Violent Delights Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Violent Delights

  ISBN # 978-1-78430-667-0

  ©Copyright Helena Maeve 2015

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright July 2015

  Edited by Rebecca Douglas

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

  VIOLENT DELIGHTS

  Helena Maeve

  Buried secrets surface when least expected.

  With one parent in prison and the other cold in the ground, Laure desperately wants to blend in. She’s worked hard constructing the pretense of a well-adjusted, sophisticated Parisian woman. But hiding in plain sight is only feasible as long as her father’s victims allow it.

  As the anniversary of her father’s conviction draws near, Laure finds herself in the cross hairs of one last cold case with an unlikely ally. The only man she can depend on was never meant to be more than a rebound fling, a distraction from her luckless love life. Now, his fate may well rest in Laure’s hands.

  Ashley is fifteen years her senior and should know better. Yet something about his neurotic neighbor draws him in. Moth to flame, he will follow Laure to the ends of the world if he must. If not, he’ll go as far as Kansas on the trail of a killer’s last unsolved murder and help unravel a mystery steeped in bloody family history.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Calvin Klein: Calvin Klein Incorporated

  Vivienne Westwood: Vivienne Westwood

  Prada: Prada S.p.A.

  Versace: Gianni Versace S.p.A.

  Oscar de la Renta: Oscar de la Renta

  Twitter: Twitter, Inc.

  We Will Rock You: Brian May, Queen

  Caligna, L’Artisan: L’Artisan Parfumeur

  Hermès: Hermès International S.A.

  1944 Bandit: Robert Piguet, Germaine Cellier

  Chanel No. 19: Chanel S.A.

  Paul Smith: Paul Smith Limited

  Converse: Converse, Inc., Nike, Inc.

  Le Connétable: Le Connétable

  Noguchi: Herman Miller, Inc.

  Catherine Memmi: Catherine Memmi

  Keeping Theseus: Tim Lane

  Jack Daniel’s: Brown-Forman Corporation

  Jim Beam: Beam Suntory

  Alien: 20th Century Fox

  Tarzan: Edgar Rice-Burroughs

  Tetris: The Tetris Company

  Prince Charming/Seven Dwarves: The Walt Disney Company

  Cartier: Société Cartier

  Conservatoire de Paris: Ministry of Culture and Communication

  Le Bon Marché: LVMH Moët Hennessy

  Swarovski: Swarovski AG

  CNN: Time Warner Inc.

  Manolos: Manolo Blahnik

  Parsons: The New School

  Ikea: Stichting INGKA Foundation

  New York Times: The New York Times Company

  Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson

  Charles de Gaulle/Roissy: Aéroports de Paris

  Donna Karan: Donna Karan International Inc.

  Dolce: Dolce & Gabanna S.r.I

  Hartsfield: Atlanta Department of Aviation

  Spidey senses: Marvel Comics

  Fleur de Chine: Tom Ford

  Renault Mégane: Group Renault

  Jedi: Lucasfilm, The Walt Disney Company

  Café Cox: Café Cox

  Chanel: Chanel S.A.

  Carven: Carven

  Coke: The Coca-Cola Company

  Atonement: Ian McEwan, Universal Pictures

  Gymnopédies: Satie

  Hugo Boss: Hugo Boss AG

  Ralph Lauren: Ralph Lauren Corporation

  Bentley: Bentley Motors Limited, Volkswagen Group

  Chanel No. 5: Chanel S.A.

  Flash Gordon: Alex Raymond, King Features Entertainment

  Hôtel Lutetia: Alrov Group

  Louis Vuitton: Louis Vuitton Malletier

  Uggs: UGG Australia, Deckers Outdoor Corporation

  Magic 8 Ball: Alabe Crafts Company

  The Young and the Restless: CBS Corporation, Lions Gate Entertainment

  Louboutins: Christian Louboutin

  Just Cavalli: Roberto Cavalli

  PBR: Pabst Brewing Company

  Sunny Afternoon: Ray Davies, The Kinks

  Formica: Formica Group

  Myspace: Myspace LLC

  Best Buy: Best Buy Co., Inc.

  Walmart: Wal-Mart Stores, Inc.

  Newsweek: Newsweek LLC

  Ford Falcon: Ford Motor Company

  Honda: Honda Motor Co., Ltd.

  Buick: General Motors Company

  Chevrolet: General Motors Company

  Chrysler: Fiat Chrysler Automobiles

  The Shawshank Redemption: Stephen King, Columbia Pictures

  IHOP: DineEquity, Inc.

  Wi-Fi: Wi-Fi Alliance

  You Don’t Love Me When I Cry: Laura Nyro

  Walkman: Sony Corporation

  iPod: Apple, Inc.

  Wedding Bell Blues: Laura Nyro

  Evian: Danone Group

  Best Of: Laura Nyro

  And When I Die: Laura Nyro

  Amtrak: National Railroad Passenger Corporation

  Toyota Land Cruiser: Toyota Motor Corporation

  Peugeot 308: Peugeot S.A.

  MCI: Kansas City Aviation Department

  GMC Yukon: General Motors Company

  Bazaar: Hearst Magazines

  One Ring: J.R.R. Tolkien,

  Café Sabarsky: Neue Galerie New York

  Pinocchio: The Walt Disney Company

  Le Monde: La Vie-Le Monde Group

  Post-it: 3M

  Anne Fontaine: Anne Fontaine

  Miss Havisham: Charles Dickens

  Barbie: Mattel, Inc.

  Bateaux-Mouches: Compagnie des Ba
teaux Mouches

  CliffsNotes: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Oz: L Frank. Baum

  Jeep: Fiat Chrysler Automobiles

  Technicolor: Technicolor SA

  Marriott: Marriott International, Inc.

  J’adore: Christian Dior S.A.

  The Accountant’s Handbook: John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

  Vine: Twitter, Inc.

  Taser: TASER International, Inc.

  Chapter One

  “Ms. Reynaud.” The crackle of static on the line let through a gruff, male voice. “I’m aware that you haven’t answered my last twenty-four messages, and I know I probably shouldn’t insist, but…”

  I hit the delete button on my cell before my caller could proceed to do just that. A robotic female voice assured me that the message had been deleted. The next had been recorded at eight-forty-two last night. I cast my memory back to a takeaway dinner—spring rolls and stone oven pizza, a veritable ode to multiculturalism—the containers of which still crowded my kitchen counters, and listened for the next voicemail.

  “Hello, my name is Josh Barnes. I’m calling about your father—”

  There was no point in letting the recording play out till the end. I recognized the voice. Anything Barnes had to say to me on message twenty-six could only be a variation of the tested and tried, We’re running a story about your father and we’d like your input.

  The calls were a year-long annoyance, but they got especially bad around February. March usually marked the apogee.

  “End of messages,” said the robotic female voice.

  Nothing from Javier. Nothing from Melanie. I smothered the spark of disappointment already kindling in my chest. It was a relief. That meant Javier and I were still on for tonight. And I could call Mel at my own leisure.

  I tossed my cell to the couch and dragged my feet into the bedroom, coffee mug in hand. My reflection stared back at me from the vanity mirror. Bags under the eyes, pillow wrinkles etched onto my cheek, my hair riotous and tangled—I looked like I’d had a wild night. Me and Hugh Grant, a flat screen between us, separated for all eternity.

  I took a fortifying sip of coffee. It was just bitter enough to wake me up without making me grimace, although post tooth brushing, the taste was nothing to write home about. I started with a layer of foundation rubbed deep into the skin. The rosy patches vanished as if by magic, leaving my reflection sickly pale and making my nose stand out. I bent close to the mirror to dab concealer under my eyes, my back creaking like snapping twigs.

  I really needed to stop sleeping on the couch.

  Then came powder, bronzer and blush for contour. I left the eyes for last, Melanie’s advice be damned, and carefully wove my way through a long stripe of liquid liner across my lids. Practice made perfect and I’d been playing with crayons since I was a kid.

  By the time I’d finished, my coffee had cooled and the woman staring back at me from the mirror looked sophisticated and ready to take on the world. I hardly recognized myself.

  The phone rang in the other room, startling me from the staring contest.

  I contemplated not answering. Could be Javier calling to cancel. Could be Melanie blowing me off again. Or it could be work, I reasoned. Maybe there was a strike again, the city center paralyzed by disgruntled teachers, doctors or farmers, and I could sleep in.

  One look at the caller ID stole the wind from my sails. I made a mental note to change the ringtone to this particular number from Beethoven to Wagner and pressed ‘Answer’. “Grandmother, you’re up early…”

  “Good morning, Laure. You’re awfully chipper for the hour.” Her own voice was crisp and disapproving, a tone I’d come to associate with a long-suffering obstinacy in doing her duty.

  “Oh, you know me,” I deflected. “Eager to get to work.”

  “Ah. You’re still at the shop?”

  The note of surprise stung every time—not least because ‘the shop’ was Paris’ largest department store. We sold everything from Calvin Klein to Vivienne Westwood. It wasn’t Prada or Versace, sure, but our clientele was wealthy and the commission I made was more than generous.

  Were I willing to rent in a less prestigious part of town, I could easily have lived within my means.

  I swallowed my ire, made my voice saccharine and pleasant to a fault. “Yes. In fact, I was just about to run…” What do you want?

  I suppose there must have been a time when my grandmother and I were close. I couldn’t fathom why else I’d elected to leave the only country I’d ever known and move to Paris with her and Grandfather. I was hard-pressed to recall my prepubescent motives twenty years after the fact.

  Grandmother cleared her throat on the other end. I guessed I wouldn’t like what she had to say. “For tomorrow night… Are you certain you’ll be able to make it? It’s just that your grandfather has invited the Komorovs and I wanted to make sure we weren’t an odd number. It’s important,” she added, “for the seating.”

  Coffee threatened to rise up in my throat. I knew what she was asking—was I going to show up for dinner by my lonesome again or had I been successful in acquiring a steady boyfriend?

  The answer to that question was obviously no. The same no I’d delivered for nineteen years, barring those few times when I was in high school and I insisted on dating boys whose names sounded about as French as falafel.

  “It’ll be just me… As usual.”

  “Ah, all right.” Judgment was never overt with my grandmother, but I could hear it in her tone. You’re not getting any younger. What’s wrong with you that you can’t find a man?

  I could provide her with a list.

  “I really need to go…”

  “Yes, yes. We wouldn’t want you to be late, would we? I will see you tomorrow, Laure.” The line went dead before I could respond. I had been dismissed.

  Tempting as it was to slam my head into the wall, I’d worked too damn hard caking on the warpaint to ruin all my efforts in a fit of pique. I did hurl my pajamas at the bed while imagining it to be my grandmother’s head, which felt slightly cathartic.

  A glance at the clock told me that I truly was running late. I grabbed the first clothes I found in my wardrobe—a spaghetti strap top and an Oscar de la Renta ribbed black sweater that folded over to reveal my shoulders. Black trousers and a pair of red pumps completed my armor.

  I snatched my purse off the couch on my way out and nearly forgot my cell phone. I turned back just as I was about to lock the door behind me. I was a twenty-nine-year-old woman. Being parted from my cell was like being hobbled.

  Well, there was that, and I still held out hope that Javier would cancel that evening’s rendezvous.

  I shrugged into my trench coat with one hand while struggling to sneak my keys into my handbag with the other, a perilous balancing act that took up most of my focus. I didn’t see the man coming up the stairs until we nearly collided. He tilted back, narrowly avoiding my fist. I probably would’ve struck the wall with my head as I tried to right myself if he hadn’t caught me.

  For a moment, we stood like that, his arm around my waist, our syncopated breaths catching in our throats—the prototypical rom-com scenario. Or it might have been, were he not the perfect image of a kindly old dentist. He wasn’t much taller than me, but his face was testament to a lifetime of zero moisturizer. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes and deepened the pleats in his brow. His hairline was receding at the temples, something I found all-around unattractive in men.

  I pulled back with a stilted chuckle. “Oh, wow, you should be more careful.”

  “I should be more careful?” His accent shone through his outrage. American, I figured, and felt my skin prickle with discomfort.

  “The number one cause of household accidents in Paris is high heels. I thought that was common knowledge?” I stuck to French not to torture him but because I didn’t want to blow my cover.

  Wisdom dictated that I should be on my way, not making small talk with a man who, admittedly, I’d n
early pushed down the stairs.

  A man who laughed—presumably at me. “The guidebooks certainly don’t mention that.” He rubbed the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t holding the plastic bag.

  The smell of fresh croissants enveloped me. My stomach gurgled mortifyingly in response.

  We both pretended not to notice.

  “I’m Ashley,” my would-be victim said, holding out his free hand. “Ashley Compton. I just moved in down the hall. Four-D.” He gestured vaguely with the shopping bag.

  I wasn’t generally a big fan of unisex names, but there was nothing even vaguely androgynous about Ashley. He struck me as the typical alpha-dog type—one more bullet point in my ‘reasons never to speak to him again’ column.

  “Laure.” Even though I had no desire to give my name out to strangers, good manners compelled me to reciprocate. His hand was big and warm around mine, the pads of his fingers much softer than I’d anticipated. I let go as soon as I could. I needed to get a move on. Instead, I found myself saying, “Welcome to the neighborhood. And to France, I guess…”

  “Oh, no. I was in Nanterre for a bit. Too quiet in the evenings, you know?”

  I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. The last time I’d taken the train out to La Defense, Melanie had wanted to meet for lunch but couldn’t step out for more than thirty minutes. As easy as I found it to make my way through the labyrinthine streets of the capital, so too did I get lost in that austere chrome and glass tangle of skyscrapers and high-rises.

  “You won’t have that problem here,” I said, for the sake of conversation. “The Marais gets pretty lively.” Too lively, by Javier’s tastes, but I didn’t mind him having one less reason to want to spend the night.

  Ashley held my gaze, a strange little smile tilting up the corners of his lips. “That’s good to know…” He seemed to snap out of his trance when I cleared my throat, which was more than I’d come to expect when strange men gawped at me. “Sorry, you were walking with a great sense of purpose. I’ll let you run. It was nice meeting you.”

  “You, too.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around.”