Chapter 6 - The Key Returned
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The interior of the armored Maybach was another world entirely—insulated by three inches of ballistic glass and soundproofed leather that shut out the howling Chicago wind. As the vehicle sped north along the darkened interstate back toward the city, the only light inside the rear cabin came from the amber glow of the dashboard instruments and the passing streetlamps flashing across the tinted windows.
Clara sat curled in the plush leather captain’s chair, a heavy cashmere travel blanket tucked around her shoulders. Her hands were still shaking so badly she had to clasp them together in her lap.
Across the narrow console, Lucian sat watching her.
He had removed his blood-spattered overcoat and tossed it onto the floorboard. In his tailored charcoal waistcoat and crisp white shirt, he looked every inch the ruthless syndicate kingpin the newspapers whispered about—except for the way his dark gray eyes tracked every shiver that ran through her shoulders.
For ten miles, neither of them spoke. The privacy partition separating them from Roman in the driver’s seat was raised and locked.
Finally, Lucian leaned forward, reached across the space between them, and took her left hand.
Clara flinched instinctively, trying to pull her arm back beneath the blanket, knowing the dark purple bruises on her wrist were even uglier now than they had been at five o'clock.
"Don't," Lucian said softly.
It wasn't a shout, yet the quiet authority in that single word made her freeze. Gently, almost reverently, his warm, calloused fingers pushed back the wool sleeve of her coat and lifted her bruised wrist into the soft amber light between them.
Lucian stared down at the four dark marks left by Victor Halstead’s grip. Slowly, he lowered his head and pressed his warm lips directly against the bruised skin over her pulse point.
Clara gasped softly, a jolt of pure electricity shooting straight from her wrist to the center of her chest.
When Lucian lifted his head, his silver-gray eyes were dark as molten lead. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat with his free hand, pulled out the small brass estate key she had left on the foyer table two hours ago, and pressed it firmly back into the center of her palm, closing her cold fingers around the metal.
"Did you really think," Lucian murmured, his voice dangerously low, "that you could hand me a piece of brass, call me Mr. Sterling, and walk out of my life after two years?"
"I didn't have a choice," Clara whispered, a tear finally slipping over her lashes and tracking down her pale cheek. "If I had stayed in that house past six o'clock, people were going to die."
"Two men just died on that train, Clara. And before the sun comes up tomorrow, several more are going to join them." Lucian didn't release her hand; his thumb traced slow, hypnotic circles over her knuckles. "Now start from the beginning. Two o'clock in the conservatory. What did Victor hold in front of your face before he put his hands on you?"
Clara stared at him, her breath hitching. "You know it was Victor? How—he erased the security tapes! He told me he used the master override!"
"He forgot about the frost cameras in the glass roof," Lucian replied evenly. "I saw him grab your arm. And I saw the laboratory sheet for the aconite poison he wanted you to drop into my library decanter at three o'clock."
Clara closed her eyes tightly, leaning her forehead back against the leather headrest as the weight of two years of terror finally crushed down on her.
"He had two men parked outside my Aunt Sarah’s bakery in Evanston," she confessed, her voice trembling in the quiet cabin. "When I refused to touch the vial in the conservatory, he swore that if I warned you or stayed in the house, he would burn her shop to the ground with her inside it—and then he would hand you the files proving how I got the job at your estate."
Her phone buzzed inside her purse on the seat beside her. With a frantic intake of breath, Clara snatched it up and read the text message from her aunt: Just crossed the state line into Wisconsin, sweetheart. Checking into the motel near my sister's house now. Stay warm!
A wave of pure, dizzying relief washed over Clara’s face. Her aunt was safe. Out of reach.
She lowered the phone into her lap and looked directly into Lucian’s waiting gaze. There were no more excuses left to hide behind.
"I called my aunt from the train station and got her out of the state," Clara said quietly, lifting her chin even though she knew her next words would destroy the way he looked at her forever. "You shouldn't have saved me tonight, Lucian. Because the other half of Victor’s threat was the truth."
May you like
Lucian didn't blink. "Tell me."
"I didn't apply to your housekeeping agency by accident two years ago," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Victor Halstead found me when my father was dying in the county hospital. He paid forty-two thousand dollars to cover my father’s dialysis bills—in exchange for me moving into your house and reporting everything you did behind closed doors."
