Mind of the Phoenix (9 page)

“I hope the case is moving along smoothly,” he says, turning his attention to the detective and blatantly dismissing my presence. “I wish to speak to you in private about the details.”

The detective nods once because he knows it’s not a request; it’s a demand. “Of course,” he says, but then he glances at me as if he’s having second thoughts about leaving me alone.

“Don’t worry about her,” interjects Mr. Hayes, stepping up behind me. “I’ll keep her entertained in your absence and keep a close eye on her.”

The detective reluctantly leaves me with Mr. Hayes, and I turn to find the man offering me another glass of wine. I gratefully accept, and know exactly what sort of entertainment he has planned for me just by looking at the gleam in his eyes. He is a man who enjoys the company of
many
women and has every intention of seducing me. I don’t know why he would waste his time when he could just pay to bed someone at the pleasure house.

The man smiles and those amber eyes languidly study me. “I think you might be drunk, Moira.”

I snort. “Are you going to tell on me, Mr. Hayes?”

“Not at all,” he says teasingly. “It would seem that Mr. Edwards is very reluctant to leave you.”

I take a delicious gulp of wine and say sarcastically, “He thinks that I’m going to try to escape and possibly kill everyone in my path.” Perhaps I am a bit drunk. My head is deliciously hazy and my limbs feel as light as a feather.

“Are you?” He knows that I would never tell him, yet this whole conversation is amusing to him.

“If I
were
,” I state, leaning toward him, “I wouldn’t tell
you.
”

“I can see now why the detective would be reluctant to leave you,” he says, his eyes glittering with delight. “It’s hard not to be attracted to you, especially in your flushed state.”

His statement makes me snicker. “I think that would be the
last
reason,” I mutter, rolling my eyes at him.

I might be slightly drunk, but I can tell when someone is attempting to flatter me to get what they want. He thinks I’m an easy target to lure into his trap, but he doesn’t know that I have many years of practice evading those sorts of snares. In fact, I’m sort of a master myself. Along with persuasion, my charm is what allowed me to elude the constables for so long after I escaped.

“Oh, come on, Moira, you should know the face of desire more than anyone,” he says, and I suppose I do. I can see it in
his
face.

“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Hayes?”

He laughs again, the soft chuckle that gets under your skin because it seems so intimate. It is the sort of laugh reserved for the boudoir, not a public event. “What if I said I was?”

Even though his eyes are light with playfulness, I know that there is something dangerous behind that façade. With most men, I can tell exactly where I stand in their mind. I would even rather stand beside a man like Mr. Anderson than someone like Mr. Hayes, because I know what to expect. Mr. Anderson would not hesitate to use physical force on me, whether it’s through an act of violence or passion, and while some women would be frightened of that, I’m not. But I’m beginning to think that I should fear the man in front of me. Why is he attempting to lull me into a false sense of comfort? Is it merely to have sex with me? Or is it some sort of manipulation to get something else? He’s the Dream House Instigator and was the one to refer me to the police, meaning he is a business-man and has no moral qualms about using anything or anyone as long as it proves to be a valuable asset. And if I prove to be useless, I have no doubt that he would not hesitate to discard me.

“I would wonder
why
, Mr. Hayes,” I reply carefully, trying to make my mind less hazy.

“
Why?
” he echoes in mock disbelief. “Because you are a beautiful woman, Moira. Is that not the only reason any man needs to flirt with a woman?”

I frown. So, maybe it is just about sex, and apparently he has no moral issues with having sex with a supposed murderer. He’s attracted to me and believes that’s all the reason he could possibly need to bed me. My past doesn’t matter, and even who I am doesn’t seem to matter. To him, beauty and attraction are things you don’t question or analyze. Instead, you react and you appreciate and then move along to the next beautiful thing. I narrow my eyes, wondering if I should be offended, but, instead, I find myself bitterly amused. I have no doubt that if he ever saw the darkness in my mind, he wouldn’t find me so beautiful anymore. He would be repulsed… or maybe he wouldn’t. I sense that there is an ugliness beneath his charming exterior as well.

“Moira, you are far too young to be so cynical,” he states softly, his eyes lingering on my lips.

“It’s not like I had a choice,” I respond quietly, trying to swallow my hostility with a gulp of wine.

“You
always
have a choice.”

I glare, preparing a derisive retort, but then I recall some of the women I had known at the pleasure house. Despite their lot in life and the way some of the clients treated them, they seemed to still hold their heads high and their eyes still glittered with hope. I had scoffed at them, wanting no part in their hopeful delusions, but I now realize that maybe it wasn’t so naïve of them. Perhaps it was their way to cope with reality and survive. Granted, it was different from the path I had chosen. But if it kept them going another day, is it really so harmful?

“Come now,” he says, smiling mischievously. “This is far too lovely a night to be so serious.” He grabs another glass of wine from a server and replaces my empty glass.

“If this was any other circumstance, I would think that you were trying to get me drunk.”

He smiles. “I’m afraid you’ve done that all on your own, Moira. And what do you mean by any other circumstance?”

“Well, you have nothing to gain tonight by trying to get me drunk.”

“Oh?” he says, raising a brow. “And why not?”

“Because there’s no way you could possibly take me to your home and have your way with me,” I answer, swaying slightly.

He grabs my waist lightly and moves me so that I suddenly find myself leaning against a wall, and then his hands are at his side again. “Is that because the detective wouldn’t let you? Or is it because
you
wouldn’t let me?”

I pull a face, and in my blurred state I find myself confused by his words. My head feels dizzy and the sounds of many people chattering at once batters at my ears. I close my eyes in an attempt to make the feeling go away, and when I open them I see the detective standing beside Mr. Hayes. His green eyes are regarding me with disapproval. I want to laugh at his expression, but, instead, I scowl up at him.

“You’re drunk.” He then glares at the man standing beside him, who is grinning at me. “You should have stopped her at some point.”

“Oh, I should have? It’s hardly fair for me to interrupt someone who is clearly enjoying themselves.”

The detective’s glower deepens and he turns to me. “Come on, Moira. I’ll take you back to the hotel.” He pries the glass out of my hand and gives it to Mr. Hayes. I try to protest, but his grip on my arm tightens.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Moira,” says Mr. Hayes, winking at me. “I do hope I have the gratification of meeting you again.”

“I bet you do,” I say teasingly over my shoulder as the detective pulls me away from Mr. Hayes.

Keenan escorts me through the crowd and out into the chilly night. I should be cold, but I’m not. The wine has set my blood on fire, and I find myself perspiring slightly. The detective has to help me into the motor vehicle because my limbs don’t seem to respond to my commands—or maybe it is my mind that fails to make the proper demands. Either way, I am incapable of moving on my own. He then climbs into the seat beside me and begins to drive. I don’t understand why he is so upset, and his anger annoys me.

“I’m hot,” I protest, squirming in my coat. I try to remove the extra fabric, but fail.

“No, you’re not. You just think you are. Now, keep that coat on.”

It seems to take us forever to reach the hotel, but then he finally parks in front. I stumble out of the vehicle before Keenan has time to reach me, and I fall to the ground. I immediately start laughing hysterically, wondering when I last felt this good. He sighs and tries to help me to my feet.

“You shouldn’t have had so much to drink, Moira,” he says in that stern voice of his.

“I couldn’t help it,” I respond, and then giggle. “It tasted too good.”

“Have you never tasted wine before?”

“Nope,” I say cheerily. “We weren’t allowed alcohol. A concubine can’t do her work if she’s drunk, you know.”

I stumble in our attempt to enter the hotel and he grabs me firmly. “You smell good,” I announce softly, inhaling his scent.

He ignores my comment and helps me up the stairs. “Do you think I smell good,
master
?” I inquire, leaning into him as I make the last word sound like a purr.

“You smell just fine,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just disinterested.

He opens the door and practically drags me into my room. I clumsily take off my coat and then reach to remove his. My body seems to be working of its own volition as my hazy mind scrambles to catch up. All I know is that I suddenly don’t want to be alone tonight. He grabs my hands with his gloved ones, halting my clumsy progress, but surprisingly doesn’t move away.

“Aren’t you going to stay?”

I want his body pressed against mine, to feel his naked flesh beneath my fingertips—anything to make me forget that I am alone. I rest my head on his chest and then slowly lift myself up on my toes so that my lips are an inch away from his neck. He still doesn’t move. I inhale and press myself firmly against him. He sighs, a slow, quiet exhale of breath. It doesn’t carry the note of annoyance like it had earlier, but rather sounds like a reluctant admission of desire. Perhaps it won’t be as difficult as I had initially thought to persuade him to stay.

“Did I tell you that you smell good?” I say, gently pressing my lips to the exposed skin beneath his jaw.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Yes, you did.” His grip on my arms is painfully tight, but I realize that it is the only thing steadying me—that and the hard length of his body.

“I smell cigarettes, alcohol, and something else that is entirely you,” I say, trailing my gloved hand further down the length of his abdomen in search of something that will give me a definite affirmation of his arousal.

Unfortunately, he stops my hand just before it reaches below his trousers. “You need sleep, Moira.”

I pout. “I don’t
want
to sleep. What I–”

“You may not feel like you want to, but you need to sleep off the alcohol.”

“What I
want
is for you to stay,” I continue, ignoring him.

He looks at me, and those green eyes flicker between my two different coloured eyes. Even in the darkness of the room, his eyes manage to shine like a steadying beacon. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes–”

“You’re drunk,” he states, as if it explains everything.

I glare at him. “How can you simultaneously desire me and reject me at the same time?”

“I think,
Moira
, I do it with a clear head, knowing that it is the alcohol speaking and that you’ll regret everything you’re saying right now in the morning,” he replies, and his annoyance has returned, while his desire is slowly trickling away.

I push away from him and mutter, “I
hate
the smell of cigarettes.” I hate that he has rejected me, but, most of all, I hate that I had been desperate enough to seek his attention.

He stares at me for a moment and then says quietly, “I know.” And it’s as if he had expected me to make such a comment, which is ridiculous. “I’ll send a maid up to help you with your corset.”

I angrily pull off my gloves. “I’d rather just have you do it right now. I’m hot and feel like I can’t breathe.”

“I’d rather not,” he responds, giving me a curious look.

I scoff. “What? Are you afraid I’ll
throw
myself at you?
Please,
this corset is suffocating!”

I turn around and wait for him to untie the dress. I’m infuriated with myself for trying to seduce him and even more annoyed for feeling so lonely. I should have taken Mr. Hayes up on his offer and gone back to
his
bed. Then at least I wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of rejection or my loneliness. I just don’t understand this man. His desire was unmistakable, with its potent fragrance, yet he won’t have sex with me. The darkness has managed to pierce its way through my drunken haze, and
her
voice taints my mind.

He’s repulsed by you,
she says.
Why would he ever want to be with you? Yes, he’s attracted to you, but he’s disgusted by the fact that you are property that has already been used and damaged.

After a brutal moment of silence where I fear I will faint if I don’t get out of the corset, he finally approaches me and begins to untie the dress. I hold the front of the dress against my chest as he proceeds to unfasten the corset as well. Maybe I should have let him call the hotel maid.

“Thank you,” I say, breathing more easily now.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

I let the dress and corset fall to the floor and call to him softly, “Keenan?”

He turns to face me, and those green eyes are careful not to explore my body despite the fact that I’m standing in just my thin chemise.

“You make a horrible master.”

He stares at me for a moment, and says, “Then it’s a good thing I’m not your master.”

I
hate this place
, and it is only with the knowledge that I’m here as part of the investigation rather than as a slave that I enter the pleasure house at all. The moment we enter the building, I smell the cloying scent of lavender and jasmine mingling together in the air and hear the sharp cries of a woman over the muffled moans of pleasure from upstairs. Mrs. Hughes, the woman in charge of keeping the records of each transaction and handling the house’s finances, greets us at the entrance. She is most likely in charge of the house until the Elite can find someone to fill the position of instigator. Mrs. Hughes is a tall, severe-looking woman who had always struck me as someone who would preach on the streets about the indecency and ungodliness of the pleasure house, but she’s anything but saintly. To her, the women of the house are nothing but property that can be sold at a high price or lent out at a profitable rate. Her face was the one I saw every day before she ushered a client into my room, and the last one I saw before I was sold at the age of nineteen. I hate her, but not as much as I hated Madame Del Mar.

The detective is frowning and those green eyes are staring down the hall, where the sounds of a whip cracking and a woman’s plaintive cries are echoing from behind one of the closed doors. I had been that woman plenty of times, but by the third time I had stopped crying out. With the many times I had been bent before the whip, many of the other women began to think I rather enjoyed the punishment, especially since I just gritted my teeth and winced. But, no, I didn’t enjoy it—far from it. I was just too proud to admit defeat and allow my masters the pleasure of my submission.

“How may I help you, sir?” inquires Mrs. Hughes. “Do you have any specific requests?”

“No, Mrs. Hughes. I am Detective Edwards, and I am here on behalf of the Elite.” His eyes travel back down the hall, and Mrs. Hughes follows his gaze.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she says dismissively, turning her attention back on the detective. “Just another disobedient concubine.”

“Is there somewhere we can converse in private, Mrs. Hughes?” he asks, and I can sense that he is anxious to escape the sounds of the woman crying.

“Of course, detective,” she replies, but then her eyes fall on me. “I know you.” Her eyes narrow and flicker between me and the detective. “What is
she
doing here?”

“Moira is here with me on matters of the Elite.”

“A concubine?” counters the woman, and I’m surprised that that seems to be her only objection to my presence. I’m pretty certain she had heard of my master’s death and my attempt to escape.

“
Careful
, Mrs. Hughes.”

Does he just not like her speaking back to him, or was that his way of standing up for me?

Why would he stand up for you—a whore?
says a voice in my head.

Yes, she’s probably right. His rejection of me last night has only proved that he finds me repulsive. Apparently he is nothing like Mr. Hayes, who would sleep with any beautiful woman regardless of her past. But then again, maybe I’m just not his type, like he said. Either way, it would be best if I forget about that night and my embarrassment.

Mrs. Hughes’s expression hardens and she turns to open one of the doors on the right. It is her office, where clients make their payments or special requests, and she sits behind the desk, gesturing for us to take a seat. She sets aside a few papers and then looks up at the detective.

“So, how can I help you, detective?”

“I require some documents, Mrs. Hughes. A list of transactions, to be exact.”

“Which ones?” she probes, picking up a pen to write the names. “And what dates?”

“I need Rachel Del Mar’s, Charles Darwitt’s, and a list of transactions for the empath that Mr. Darwitt saw on January seventh,” he answers. “I’d like them to list transactions from March seventh all the way back to September first of last year.”

“That would be Mia,” says Mrs. Hughes. “Mr. Darwitt had taken to requesting her specifically.” She then sits back in her chair and looks at the detective. “I will retrieve those lists and have them sent to the police station. Was there–”

“You’ll retrieve them
now
, Mrs. Hughes.”

The woman glares at the detective. “It will take a while to find all three.”

“Then I will be waiting here for you.”

“I’m a busy woman, detective,” she retorts, her lips pressed into a firm line. “I have clients. What if one were to walk in while I was gone?”

“They can wait,” he says, and even though his tone hasn’t changed I can tell he is losing patience with Mrs. Hughes. “And unless you wish to answer to the Elite, I suggest you get me those transactions.”

The woman stands up abruptly and marches past us. The office door slams behind her and I grin. She doesn’t like being told what to do, and I can recall the many instances in which she had argued with Madame Del Mar over the clients, money, and managing the concubines. She must be glad that the Madame has died and she now has the opportunity to manage the house according to her own rules. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wants the position of Madame herself. For the sake of the other women in this house, I sure hope not, even if she couldn’t possibly be worse than Madame Del Mar.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone boss Mrs. Hughes around.”

Those green eyes settle on me and I quickly look away as memories of last night come to the surface of my mind. I’ve been very careful not to allude to the fact that despite my drunken state last night I clearly remember practically throwing myself on the detective. God, the things I said. To say that I am embarrassed would be an understatement, and I vow to never get drunk in the detective’s presence again. As I’m pretending to be engrossed in the items on Mrs. Hughes’s desk, I catch the distinct smell of a cigarette.

“Do you really have to have a cigarette now, detective?”

“What’s the matter, Moira?” he asks softly, his eyes intently on mine. “Does the smell bother you?”

“Not at all,” I respond, even though he knows that it does. I have no doubt that he remembers me blatantly telling him that I hate the smell of cigarettes when he rejected my advances.

“You’ve been unusually quiet this morning. Are you sure you are feeling well?”

“Yes, I am,” I answer, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t realize you were so concerned about my well-being, detective.”

“Well, you
did
drink a lot of wine last night.” I can hear him exhale a cloud of smoke. “Do you remember much of the evening?”

He’s toying with me, and I can feel those green eyes examining my reaction to everything he says. I assume he suspects that I remember a great deal, and he is relishing my discomfort. I stand, suddenly feeling restless, and begin examining the books on Mrs. Hughes’s shelf. I need to make him think that his rejection last night hadn’t offended me.

“Not much,” I say, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing my face. “I remember talking with Mr. Hayes.” Yes, bring in another man to prove my indifference to him.

“Is that so? And what did you two talk about in my absence?”

I snort as I recall my conversation with the Dream House Instigator. “He mostly just flirted with me.”

“I’m not surprised,” says the detective. “Amongst other things, the man has a reputation for flirting with women.” There’s a moment of silence before he adds, “Are you really interested in those books or are you avoiding me, Moira?”

I turn to him and ask innocently, “Why would I be avoiding you, detective?”

“You tell me,” he counters, and I realize that it was a mistake to look at him.

I quickly turn back toward the books and pull one out at random. I hear him move and suddenly he’s standing beside me. His hand reaches for the book and I force myself to look up at him. Those green eyes scan the title of the book and then search my face. They shouldn’t possess the power to make me squirm beneath their gaze.

“Who taught you how to read, Moira?”

He’s no longer interested in teasing me about the events of last night. I can see it in his eyes. He’s now determined to pry into my past, but I have no intention of discussing my history with him. Why does it even matter to him? I was caught and accused of murder. The facts are in that folder he keeps hidden in his desk drawer, so there shouldn’t be any questions.

I shrug. “What does it matter
who
taught me?”

“I’m simply curious.”

I sigh and say, “My previous master.”

His focus flickers between my hazel and blue eye. “You mean Scott Harrison, the Head of the Blockers.”

I turn away. That is a name I never want to hear again. Even though he was Head of the Blockers, his last name was Harrison because he was the property of Mr. Harrison, the Chief Elite member. He had been able to own some property even though he was an empath, because he was a blocker. Blockers are permitted more freedom than the rest of the empaths, for their obedient servitude to the Elite.

“Why would he teach you how to read, Moira?” His voice is demanding me to answer, but I don’t have one to offer him.

“I don’t know,” I respond angrily. “Who cares? He’s
dead
.” I grab the book out of his hand and shove it back onto the shelf. “Perhaps he got some sort of perverted pleasure out of it. God knows he didn’t get his pleasure like a normal man.”

I shouldn’t have said that, because now the detective is curious about my relationship with Scott. His eyes narrow, but before he can respond, the door opens. Mrs. Hughes walks in and stares at us in a mixture of annoyance and confusion, obviously questioning why we are standing beside the bookshelf with only a foot between us. The detective clears his throat and turns his attention to her.

“Were you able to find all three lists?”

“Yes,” she answers, and reluctantly hands three large envelopes to him.

“Thank you, I will have them sent back to you once I’m finished with them.”

She nods. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?” she asks, but her tone suggests that she is anything but genuine in her willingness.

“Yes, actually there is. I would like to speak with Mia.”

“Whatever for?” she blurts, appalled by the idea.

“I’d like to ask her questions pertaining to Mr. Darwitt that don’t involve you, Mrs. Hughes,” he says, and I’m glad that the intensity of those green eyes is not directed on me.

“Fine. I’ll escort you to her room.”

She leads us out of the office and up the stairs. Even though the majority of slaves in the pleasure house are women, there are several men who manage to bring in a large sum for the house. Some of them receive both female and male clients, and it is these slaves who bring in the highest revenue. A lot of the doors are closed, but I can hear the typical—and not so typical—sounds of sex. We walk by one room with an open door and I catch the sight of a naked woman sitting at a vanity brushing her hair. I look away and see a man exit another door further down. He looks up at us in surprise, and his eyes widen in shock and embarrassment.

“Detective Edwards, sir,” he says, freezing in his spot.

“Constable Smith,” says the detective, nodding to him.

We walk past him and I glance back. Constable Smith quickly looks away and rushes down the stairs. He clearly had no idea that he would run into the detective on his way out of enjoying a half hour in a concubine’s boudoir. I turn back and nearly bump into the detective. He glances down at me curiously while Mrs. Hughes knocks on the door we have stopped in front of. The door opens and a petite redhead appears before us wearing only a corset over her chemise. Ugh, couldn’t it have been the
other
Mia I remember?

“Mia, this is Detective Edwards,” says Mrs. Hughes. “He wants to ask you questions about Mr. Darwitt.”

Mrs. Hughes then leaves and Mia beckons for us to enter her room. She closes the door, not even bothering to put a house coat on, and stares at me with wide blue eyes. The raised red scar on her right cheekbone—a horizontal s, with a dot above and below—stands out against her pale skin.

“Moira?” she says hesitantly. “Is that you?”

I nod because I recognize her as well. We didn’t particularly get along when I lived at the pleasure house, but not many of us did. Our circumstances made us a bit hostile toward one another, viewing each woman as a potential rival for a rich client, although
a bit
is an understatement when it came to Mia. When we were younger—around fifteen—she had a particular fascination with spreading rumours about me, and sometimes she would manage to enter my room and set up a prank for me to find later. One time she had emptied my entire perfume bottle and filled it with a horrible-smelling liquid that made me reek for the entire day. She had also enjoyed calling me fat. She hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw her over a year ago—she is still extremely thin, with long coppery hair.

“I thought you were in prison? And what did you do to your hair?”

“I was,” I reply, giving her a guarded look, not even bothering to respond to her comment on my hair.

“I see you’ve finally managed to lose some weight,” she states, her cold eyes scanning my body.

“And I see you still have the tiniest breasts I’ve ever seen,” I snap.

Mia glares and opens her mouth with what I imagine would be a harsh retort, but the detective interrupts her.

“Moira is property of the Elite now and is aiding the police,” he interjects, in a voice that says he won’t tolerate our petty argument. “Now, Mia, I’d like to ask you some questions about Mr. Darwitt.”

“I smell smoke,” she says bluntly. “Did you have a cigarette before coming here, detective?”

“Yes–”

“Can I have one?” she asks, and her expression has turned hopeful.

“I suppose,” he responds slowly, and then gives her a cigarette, carefully lighting it for her.

When she exhales, she closes her eyes and her face relaxes. “Okay,” she says, opening her eyes. “You can ask me anything you want now.”

“Do you know why Mr. Darwitt had been requesting you specifically?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she answers, exhaling as she speaks. She then looks at me pointedly as she adds, “Perhaps it was because, unlike
most
of the other women here, he thought I was a good fuck.”