Chapter 27
DIANE
How hard can it be to open a pair of healthy, well-functioning eyes? Right now, extremely hard. Almost impossible. It’s not just the eyes. My head is pounding. Nausea reigns supreme in my stomach, threatening to advance through my throat and erupt at any moment.
How much exactly did I drink last night? Barely a glass. I was too busy playing hostess. So why am I having the hangover of my life? I try to rub my eyes, but my hands won’t come up. A few more failed attempts later and it hits me. My wrists are bound behind my back. My ankles are tied, too.
What the hell?
With a superhuman effort, I peel my eyes open and take in my surroundings.
I’m lying on top of a mattress in a dark, moldy-smelling room.
Probably a cellar. I writhe and buck, testing the strength of the tape at my wrists and ankles.
It’s impossible to untie or even loosen a little.
After some more wriggling, I manage to sit up, lean back against the wall, and look around.
It is a cellar. It’s small, so I doubt I’m in the mansion, where I’ve thoroughly explored the huge basement.
There’s a minuscule opening just below the ceiling.
That’s where the air and light come through.
A suitcase sits in one corner of the room.
My suitcase. The wall opposite me has a door with no handle.
I don’t like that door any more than I like the window covered with a solid metal screen.
Clearly, at some point between the moment Greg dropped me off in front of Darcy House and now, I passed out and was brought down here.
Did someone hit me over the head? Drug me? Hypnotize me?
The thing is I have no memory of it.
I call for help, scream, call for help again, and then scream some more.
Nothing happens.
I call for help a few more times.
The door opens. A sturdy man steps in and locks the door behind him. He pauses for a moment by the door and then walks slowly toward me.
Recognition slaps me on the face like a bucket of icy water.
“I hope madame slept well,” Octave says, mockery palpable in his voice. “I hope you weren’t too cold and your restraints not too tight.”
He halts in front of me.
I give him a long, hard stare. “It’s been you—all this time, pretending to be a friend and sharpening your knife behind Sebastian’s back.”
“I was never his friend,” Octave hisses. “I’m his majordome, remember?”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I’m not sure yet.” He gives me the smile of a deranged man. “I’m considering different scenarios.”
“What about Miss France at the bash last night? Wasn’t she supposed to seduce Sebastian? Wasn’t that your plan?”
He throws his head back and roars with an uncontrollable laugher, tears and all. “Is that what you both thought? I was hoping you would.”
Octave pulls a hanky from his pocket and wipes his eyes. “She was just a diversion.”
I blink, processing that piece of information.
“You see,” he says. “I had to adapt my initial plan after you moved in.”
“Why?”
“Because I heard Sebastian and you talking one night, between humping sessions, about outing his nemesis.”
“You—what? How?”
“I bugged your bedroom.”
Dear Lord.
That explains the device and headphones in his closet.
I’m toast.
Unless… The bugging might be good news. It means he’s discovered the truth about us.
“In that case,” I say, “you know our marriage is a sham.”
“What?” He looks genuinely surprised.
“If you’ve bugged our bedroom, you must’ve figured out from our conversations that we’re not for real. Sebastian hired me to help him unmask you.”
He sneers. “Nice try.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You really expect me to believe your bullshit?”
I close my eyes and try to concentrate. Could it be that neither Sebastian nor I ever said anything in that bedroom that would give away the real nature of our relationship?
We’ve had a lot of sex, many laughs, and a few serious conversations, but…
is it possible that we never mentioned our contract?
But of course, we did—as recently as two weeks ago. Only we weren’t in Darcy House. We were in my apartment.
Octave squats and checks the tape at my wrists and ankles.
“I may be just a manservant, but I’m not stupid,” he says. “I’ve seen the way you look at him—like he’s the only man on the whole fucking planet. I’ve seen the way he looks at you—like he wants to nosh you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every fucking day.”
I take a ragged breath and look away.
“And don’t get me started on the way he touches you.” Octave stands up, smirking. “These things can’t be faked.”
I lick my dry lips, realizing how parched I am.
Octave turns around and heads to the door.
“Wait,” I call after him.
He halts and looks over his shoulder at me.
I point my chin to the suitcase. “What’s that for?”
“To buy me a few days. He’ll think you got jealous and left him.”
In a few days, I’ll be dead from dehydration. That is if he doesn’t kill me before.
“Will you please bring me some water next time you come down?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m not your servant anymore, sweetheart.”