closing his mind to the pain. “Catch me if I fall, and thank you, by the way. You haven’t slept, I presume.”

“I will tonight. One question,” Achille said with a grin, walking beside Oz as he made for the bathroom. “If you don’t mind.”

“I fear something vulgar with that grin. Would it help if I said I minded?”

“Not after all the years we’ve known each other. I was just wondering how you managed to function during your wife’s, er, visit when you were being laid waste by poison?”

Oz smiled. “At first belladonna stimulates the central nervous system, and later,” he said, exquisitely sardonic, “although the effort was increasingly harrowing, the prize was worth the discomfort.”

JUSTICE WAS SWIFT and efficient, Oz directing it with no fuss and a carafe of ice water on the desk by his right hand.

The five men who had the most to gain from his death had been brought together by various means, from their homes or clubs, offices or mistresses’ beds, one from his morning ride in Rotten Row. They were now seated, sweating and fearful, in a row of hard-backed chairs opposite Oz’s desk in the building that housed his shipping line. Sam, Davey, and Sam’s troops lined the walls.

It was early morning-not yet nine-Oz was fed and fresh from his bath, his tailoring impeccable, his smile bland, his hands loose on the smooth mahogany before him; only his cold-eyed gaze reflected his vicious state of mind.

“I have no intention of hurting you,” he began when the silence had become unendurable to the coerced men who had never before been treated with such violence, who had only given orders to brutalize others from the safety of their fine homes or offices. “Unless you choose to be uncooperative. As you see, I survived your attempt on my life. Allow me to point out that I’ll not be so derelict should it be necessary to end yours.” He offered them a look of serene and arrogant calm. “I hope I make myself clear. Now then, as to your associates in India-they are no more; my relatives are less lenient than I. Pray take a moment to acknowledge the good health you still enjoy because of me.”

No one moved, not his captives, nor his retainers, the air crisp with catastrophe.

After the small pause allowed for personal reflection, Oz pleasantly said, “I should kill you all. Normally I would with any man so stupid as to try and rob me of my banks. If you continue to press me, I will kill you and perhaps your families as well. I suggest you watch what you eat, what your wife and children eat, watch the servants who attend you, the retainers at your clubs, anyone who gives you a cup of tea, a plate of food, a glass of wine. If you don’t already know fear, make another attempt on my life and you’ll know it with certainty. Then you’ll die.” He exhaled softly. “Now get out.”

There was a ragged moment of silence.

The prominent, influential men who set great store on their consequence, who had always felt the execution of the law was in their own hands, looked white-faced one to the other, unsure whether to move, terrified they might suffer for such a misstep. The young man before them was half their age or younger even, indifferent to their prestige and power, unforgiving, violent.

“You’ll be watched,” Oz said, visibly impatient now. “Every movement, every minute. Now go.”

Then he leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes.

A few minutes later the room was silent.

“Christ, we’re going to have to hire a bloody army to watch them all,” Oz said into the quiet.

“Fortunately, it won’t be a problem.”

Eyes still closed, Oz smiled. “How many times is that now,” he wearily said, “that wealthy swindlers have set out to rob me of my fortune?” Then he opened his eyes, clasped his hands lightly on the desktop, and said with the extraordinary degree of self-control that only rarely deserted him, “One too many. I should have killed them.”

“You should have.” Sam stood alone by the door, the throng dispersed. “You’re young; they think you’re vulnerable.”

“Next time I will,” Oz said flatly, pushing himself out of his chair, his strength depleted, the effort it took to come down to his office and deal with his adversaries costing him dearly. “We’ll prepare the surveillance lists at home.” Moving around the edge of his desk, he slowly walked to the door. “I wonder what my wife’s doing while we’re chastising the extortionists of the world?” he said with a sudden smile.

“Farming.”

Oz laughed. “Christ, I forgot. You’re right.”

SAM WAS HALF-RIGHT.

Isolde was following her head gardener, Forbes, through the drifts of daffodils that ran down her south lawn to the river.

“Just a wee bit farther, Miss Izzy. You ain’t never seen such a sight. Now hush, mind, or they’ll hear us.”

As they reached the border of the lawn, where the daffodils gave way to a small copse of beeches planted long ago by an earlier Wraxell, the gardener put his finger to his mouth and then pointed.

Following the line of his arm, Isolde peered through the dappled shadows under the trees and saw the rare sight promised by old Forbes, who’d seen all there was to see on the Wraxell lands. On a bed of green moss, in the curve of its mother’s body, lay a snow-white fawn, tiny and delicate. Isolde unconsciously sucked in her breath, and the small sound brought the doe’s head up.

She and Forbes stood motionless, scarcely breathing, until the doe’s attention returned to her fawn. Then, slowly backing away until they were out of range, they returned to the house.

Standing on the drive, Forbes said, “I were wondering if’n we should snare the pair and carry them into the paddock so the young’n ain’t harmed by the hounds or mayhap a wild pig.”

“It might disturb them too much; the fawn looks newborn.”

“Still, miss, yon might be kilt if we don’t take a hand.”

Isolde softly sighed, the helplessness of the little fawn triggering a rush of maternal emotion. “Moving them could be traumatic. Might food be set out for the doe without frightening her? Then she wouldn’t have to leave the security of the copse.”

“Mayhap we could.”

She couldn’t tell if he agreed or was being polite. “Talk to Grover. I’ll defer to his judgment.”

“Yes’m.”

But she couldn’t rid her mind of the tender image-the vulnerable fawn and protective mother, the aching beauty of the scene. Or maybe seeing Oz yesterday made her more susceptible to emotion. She should have been sensible and refused him, but then what woman could? He made the world disappear with a smile or a single word; she had no proof against such disarming appeal. But allowing him to entice her into his bed, to have yielded to his sweet and versatile talents only made her sense of loss worse.

She had in the weeks since he’d left her reconstructed her life; she’d even thought she’d reached a stage of rational equilibrium where she could meet him with stoic self-command.

And now those barricades must be erected all over again. As defenseless as the young fawn, as vulnerable, she went to the nursery that was being prepared for her child-for Oz’s child-and shutting the door behind her, sat in the rocker that had been brought out of storage, and quietly broke down and cried.

She’d had the misfortune to fall in love with a man who was adored by every woman who came within range of his magnetic, effortless charm. And with the exception of their passionate sexual encounters, he otherwise treated her as he did all women once the heat of desire had cooled-with patient kindness… until they left.

She wondered if he ever thought of her-of his child.

Or if she and the child were forgotten as were all the other women.

She wondered if it was only vanity that had tears leaving wet paths on her face but knew better before the thought was even finished.

It was unfortunate, that was all.

She’d fallen in love with a man who, once the sexual play was over, could ignore with equanimity the displeasure of a great number of women. And would continue to do so in the future.

That her eyes were open to his faults did not in any fashion absolve her from the ensuing heartache.

A timid tap on the door interrupted her gloomy thoughts, and quickly wiping the wetness from her cheeks, she said, “Enter.”

It was Grover, who out of politeness averted his gaze. “You’ll be pleased to know that the fawn and mother are safe, Miss Izzy. Forbes said you’d wish to know.”

“Yes, thank you,” she answered, her self-possession restored. “Did you bring them into the paddock?”

“No. We gently nudged them along until they entered the sanctuary of the old oak grove. It’s fenced high, and once the fawn is older, the gate can be opened again. They’re quite safe.”

Isolde smiled, more relieved than she would have thought over a wild creature, more relieved than she would have been a few weeks ago when babies were far from her thoughts. “How wonderful. Thank everyone for me.”

The staff knew what had happened yesterday, of her visit to Lennox House. Her melancholy since acquainted them with the outcome of the visit. Grover briefly debated revealing his second bit of news.

She saw the hesitation. “Is there more?”

“Pretty Polly just arrived,” he quietly said. “She’s in the stable if you’d like to see her.”

It took considerable effort to hold back her tears, to speak with composure, but if she were to surrender to grief at every thought or mention of Oz, she’d be crying from morning to night. “Thank you, Grover. I’ll be out to see her directly.”

“She’s a right fine beauty,” he said, his manner more comfortable with his mistress’s calm reply. “She’ll win you a monstrous number of races.”

“Yes, I expect she will. It was very generous of Oz.”

Grover bowed and quickly left; Miss Izzy’s bottom lip had begun to tremble.

A quarrel erupted in the kitchen a short time later, some of the staff advocating that Miss Izzy’s errant husband be kidnapped and brought back to her bound hand and foot. Others cautioned calm, saying Miss Izzy would never agree to coercion to keep her husband. They all glumly agreed, though, that she loved him.

A sentiment in accord with those of their mistress, who was surveying the nursery one last time before making her way downstairs. As she closed the door on the newly painted murals, the fresh carpets and curtains, the Tudor cradle brought downstairs, the shelves filled with new books and old, she sensibly reminded herself that very few marriages-whether ones of convenience like hers or those marked by normal bonds-were founded on love or long sustained by love. Hers was no different.

Once the child was born, her marriage would cease to be in any event.

And with it, the useless debate.

IN THE FOLLOWING days, Oz recuperated, worked long hours with Davey and Sam, shocked everyone by no longer drinking, and irritated one and all at Brooks’s by continuing to win every game he played. By the end of the week he was considerably richer, not that it mattered.

Not that anything seemed to matter.

He even took no joy in his enemies’ discomfort. Sometimes he thought he should have killed them and been done with it for all the satisfaction the role of warder afforded him.

Jess alone gave him pleasure. Oz had taken to coming down to the kitchen during the day with some new toy to entertain the young boy. He’d sprawl on the floor and talk softly to Jess as he entertained him with the new trinket. Or sometimes he’d just silently watch the toddler absorbed in play.

The little fair-haired boy was Oz’s restorative in a hindered world, indulging the toddler affording him uncomplicated pleasure, buoying his spirits. In more brooding moments, though, he recognized that Isolde’s child might be neither brown haired like Will, nor dark like him, but bright haired like its mother. What then of the father’s identity?

And how much did he care?