Storm Clouds in Skye, Lightning in London
18
T he hot fresh scones with jam only slightly improved Brynne’s mood. Declan met her at eleven on the dot, and they headed to his truck. He broke the silence as they pulled out of the parking lot. “Did you not sleep well, Brynne?”
“No, actually, I didn’t. I read my dear auntie’s will last night. Seems she is having a laugh at my expense. She put some pretty ridiculous conditions in it, which I will not be following.”
“Ooch.”
Before he could reply, she plowed on. “For starters, she expects me to find a suitable man and hold on to him for at least a year!” Her temper was gaining momentum. “Oh, and she did me the favor of listing some suitable characteristics!” Each time she said the word suitable, her upper lip curled in contempt. “Suitable!” she repeated and laughed harshly.
Declan was silent. When she turned to look at him, his shoulders were shaking as he tried to stifle his laughter.
“It’s not funny, Declan. Suitable men are fucking impossible to find. And she’s one to talk! She could have opened her heart and gotten together with you, instead of keeping you at a distance all these years.”
Oh, shite. I probably shouldn’t have said that.
His face turned solemn. “It’s more likely she didn’t want you to make the same mistakes that she made. She couldn’t take risks with her own heart, and I have a feeling she regretted that.”
“Pfft. That doesn’t mean it’s okay to manipulate me like this.” Brynne turned to stare out the window, glad to see the sun trying hard to escape the clouds’ embrace. They turned into her aunt’s road and Brynne immediately noticed a change.
“When did they pave the road?”
“That would be your new neighbor. The name is MacCallum. He didn’t like the dust and gravel on his fancy cars, so he had the whole lane done.”
“So strange not to hear the pebbles popping under the car.” It annoyed her that this guy had altered the landscape of her childhood.
“Aye, wait until you see the massive house he built. They finished it last month. I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point.”
As the house came into view, Brynne gaped at the two-story stone-and-timber mansion.
“Jesus, are you sure it isn’t a hotel? There are three chimneys!”
“Nope, it’s definitely a single-family home, and he doesn’t strike me as the type to let it, so don’t worry about it becoming a bed and breakfast.”
“Thank god. He certainly found himself a million-dollar view. You can see the outer islands from this spot.” She snorted and looked at the front of the mansion as they passed. It was equally impressive, with a large balcony off the second floor and a ton of windows.
They drove down the winding lane and pulled in behind the modest cottage that her aunt had lived in for the past twenty-two years. Brynne looked up the hill, relieved that she could only see the roofline and a small row of windows from the center dormer of the huge house. She didn’t like the idea of a stranger looking down on her little slice of heaven.
Taking a deep breath, she took in the stunning water view. The large flagstone deck ran the full width of the white stone house. Her favorite memories were of them snuggled up there in front of the fire pit.
As soon as Brynne walked in, she could smell her aunt’s distinctive scent. For years she wore Bal à Versailles. She used to say it was a perfume created to attract a man, with the right mix of floral elements blended with sandalwood, leather, and sex. She would respond rather haughtily to anyone who questioned the choice, “If it’s good enough for Elizabeth Taylor and Bianca Jagger, it’s good enough for me.” Brynne always thought it smelled like warm caramel and spices.
Memories of the last time they were together in this sanctuary by the sea came flooding back. Josie was her hero and had been since the day she welcomed the remote, angry little girl into her home so many summers ago. She was an independent, financially self-sufficient woman who didn’t need a man to complete her. Unlike her own mother, she was thoughtful, nurturing, and she loved children. She was comfortable by herself, which was good, because writing was a solitary pursuit, especially in this remote part of Skye. Josie never wanted to come back to London or Edinburgh. She’d say, “Those people are gray and colorless, Brynnie. They dress in blue suits every day, ride the tube to work, come home and stare at the TV, until the next day when they do it again. Don’t ever be one of those.”
Brynne would reply, “No way Auntie, I’m going to be an adventurer like you!”
Even though she loved living in the Highlands, she traveled around the world countless times. Josephine Lamond did countless book signing tours, African safaris, Southeast Asia island getaways, spa retreats in Switzerland, ice hotels in Norway, and cruises to Greece and Italy. She went abroad every year for at least two months to replenish her imagination for her books.
Josie renovated the one-and-a-half-story crofter’s cottage when she first came to Skye. She added a second bedroom and bath on the main floor and created a laundry and mudroom. In the harsh light of day, Brynne saw it looked rather tired. She considered how long her aunt was unwell, and guilt swept over her at not visiting more in the last few years.
Declan interrupted her thoughts. “There are a couple of letters on the kitchen table for you. I’m going to take a walk, and I’ll run the car so you can have time to yourself.”
“Thanks, Declan.”
She went up to Josie’s second-floor retreat and sat in the cozy window seat that overlooked Cuillin Sound. The sky was moody and dark, like her thoughts. She wasn’t ready to stay here tonight, especially if this was where Josie died. She would ask Declan.
Brynne believed steadfastly in the soul and the Universe and Heaven and destiny. She wondered, not for the first time, if Josie messed with her destiny. Then again, perhaps she was supposed to leave with dignity and intention.
Hopefully the letter would help her understand.
Dear Brynnie, my love,
I am sorry that I didn’t tell you of my impending demise. There was nothing anybody could do, so I decided the only course of action was to depart before the illness could overwhelm me. The end would be ugly, and I was having none of that.
Don’t you dare think that I gave in without a fight. I sought second, third, and fourth opinions. I investigated treatments from all the best minds in medicine, but this disease had too tight a hold on me and my important bits. While I still had my faculties, I knew I had to get my house in order.
You know I wanted you to have this little hideaway. Whether you live here full-time or only spend the summers, it will be your bolt hole when the world gets to be too much. Just promise me you won’t ever stop living, writing, loving, traveling, and adventuring.
By now you have read my will and you’re pissed off. Good. That is the reaction I wanted. I intended it to snap you out of your melancholy and into another primal emotion. That’s not to say I didn’t mean it. I chose those conditions—and in time, you will understand why.
Repairs need to be made to the house. I’ve let things go the last few years. But you can fix it up to suit yourself. This is the place where I wrote my best stuff: the wildness of the sea, the howling winds, the rain you’ll swear has teeth. They all kept me sharp, and they will do the same for you. Just don’t underestimate Mother Nature. She can be a fickle bitch in any season.
By now, you’re probably wondering where I did it and how. Please rest easy knowing my spirit was carried swiftly away by gusts from The Minch to the North Atlantic. I took a conglomeration of pills, wrapped myself in a blanket, and sat at the firepit. It was one of my favorite places on this earth because of the times we shared. When you sit there, I will always be in the chair beside you. No, I won’t haunt you, dearest. I hope I can float in when you need me. And when you bring a man around, I promise not to stick around and watch!
I love you, my Brynnie. You were, in every way, the daughter I always wanted. God brought you to me when we were both lost, and you were a gift that enriched my life.
Live life juicy, my peach!
xoxo Josie.
Tears traced a path down Brynne’s face and dripped onto the page. She felt some measure of comfort knowing she couldn’t have changed the outcome. Josie died outside, in her favorite spot, not in the house. That thoughtful decision was one of many her aunt planned to ensure Brynne was okay.
She put the letter back in the envelope and noticed the writing on the second: Do Not Open for 8 Weeks.
Brynne shook her head. Josie was still orchestrating mystery and intrigue from the great beyond. She went in search of a tissue to blow her nose and rescued Declan from hanging around waiting for her. She would spend one more night at the hotel, then come to the house tomorrow.
Thunder and lightning began their heavy metal concert around three a.m. Gage loved the penthouse, but there was no escape from the deafening sounds of an intense spring storm. He normally slept deeply, but tonight he had lain awake for hours.
He was not easily shocked, but Brynne managed to surprise him. She set out to convince him, and by god, that blow job was bloody amazing. It was more remarkable because she didn’t seem very experienced. Then again, maybe he was losing his ability to read women. He had been totally wrong about Sierra. Could he be off base regarding Brynne, too? When she returned, he would find out what she was made of—and how far she would go in her pursuit of BDSM knowledge. Whether it was in business or personally, he prided himself on discovering what a person’s true motives were. Brynne remained a mystery.
It felt like he had just dozed off when the alarm jolted him awake. Then he realized it wasn’t an alarm. His phone was ringing.
“What the bloody hell?” he groaned as he stretched to reach the night table. He glanced at the screen.
“Garrick, what’s going on? Is the club on fire or something?”
“No, but this could be just as bad.”
Garrick never got rattled, but his voice sounded off. Gage sat up, a sense of foreboding coming over him. “What the fuck is it?”
“I couldn’t sleep with the storm, so I was scanning the news on my phone. There’s a goddamned story about the club. Not only does it reveal your name as the owner, but it lists key members, including John, Martin, Dimitri, Judge Marchand, two members of Parliament, and a member of the House of Lords. My email has blown up in the last half hour. The print edition is landing on people’s doorsteps as we speak.”
“How is this possible? Who the fuck wrote it?” Gage was up and fishing his tablet out so he could read it.
Garrick swore. “ B. Larimore . Oh my god. Brynne?!”
A million thoughts warred for supremacy in Gage’s brain. “That conniving little bitch. She disappeared just in time. In fact, I would bet there was no death in her family.” How could I be so wrong? So stupid?
“Gage, this doesn’t seem right. Why?”
“To get a promotion, to get famous. Who the fuck knows! But when I’m done with her, she will be lucky to get a job washing dishes in this city.”
“Fuck.” Garrick sighed heavily into the phone.
“Get in touch with everyone who is named and let them know we are working on a retraction. I need to speak to the owner of that rag they call a newspaper. They have no idea the powerful people they have pissed off. It will cost them some serious advertising revenue.”
Gage pulled up the article and swore.
Club Dominus: Who is behind London’s kinky private men’s club for affluent misogynists?
Gage MacLeod, Scottish club owner, runs this hideaway for the immoral. Members of this exclusive men-only club include high-ranking officials from Scotland Yard and London’s Parliament. Inside this den of iniquity, you might run across judges, CEOs, and the sons of London’s wealthiest families. So, what goes on in the unassuming Georgian in London’s West End? All kinds of kinky sex games. Just last week, they put on a racy Arabian nights party, with sexy harem girls wearing collars and chains. If you want to paddle your partner, you need only go upstairs to access the punishment room. Head to the top floor if you want to hire a themed room to have sex with a male or female slave. It’s London’s best kept secret brothel.
She listed six members by name and had the audacity to suggest the place be shut down.
“I’ll meet you at the club in an hour. Send an email to all our members to say the club will be closed for a couple of days. And add that we’ll be in touch as soon as possible with more information. I’ll ask John to meet us there as soon as he can. We need to discredit her and the paper.”
“Got it. See you there.” Garrick rang off and Gage jumped in the shower.
Thirty minutes later, his driver passed in front of the club where several paparazzi were staking out the main entrance. Gage was glad he had an underground garage linked to another building, so no one would know when he entered or exited.
His mother had tried him three times, but he ignored the calls. Until he had a plan, he wouldn’t speak to her. John answered on the first ring and Gage worked to calm him down.
An idea took shape while he was getting ready. John could tell his superiors that Gage asked for his advice about a member he suspected of dirty deals, and they met to discuss it in the lounge. Hopefully, Brynne knew little more than his name and that she’d seen him. Since the article mentioned nothing about the private party, he hoped it was safe from exposure. Especially since her best friend was the star attraction. The worst-case scenario would be the exposure of John’s sexuality when he had not come out to anyone, including his family. Gage needed to call her friend Jared and warn him to keep his mouth shut.
Once in his office, he called the editor of the Mirror . Garrick gave him Jared’s cell, and he called him too. Gage expected the voicemail message would scare the shit out of him.
“Jared, if you value your business and reputation, you will speak to no one about my club. Ever. You can, however, tell your friend that her career as a journalist is over. She has crossed the wrong person, and so have you. You’re both fired.”
Next, he crafted an email to the members he surmised had large ad budgets and gave them instructions to threaten full withdrawal if the paper did not retract the story.
The editor called him back within the hour. Nigel Linkletter sounded like a complete wimp. He spent ten minutes apologizing, and Gage had the distinct impression he didn’t know about the article before it landed on his front page.
Gage used his scariest Dom’s voice. “Listen Linkletter, I expect a full retraction of this story. This woman got a job in my club under false pretenses. She collected information about some of the most influential people in this city. By now, I imagine you have received multiple emails demanding a retraction and an apology. Unless, of course, you and the paper’s owners don’t care that your ad revenue is disintegrating as we speak.”
Nigel cleared his throat, but Gage kept going. “Furthermore, what happens in my club is nobody’s business. Nothing illegal goes on at Dominus, and we practice safe, consensual activities in complete privacy. You should also know that my next call is to the CEO of the Mirror ’s parent company. I am sure Mr. Knight will be interested in knowing you published a story that embarrassed his father and several of his close friends.”
Gage heard a choking sound through the phone. Linkletter cleared his throat. “Mr. MacLeod, I am very sorry for this. Give me until this afternoon. I need to speak to my superiors about a retraction and get back to you.”
“When you see the ramifications of this ridiculous story, you’ll see that is your only course of action. Expect to hear from my lawyers before noon today.”
Gage hung up and threw his phone down on his desk. Garrick did some digging and found out that the Mirror’s owner was none other than Roger Knight. His father, Douglas, was one of the first members of the club. That little discovery might turn the tide in their favor.
Now his mother was texting him. She never texted.
Mother: Where are you? Call me ASAP. Have you seen the news??
Gage needed a coffee before he rang her back. He made an espresso and sat down at his desk.
She picked up before it had the chance to ring. “It’s about time! Would you care to explain what the hell happened, son? The only thing that saved us is them not knowing your real name or your relationship to me.”
“Mother,” he began.
“Don’t Mother me. I was afraid of this. That club is going to destroy your reputation, and by association, it will damage mine.” Her shrill voice assaulted his ears.
“I’m taking steps to get it retracted. They won’t find out who I am. And if they do, you can publicly disown me. I’m tired of sneaking around. I am who I am. That will not change just because you’re a judge.”
“Well, I may not get the appointment with this scandalous story around our necks. Who is this B Larimore, anyway? How did they get those members’ names?”
“It’s a long story and not one I want to get into with you. I have taken steps to remove her as well. She won’t be writing another word.”
“She? A woman wrote that story?”
“Yes. Look, I must go. There are members calling for my head on a platter, and some want refunds. I’ll call you on the weekend.”
“Okay, dear. Good luck. I hope to Christ you can fix this.”
“Goodbye, Mother.”
John arrived forty minutes later. He and Garrick sat down and the three of them formulated a plan that Scotland Yard would buy.
By midday, they had appeased most of the members. Two demanded to exit their contractual membership and get their fees back. Gage quietly freed up one million pounds and arranged wire transfers. The club’s bank account was buried under a numbered company, which was registered under a second numbered corporation that Gage used for investments he didn’t want tracked to his London identity or his Edinburgh venture capital firm.
Once he calmed down, he dialed Brynne. Lucky for her, it went to voicemail.
“You have crossed the wrong person, Ms. Larimore. I don’t know what you thought you would accomplish with that story, but what you’ve got instead is the obliteration of your journalism career. If you even had a career. And as far as your bullshit submissive games are concerned, you are finished in the London scene too. It’s a pity you didn’t realize how far my connections run. This may sound cliché, but mark my words, you will never work in this town again.”
He stabbed the hang-up icon. Instead of feeling better, he felt more out of sorts. He wanted to punch something. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have trusted her—fucked her?