SLOANE
There’s an art to cornering a man like Thorsten Harris.
The first trick is to approach him in a place where he feels confident, one where he thinks he’s the apex predator in his little pond because he’s successfully hunted there before. Like this place, Orion Bar, an upscale cocktail lounge within what I already know is Thorsten’s preferred range. It’s just far enough from his home that he feels like it’s an adventure, just close enough to his house to make luring his prey there viable.
The second step in the process is to learn what he likes. What excites him. What he loathes. In Thorsten’s case, he enjoys red wine, impeccable cooking, and expensive things. Not always nice things, in fact they’re often gaudy and pretentious, but expensive nonetheless. As for what he hates? Bad manners. And yams, apparently. Then take all that knowledge and start to build a rapport with him.
And the last step is the tricky part: you have to make him believe you’re smart enough to be an interesting conquest—you might be prey, but you’re worth the risk to take a trophy. But you also have to come off as just dumb enough that you would willingly accept his dinner invitation at his home tomorrow night, even though he’s essentially a stranger.
…Or, you can throw all that out the window and just be Rowan Kane.
A motorcycle helmet drops onto the empty space next to me on the white leather couch.
Instantly, my blood turns volcanic.
“Fancy seeing you around these parts,” Rowan says as he plops down next to it with a shit-eating grin.
I give him a dead-eyed glare in reply.
My ferocity only earns me a wink before he’s leaning forward with his arm extended over the coffee table toward the man sitting across from me.
“Hi, pleasure to meet you. I’m Rowan.”
“Thorsten Harris, pleasure is all mine,” my well-dressed, older companion says as he accepts the handshake. I’ve spent the past four days trying to avoid this exact scenario in my attempts to corner Thorsten, who Rowan now knows is our annual target, though he doesn’t seem to know why.
I thought I finally escaped Rowan when I slipped out of the hotel and his rental car was still in the parking lot.
Clearly, I misjudged him.
And he is fucking elated about that.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Rowan barrels on, ready to light the fuse for every cannon in his arsenal of charm. He aims his fucking flawless smile at my prey, his skin bright and flushed, probably from the excitement of successfully chasing me down. “I saw my friend’s car here as I was passing through and it’s just been so long, I thought I should stop in and say a quick hello to her.”
And then he turns the full force of his charm attack on me. “Hello, friend.”
“What a deep joy it is to see you here, Rowan. I’m so thrilled.” I take a long sip of my wine before I give him a tight smile. The silence between us stretches. Thorsten shifts in his seat and I suppress a groan, aware that I’m already pushing Thorsten’s boundaries for manners. “Would you care to join us?” I ask woodenly. My smile has a vicious edge that clearly says ‘fuck the hell right off’.
And Rowan says, “I would be delighted.”
Within one minute, Thorsten has poured him a generous glass of expensive Chianti.
Within five, Rowan has him whooping with laughter and clapping his hands.
Within ten, Thorsten is nearly tripping over himself to invite Rowan along to our dinner at his home tomorrow night, something I’ve spent all evening orchestrating as a solo venture.
Two hours later, we’re leaving the swanky bar side-by-side in Thorsten’s wake, tomorrow’s dinner plans etched in stone.
And I’m seething.
“I have to hand it to you,” I whisper as Thorsten gets into his car and we wave him off. “Your grocery delivery trick to my home was very cute. You nearly had me fooled there with that cooking together thing.”
“Fooled?” Rowan’s eyes roam over me, bright and wry. “Not sure what you mean, Blackbird.”
“Fooled into thinking that you weren’t going to turn around and become a monumental pain in my ass at the first available opportunity for this season’s game,” I say. He bellows a laugh and I fold my arms across my chest as I glare up at him. “You are a cheat.”
“Am not.”
“You’ve been following me around relentlessly to figure out who we’re after rather than looking on your own.”
“It’s not in the rule book that I can’t.”
“We don’t have a fucking rule book. But we should. Rule number one: do your own fucking research.”
“Why, when I can have so much fun following you?” Rowan’s smile only grows more devious when I growl in my most accurate Winston impression. “So…who is that guy anyway?”
I huff and roll my eyes before I pivot on my heel and stomp toward my rental car. “You are the worst,” I hiss as Rowan pulls open the driver door for me. “You and your…” I wave a hand in his direction as I slide into my seat. “Skullduggery.”
Rowan snorts as he leans down into my vehicle, his face so close to mine that I feel his every breath on my cheek. I try to ignore the way it twists my belly with a different kind of fury. “Skullduggery. Should I take this as a sign that you’ve moved on from dragon smut to pirate porn?”
“Maybe I have.”
“You know, you’re kind of adorable when you’re indignant.”
“And you are still the worst,” I growl as I tug my door free of his grip.
He manages to move before I slam it on his hand, but I still catch his teasing laugh and his parting words: “You’ll love me someday.”
The next day is not that day.
No, not when Rowan invites himself to my breakfast-for-one at the hotel restaurant. Nor when he shows up in the mall as I shop for an outfit, even though he does carry my bags and help me pick out a cute little retro-style halter dress. It’s just a ploy to gain an advantage, after all. Crafty fucker. And someday is definitely not today when I park at Thorsten’s grand, secluded home in Calabasas and Rowan’s rented motorcycle is already there. He’s leaning against it, hot as sin in a black leather jacket, his gaze raking from my toes to my eyes with a look like that sets me on fire, and he knows it.
“Evening, Blackbird,” he says as he pushes off the side of the bike.
“Butcher.”
Rowan draws to a halt in front of me as I cross my arms and cock a hip. “That’s a pretty dress. Someone help pick that out for you? Whoever they are, they clearly have impeccable taste.”
“Great taste. Absolutely zero boundaries.”
He grins. “I’m so happy we’re on the same page.”
I give him my most dramatic eye roll and am about to launch into him when the front door swings open and Thorsten stands on the threshold with his arms spread in greeting.
“Welcome, my young friends,” he says, looking ready to host illustrious guests. His white hair is perfectly coiffed. His burgundy jacquard dinner jacket shimmers in the setting sun. The smile he flashes us has a hidden, sharp edge. “Please, do come in.”
He steps aside and motions for us to enter the palatial home.
We start with cocktails in the living room where first-edition books and ceramic figurines and paintings surround us, and I take the time to appreciate the art as Thorsten gives us a tour of his collection, his most prized possessions carefully labeled. Even after he’s moved on, I stare for a long while at a signed drypoint and etching print by Edward Hopper called Night Shadows. The sketch shows a man from overhead as he walks alone on a city street, the lamplight casting deep shadows around him. Something about him seems sinister. He could be stalking. He could be hunting. And when I look left and right, I see the narrative emerge from the art that engulfs me.
To my left, a black and white photograph by Andrew Prokos called Fulton Oculus #2. The image evokes the feeling of an all-seeing, ominous eye made of steel and glass.
To my right, a painting by John Singer Sargent of a woman sitting at a dinner table. She faces the viewer, her hand wrapped around a glass of red wine. A man sits next to her at the far right of the image. But he’s not looking at the viewer. He’s looking at her.
Beyond that, a print of The Waltz, by Félix Vallotton. It depicts couples dancing, but they seem almost ghostly. The woman in the lower right corner looks like she’s asleep.
After that…
I look at Rowan and place my cocktail on a coaster and leave it on the side table, untouched. He’s immersed in conversation with our host and doesn’t notice me.
But Thorsten does.
“Drink not to your taste, my darling?” Thorsten asks with a tight smile.
“It’s delicious, thank you. Just saving myself for your wonderful collection of wine,” I reply with a bow of my head.
His smile seems more relaxed when he sets his own drink down and declares it’s time to move on to the main event.
“I can’t tell you how elated I am to have a professional chef grace my table this evening,” Thorsten says, leading us to the dining room where classical music plays on a low volume and candles flicker among the dark flowers of an elaborate centerpiece. He points me toward a mahogany chair covered with plush red velvet, pulling it away from the table and pushing it back in as I sit. “And his lovely companion as well, of course.”
“Thank you,” I say, dropping a demure smile to my place setting. I don’t know anything about antique bone china, but I’m willing to bet Thorsten would have an absolute fit if any of it were smashed.
I file that thought for later.
“And such a lovely couple you make. How did you meet, anyway?”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” I say at the same time that Rowan says ‘an expedition in the bayou.’
We give one another a pointed look as Thorsten laughs. “Seems like you might have differing opinions on the subject of your relationship status.”
“Well, it’s hard to compete with the stunning wait staff and Rowan’s adoring socialite regulars,” I say with a sickly sweet smile.
“No one competes with Sloane.” Rowan’s eyes anchor on mine, dragging me into the depths of a navy sea. “She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
Our gazes stay locked for a heartbeat that feels too heavy in my chest. But the suspended moment is cut too short as Thorsten chuckles, the pop of a wine cork breaking the connection between us. “Perhaps tonight she will. Let us take inspiration from the art of cuisine. For as Longfellow said, ‘Art is long, and time is fleeting, and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the grave.’”
Rowan and I exchange a glance as Thorsten focuses on pouring his wine, and I manage to roll my eyes and catch his fleeting grin in reply before our host can look our way.
When my wine is decanted into an etched crystal goblet and Thorsten has settled into his chair, he raises his glass for a toast. “To new friends. And for some of us, perhaps one day more than just friends.”
“To new friends,” we echo, and a sliver of unexpected disappointment finds its way beneath my skin when I realize I’d hoped Rowan might repeat the last line of the toast instead.
Our host takes a sip of his wine and I do the same, figuring it must be safe enough to drink if he’s taking a long pull. He holds up his glass and grins at the ruby wine. “2015 Tenuta Tignanello, ‘Marchese Antinori’ Reserva. I do love a nice Chianti,” he says. He takes another sip, closing his eyes on a deep breath before his lids snap open. “Let us begin.”
Thorsten picks up a little bell next to his place setting, its tinkling melody flooding the dining room. A moment later, a man enters with slow, careful steps, pushing a silver serving cart toward the table. He appears to be in his late thirties, tall, athletic with broad shoulders that stoop as though the muscles have recently forgotten they have a job to do. The yellowing remains of healing bruises rim his vacant eyes.
“This is David,” Thorsten says as David places a plate of hors d’oeuvres before me. David doesn’t look up, just trudges back to the trolley where he fetches a plate for Rowan. “Mr. Miller can’t talk. He had a terrible accident recently, so I have taken him under my employ.”
“Oh, how very kind of you,” I say. My stomach twists with discomfort. I figured Rowan might have worked out who we’re dealing with since yesterday, but when I look up at him, the first hints of regret start to seep beneath my skin. My eyebrows hike when he meets my eyes. ‘Haven’t you figured it out yet, pretty boy?’ I try to convey with nothing more than my widened eyes.
He tilts his head and gives me a fleeting, quizzical expression, a reply that simply says, ‘…huh?’
Nope. He definitely has not figured it out.
That twinge of regret starts to burn.
When Thorsten’s plate is set down, David leaves. “Goat cheese crostini with olive tapenade,” Thorsten declares. “Enjoy.”
I try not to let my sigh of relief seem too obvious as we start the first course. It’s legitimately pretty good, maybe a little salty but at least it’s a decent start. Rowan charms Thorsten with compliments that seem sincere, and the two talk about possible refinements that would elevate the dish. Rowan suggests fig to bring sweetness into the balance, and I keep my attention on our host to escape his heavy gaze. It rests on my cheek, searing my skin like a brand when he mentions the fig phyllo Napoleon from the dessert menu at 3 In Coach.
I play along with the conversation, nod and laugh at all the right places, but really I’m not paying that much attention—I’m too concerned with how I’m going to communicate anything to Rowan with the power of my facial expressions alone.
When the course is done, Thorsten summons David again with the bell, and he collects our dishes to return with gazpacho soup. This round is fine, nothing special, but Rowan seems pleased, and the two discuss the tomato varieties that Thorsten grows on the property.
“I would love to see your garden,” Rowan says after Thorsten details the other herbs and produce he nurtures in the backyard.
Thorsten’s pleasant mask slips, a feral gleam igniting in his eyes before a blink carries it away. “Oh, I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Rowan grins, but this is his smile of secrets, and it’s one I know well. At least he’s aware that we’re in the presence of another murderer, so I guess that’s a plus. I’m momentarily hopeful that maybe Rowan does know who Thorsten is after all, and he’s just been keeping it under wraps in the hopes of winning this round of our competition.
But when Thorsten uncorks a fresh bottle of wine, topping up both our glasses but not his own and watching with predatory interest as Rowan takes a long sip, I know my hopes have been dashed.
I guess I should be happy. This is shaping up to be an easy win. In reality, however, my anxiety has my chest feeling like I’ve been plugged into a power grid. I’m grateful for the hideously ornate tablecloth that shields my jittering legs from view.
Rowan takes another generous sip of wine as the culinary discussion continues. Thorsten summons David to return for the empty soup bowls, relaying explicit instructions to bring back the salad course from a specific shelf in the kitchen. He’s repeating the steps to David for a third time when Rowan catches my eye over the lip of his wine glass with a questioning flicker in his brows, as though he’s asking what the fuck is going on.
‘Lobotomy,’ I mouth at him, trying to make it look like I’m scratching my forehead when I tap it and nod toward David. Rowan’s head tilts and I roll my eyes, gritting my teeth. ‘Lo-bo-to-my.’
Rowan’s head tilts in the other direction, his brow still furrowed but a hint of a grin playing at his lips. He subtly points at me, and then at himself. ‘You love me?’ he mouths.
I smack my head.
“Everything all right, my darling?” Thorsten asks as David departs for the kitchen.
“Oh yes, of course. I just remembered something I forgot to do at work before I left. But it’s fine, I’ll do it in the morning.” Thorsten smiles at my excuse, but it’s brittle around the edges, uncertainty bleeding into his mask. “Late morning at this rate. This wine is going down a treat,” I tack on with a charming smile. He watches as I bring the glass to my lips and swallow, though I don’t let any of the liquid into my mouth. The deception seems to appease him and I set my glass down, folding my hands in my lap.
Thorsten’s restraint buckles as the approaching trolley squeaks in the hallway, a beaming, ravenous grin claiming his features as his refined mask peels away. But Rowan doesn’t notice. He just smiles at me, swaying slightly in his chair, a glassy sheen coating his half-lidded eyes.
“You look so pretty, Blackbird,” he says as David enters the room with three covered dishes on the trolley.
Blush flames in my cheeks. “Thank you.”
“You always look pretty. When you came to the restaurant, I said—” Rowan hiccups twice, then drowns the next one with a gulp of wine, “I said, ‘Sloane is the most beautiful girl in the world’. And then my brother called me a ‘feckin eejit’ because I could have all the pussy I wanted in Boston but instead I’ve taken a vow of obstinence—”
“Abstinence.”
“—abstinence over a girl who doesn’t want me.”
I’m pretty sure the blush has set fire to my skin and the source of the flame is my incinerated heart.
Thorsten grins in my periphery, clearly entertained by our dinner conversation. My lips part, a held breath burning in my chest. All I manage to say is a single word: “Rowan…”
But his attention has dropped to the dish set before him.
“Beef Niçoise,” Rowan chimes with a delighted smile as he takes up his knife and fork. I glance at Thorsten who watches Rowan with rapt attention. “I love Beef Niçoise.”
“Yes,” our host says as he lays a folded piece of paper-thin rare meat on his tongue. “Niçoise.”
“Rowan—”
“I’m so curious to know your thoughts, chef,” Thorsten barrels on. “This is my special take on the traditional version.”
“Rowan—” I hiss, but it’s too late. Rowan’s already scooped a forkful of salad into his mouth, his eyes closing as he savors the chopped lettuce and green beans and cherry tomatoes and…beef.
“This is fantastic,” he says, slurring his words. He spears another forkful of salad with an unsteady hand and jams it into his already-full mouth. “Homemade dijon dressing?”
Thorsten beams under the compliment. “Yes—I used an extra half-teaspoon of brown sugar as the meat is gamey.”
“So good.”
I swipe a hand down my face as Rowan manages to shovel one more bite into his mouth before he passes out face-down on his plate.
There’s a beat of silence. Thorsten and I stare at the man sleeping on a bed of salad with thinly-sliced rare human steak hanging out of his mouth.
When Thorsten meets my eyes, it’s as though he’s coming out of a euphoric haze.
He thought I was drinking my wine. When I wasn’t drunk enough, he probably thought he could easily subdue me.
He thought wrong.
I hold Thorsten’s confused gaze as I push the stem of my wine glass over, toppling it onto my plate. The crystal shatters, chipping the china, flooding the salad with blood-colored wine.
“Well,” I say, as I sit back in my chair, laying my hand on the surface of the table with the watered steel blade clutched in my palm. “I guess it’s just you and me now.”
