Prologue

No. No. No. Not the black. Not the choking dark. Not the plastic bag. Panic overwhelms her, forcing the air from her lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. The metallic taste of fear rises in her throat. I need to do this. It’s the only way. Be still. Be calm. Breathe slow. Breathe shallow. Just like he said. This will be over soon. It will be over, and then I will be free. Free. Free.

* * *

Go. Now. Run. Run. Run. Go. She runs hard and fast but doesn’t look back. Fear drives her forward as she dodges a few late-night shoppers in her quest to flee. Luck is with her: the automatic doors are open. She flies under the gaudy holiday decorations and through the entrance into the parking lot. On and on she runs. Between the parked cars and into the woods. She runs for her life, down a small dirt path, through brambles, small branches slapping her face. She runs until her lungs are bursting. Go. Go. Go. Don’t stop.

* * *

Cold. Cold. Too cold. Fatigue fogs her brain. Fatigue and the cold. The wind howls through the trees, through her clothes, and into her bones. She huddles beneath a bush and gathers the fallen leaves to build a nest with numb hands. Sleep. She needs sleep. She lies down on the cold, hard ground, too tired to be afraid and too tired to weep. The others. Did they get away? She closes her eyes. Did they escape? Let them be free. Let them be warm…How did it come to this?

* * *

She wakes. She’s lying between trash cans, wrapped in newspapers and cardboard. She’s shivering. She’s so cold. But she needs to move on. She has an address. She thanks her nana’s God for the address. With shaking fingers she unfurls the paper. This is where she needs to go. Now. Now. Now.

* * *

One foot in front of the other. Walk. It’s all she can do. Walk. Walk. Walk. Sleep in a doorway. Wake and walk on. Walk. She drinks water from the sink at the McDonald’s. The food smells enticing.

* * *

She’s cold. Hunger claws at her stomach. And she walks and walks, following the map. A stolen map. Stolen from a store. A store with twinkling lights and Christmas music. She holds the scrap of paper with what little strength she has left. It’s worn and torn from so many days hidden in her boot. Tired. So tired. Dirty. So dirty and cold and frightened. This place is her only hope. She raises her trembling hand and presses the doorbell.

* * *

Magda is expecting her. Her mother wrote and told her. She welcomes her with open arms. And then backs away quickly. Jesus, child. What’s happened to you? I was expecting you last week!

Chapter One

Mindless sex—there’s a lot to be said for it. No commitments, no expectations, and no disappointments; I just have to remember their names. Who was it last time? Jojo? Jeanne? Jody? Whatever. She was some nameless fuck who moaned a great deal both in and out of bed. I lie staring at the rippling reflections from the Thames on my ceiling, unable to sleep. Too restless to sleep.

Tonight it’s Caroline. She doesn’t fit the nameless-fuck category. She’ll never fit. What the hell was I thinking? Closing my eyes, I try to silence the still, small voice that is questioning the wisdom of bedding my best friend…again. She slumbers beside me, her sleek body bathed in the silver light of the January moon, her long legs entwined with mine, and her head on my chest.

This is wrong, so wrong. I rub my face, trying to erase my self-loathing, and she stirs and shifts, waking from her doze. One manicured fingernail skims down my stomach and over my abdominal muscles, then circles my navel. I sense her sleepy smile as her fingers slip toward my pubic hair. Catching her hand, I bring it to my lips. “Haven’t we done enough damage for one night, Caro?” I kiss each finger in turn to take the sting out of the rejection. I’m tired and disheartened by the nagging, unwelcome guilt that gnaws at my gut. This is Caroline, for heaven’s sake, my best friend and my brother’s wife. Ex-wife.

No. Not ex-wife. His widow.

It’s a sad, lonely word for a sad, lonely circumstance.

“Oh, Maxim, please. Make me forget,” she whispers, and plants a warm, wet kiss on my chest. Tossing her fair hair away from her face, she gazes up at me through long lashes, her eyes shining with need and grief.

I cup her lovely face and shake my head. “We shouldn’t.”

“Don’t.” She places her fingers on my lips, silencing me. “Please. I need it.”

I groan. I’m going to hell.

“Please,” she begs.

Shit, this is hell.

And because I’m hurting, too—because I miss him, too—and Caroline is my connection to him, my lips find hers and I ease her onto her back.

* * *

When I wake, the room is flooded with bright winter sunshine that makes me squint. Turning over, I’m relieved to see that Caroline has gone, leaving behind a lingering trace of regret—and a note on my pillow:

Dinner tonight with Daddy & the Stepsow?

Please come.

They are mourning, too.

ILY x

Fuck.

This is not what I want. I close my eyes, grateful to be alone in my own bed and glad, despite our nocturnal activities, that we decided to come back to London two days after the funeral.

How the hell did this get so out of hand?

Just a nightcap, she’d said, and I’d gazed into her big blue eyes, brimming with sorrow, and known what she wanted. It was the same look she’d given me the night we learned of Kit’s accident and untimely death. A look I couldn’t resist then. We’d almost danced the dance so many times, but that night I resigned myself to fate, and with an unerring inevitability I fucked my brother’s wife.

And now we’d done it again, with Kit laid to rest only two days ago.

I scowl at the ceiling. I am, without doubt, a pathetic excuse for a human. But then so is Caroline. At least she has an excuse: she’s in mourning, scared for her future, and I’m her best friend. Who else could she turn to in her hour of need? I’d just pushed the envelope on comforting the grieving widow.

Frowning, I crumple her note and toss it to the wooden floor, where it skitters to a stop under the sofa that’s piled with my clothes. The watery shadows float above me, the light and dark seeming to taunt me. I close my eyes to shut them out.

Kit was a good man.

Kit. Dear Kit. Everyone’s favorite—even Caroline’s; she did choose him, after all. A vision of Kit’s desolate, broken body lying beneath a sheet at the hospital mortuary appears unbidden in my mind. I take a deep breath, trying to dispel the memory, as a knot forms in my throat. He deserved better than dear Caro and me—his wastrel brother. He didn’t deserve this…betrayal.

Fuck.

Who am I kidding?

Caroline and I deserve each other. She scratched my itch, and I scratched hers. We’re both consenting and technically free adults. She likes it. I like it, and it’s what I do best, fucking some eager, attractive woman into the small hours of the morning. It’s my favorite recreational activity and gives me something to do—someone to do. Fucking keeps me fit, and in the throes of passion I learn all I need to know about a woman—how to make her sweat and if she screams or cries when she comes.

Caroline is a crier.

Caroline has just lost her husband.

Shit.

And I’ve lost my big brother, my only guiding light for the last few years.

Shit.

Closing my eyes, I see Kit’s pale, dead face once more, and his loss is a yawning space within me.

An irreplaceable loss.

Why the hell was he riding his motorcycle on that bleak and icy night? It’s beyond comprehension. Kit is—was—the sane one, the safe pair of hands, Lord Reliable himself. Between the two of us, it was Kit who brought honor to our family name, upheld its reputation, and behaved responsibly. He held down a job in the City and managed the substantial family business as well. He didn’t make rash decisions, he didn’t drive like a madman. He was the sensible brother. He stepped up, not down. He was not the prodigal mess that I am. No, I’m the other side of Kit’s coin. My specialty is being the black sheep of the family. No one has any expectations of me, I make sure of that. Always.

I sit up, my mood grim in the harsh morning light. It’s time to hit the basement gym. Running, fucking, and fencing, they all keep me in shape.

* * *