All He Asks 3 Read online

  Contents

  Episode 3

  About

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  All He Asks

  Episode Three

  Felicity Sparrow

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  All He Asks - Episode Three

  Erik Duke, a reclusive and mysterious author, has finally come out of hiding to make his demands known. He’s furious that the publishing company has defied him. And he plans to get his revenge.

  Christine Durand longs for the safety of Raoul Chance’s arms, but she can’t seem to tear her heart away from Erik. He holds a piece of her that nobody else can touch. His darkness is sweet seduction--even when politics at Durand-Price turn deadly…

  One

  The day that Erik Duke entered my life was mostly unremarkable. It was a Monday, one of my first days at work after I’d taken an equally unremarkable vacation.

  I arrived at Durand-Price to be told I had a new client.

  “I don’t think I have time to assist another author, Grosvenor. Ms. Stone keeps me more than busy,” I said.

  That was a generous understatement. The author had been calling multiple times a day, so my desk was covered in notes from the administrative assistant who had fielded Sylvia’s calls while I was gone.

  Sylvia never overtly asked where her book was, why it was taking me so long to write it, when she would get to read the draft. She was more subtle than that.

  But I understood that the urgency of her “where are you?” and “call me back now, Christine” messages meant that she was looking for her book.

  My book, our book. The second Sylvia Stone book I had completely ghostwritten from start to finish.

  Yes, Sylvia was enough to keep me more than busy.

  “You have time to assist this author,” Grosvenor had said. “You’ll make the time.”

  I sighed as I gazed in hopeless frustration at the amount of work I needed to catch up on. In addition to the forest of sticky notes, Sylvia had sent me “her ideas” for how to improve the manuscript—a book she hadn’t even read.

  I’d written the entire rough draft on my so-called vacation. Revising to her desires would add weeks of work.

  The very idea of another author was a headache.

  But I could tell when Grosvenor had put his foot down. He was upper management, and I no more than a lowly “executive” assistant. If he wanted me to take another client, I would take another client.

  I checked my watch. “When am I meeting her?” It was still early in the morning; if I could get the meet and greet out of the way, I might be able to sift through the entirety of Sylvia’s morass before going home.

  “You’ll be meeting him at his house. I’ve emailed the address to you.”

  I checked my phone. The address was in southern Maine. “This is at least a four hour drive.”

  “More like five. But he doesn’t come in, so you’ll have to go out.”

  I still remember the frisson that settled over me when I put together the clues.

  Durand-Price had only one author who rivaled Sylvia Stone in priority. A man who lived in Maine and never came into the office.

  My mouth dried. When I tried to speak, the name came out of me in a tiny, pathetic squeak.

  “Erik Duke?”

  “He hasn’t been sending updates. We’re afraid he’s at risk of missing his deadline. You know what to do.” Grosvenor rapped his knuckles on my desk in a clear call to action. “Call me when you’re done meeting him.”

  “I’m supposed to go now?”

  “Mr. Duke doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” the director said. “If you don’t go now, he might never let us send someone to visit him again. I’m shocked he’s even taking this meeting. So yes—go now.”

  I’d gotten all the way to my Kia, which had been parked in the basement garage, before what I was about to do sank in.

  I was going to see the most famous author-slash-recluse in modern history. A living literary legend.

  And it was going to happen at his private home.

  The numbness of shock didn’t abate on my first long drive to Lake Symphony. Not until I reached his gate, foreboding as it was, isolated in the depths of the woods where nobody could come across it by accident. It shocked me to see that Erik Duke had security cameras. All of them were pointed at the place I stopped my Kia.

  I was being watched.

  “You’re only meeting a multi-millionaire horror author at his isolated lake house,” I muttered, inching my car close enough to the intercom that I could press the button without getting out. “Why should I be nervous?”

  Finally, my outstretched forefinger connected with the intercom. It buzzed, crackled, hissed.

  A long pause.

  I realized that the faint hissing meant that the line was open.

  “Um…hello?” I asked, raising my voice.

  Another long pause. My skin was crawling.

  The voice that responded was unexpectedly gravelly. “Get out of your car.”

  Wild thoughts raced through my mind.

  I’d read most of Erik Duke’s books at that point, even though we hadn’t had any kind of relationship. I was familiar with the perversity of his imagination. And my imagination was nearly as colorful. I could think of a thousand reasons he might want me out of the car that I would find very, very unpleasant.

  Maybe he had snipers positioned nearby, like in Race to Death. Or maybe there was electric wire embedded under my feet, like in Terror Incorporated.

  I banished those thoughts as silliness. I was an employee of his publishing company; killing me would be a speedy route to a terminated contract, if nothing else. Also, Sylvia Stone was nothing like her books. She didn’t possess an iota of the charm her protagonists did. Why should I think a horror author would do horrifying things?

  If only I’d known at the time.

  Maybe I would have just turned my Kia around.

  But I hadn’t known Erik at the time, and I had gotten out of the car. I approached the gate. Neatened my hair by running my fingers through the curls. Looked up at the security cameras.

  “Grosvenor Lateen sent me to speak with you,” I had said, addressing the cameras directly. “I’m an executive author assistant, and I’m here to discuss your work-in-progress.”

  He was silent for so long that I thought the intercom might have failed.

  Finally, he spoke again. His voice was even more hoarse than it had been the first time.

  “Yes,” he said. “We can work together.”

  He sounded like he’d seen a ghost.

  The intercom clicked off.

  I’d waited for the gate to open—and waited, and waited. Nothing else happened. I would have almost been grateful for something as dramatic as electrified wire.

  After twenty minutes, I gave up and returned to the office.

  Grosvenor had been glowing about the “good impression” I’d made on Erik Duke. I hadn’t even met the man, but he’d given me a good review.

  I should have known then. Stupid girl.

  What must Erik have thought when I arrived at his gate? Surely he’d only been humoring Grosvenor by allowing an employee to visit his house. And then the ghost of his dead wife had shown up at his gate, all delicately boned and blond and doll-like.

  It must have hurt him deeply to see. The thought of his pain made me ache in harmony with Erik.

  The ache wasn’t solely due to sympathy, though. Fear had a way of aching, too.

  I should have driven away.

  I never should have let Erik Duke into my life. My mind. My soul.

  Two

  Eri
k Duke is at Sylvia Stone’s launch party.

  If a freak lightning storm began raining blood upon Durand-Price, I would be less shocked.

  Part of me wants to run and hide. Erik has seen me kissing Raoul Chance, a coworker, an editor who may work on my books—another man. And whatever relationship I have with Erik, I’m not the kind of woman who becomes involved with multiple men simultaneously. I don’t even get involved with one man at a time, to be honest.

  Yet I have been kissing Raoul in his office, at Sylvia’s party, when I was kissing Erik only days earlier. It feels like Erik will somehow know about it.

  The humiliation makes my whole body burn. My innards cringe into a shriveled little ball.

  My urge to flee is held at bay by Erik’s gaze. He has locked onto me, his serpent-black eyes turning my muscles to granite. He’s an inhuman thing, a wolf lurking among the sheep of the publishing company, death distilled into the body of a man. His anger radiates.

  I’m not so arrogant as to think I’m the only reason Erik has come to this party, though. I am the cherry on top of his revenge sundae. He will address the problem I’ve presented while attending to his other desires.

  This is bad. Very, very bad.

  All it requires is one person recognizing Erik from an old author photo. One whisper of his name. Now the others have realized what’s happening. One by one, everyone in the room falls silent.

  Erik Duke has finally emerged into public.

  “Christine? Christine!”

  Raoul’s voice penetrates my reverie.

  It takes all my willpower to break Erik’s gaze. The force of it makes my body shiver like a gong struck by a mallet, and I feel as though I’m cracked down the center.

  I struggle to focus my attention on Raoul. He looks strange, unfamiliar. Erik has consumed my consciousness the way that the burn of sunlight lingers long after your eyes are closed.

  “I told you,” I whisper. “I told you he wasn’t going to let the company disobey him.”

  Realization dawns over Raoul. He hadn’t taken my initial warnings seriously, but he’s beginning to understand that Erik is here for vengeance.

  Grosvenor hurries through the crowd to meet Erik. The director isn’t a stupid man. Where others are awestruck, he recognizes trouble.

  Before Grosvenor can reach him, Erik descends into the party.

  I expect him to be swarmed; he is the literary equivalent of a rock star, and there’s no editor, reporter, or author who wouldn’t kill for the opportunity to network with him. But his mood is a wall of electric anger that shoves people away. No bodies obstruct his path.

  He’s approaching me.

  No, no, no…

  Raoul wraps an arm around me. It’s meant to be protective, but it forms a chain that prevents me from fleeing.

  Erik is only fifty feet away.

  As he draws closer, parting bodies with the sheer force of his presence, my mind sinks into darkness. I regress to the basement underneath his house—to that moment where my wrists were bound to a silver hook, leaving my dangling body vulnerable to his whims.

  The memory thrills and aches. I am afraid, I am needy.

  Now I see Erik’s face as that of the younger man from the news article. The man standing beside his bride, looking happy as they cut their wedding cake together.

  I can’t breathe.

  I’m drowning under Lake Symphony.

  Raoul won’t let me run.

  “Erik Duke. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  I don’t initially recognize the voice, but when a man steps in front of Raoul and me, I realize who has joined us. His shoulders are almost as narrow as his hips, his arms like whips, his hair cut a little too short to look professional.

  Even though he’s a slender man, his personality is almost big enough to rival Erik’s.

  Carlos Chance.

  It’s Raoul’s brother, who recently bought a controlling share of Durand-Price. I forgot that he would be at the party. I’ve been too busy allowing Raoul’s seductive warmth distract me.

  Erik looks wary at the greeting. Clearly, he knows that none of us consider his surprising arrival to be pleasant.

  “My name is Carlos Chance.” He thrusts a hand toward Erik. “I own Durand-Price.” He says it in the most genial way, but I’ve known Carlos long enough to be able to tell what he’s really saying. I own your contracts, Erik Duke.

  But Erik is not the type to play nice for his bosses. Misanthropy is more than his reputation; it’s a lifestyle.

  He doesn’t shake Carlos’s hand.

  “Good for you.” He tries to brush past Raoul’s brother to reach me.

  Grosvenor has finally fought his way to our side, and he’s out of breath from hurrying so quickly. “Mr. Duke—I’m surprised. That is, I thought you were going to call us tomorrow to discuss—”

  “I told you that I wanted Sylvia Stone gone.” Erik looks so tall beside Grosvenor. The director must realize that his star author is doing his best to be physically intimidating, and very successfully. “I don’t need a meeting to know you’ve decided to disobey me.”

  Carlos scoffs. “Disobey? You? Who do you think you are?”

  My stomach lurches at the gall of it. Carlos is so presumptuous to think that owning the publishing company means he owns the authors, too.

  “No,” I whisper.

  Somehow, Erik hears me. He looks at me. There aren’t enough people in the world to keep him away. Raoul, Carlos, Grosvenor—their bodies form no barrier between my soul and Erik’s.

  “I’m Erik Duke, and I owned Durand-Price when you were doing keg stands in college.” It’s a somewhat cryptic statement, coming from him; I don’t believe he owns any significant portion of the company’s stock. But he says it with conviction. “When I say that I want an author gone, the author needs to be gone. But look at this.” He sweeps a hand at the party. “You’ve gilded a piece of shit, but it’s still a piece of shit.”

  Erik isn’t trying to keep his voice down. We’re in the back of the room, but people are interested in us and reporters are inching closer.

  Grosvenor’s eyes are wild with panic.

  “You want to have it out with me?” Carlos asks. He shucks his jacket, hands it to Raoul. “Fine, let’s have it out. But not here. There’s a room behind the bar. Let’s…talk.”

  The challenge is interesting to Erik. He looks at me one more time, searing me with no more than a glance, and says, “Fine.”

  Grosvenor follows them as they go to the back room.

  Only when the door closes am I capable of breathing again.

  “You can’t let them fight, Raoul,” I whisper.

  “They won’t fight.” Raoul passes his brother’s jacket to an intern, who rushes away to hang it up. “Carlos was just trying to get him away before he made a scene. Duke is obviously looking for conflict, and Carlos offered it to him. My brother isn’t stupid enough to fight. Duke is shredded and Carlos…” Raoul shrugs. Carlos is a wonderful man, but he’s never been physically strong.

  I catch myself chewing on my nails, a habit I haven’t indulged in for years. “What am I going to do?”

  “Leave with me,” Raoul says. “Let’s get away before Duke does something.”

  In the absence of a mega-bestseller, attentions return to Sylvia. She stands in the front of the room, flustered and tipsy, her face red all over. She’s actually holding Mario’s hand as though seeking comfort. I never realized that the diva could have such a human need for affection.

  “If you’ll settle down, please,” Sylvia says loudly, “I think we’re overdue for the reading. Would you all take your seats?”

  People begin to array themselves around the tables, which are draped artfully in white table cloths and red flowers, with book covers at the center of every floral arrangement. A preview of Sylvia’s new book is enough to dominate conversations, at least for the moment.

  Little do they realize, Sylvia doesn’t have a preview from her new book.
>
  The recent negotiations have made that impossible. Given enough warning, I could have given the authoress a chapter from my work-in-progress. But I hadn’t enough warning. She has nothing but material from her old books. Everyone in the room has surely read what she’s about to present.

  An old excerpt won’t make anyone forget Erik Duke for long.

  As the crowd shifts, I’m presented with a brief opportunity to escape to the elevator while everyone is distracted. The attendees are facing forward, looking at Sylvia. Grosvenor and Carlos still have Erik. Now is the time for me to leave with Raoul.

  I don’t want to.

  Damn my conflicted heart, but I want to be there with Erik, walking the same halls and breathing the same air. I’m irresistibly compelled to bear witness to his plans. Whatever they he does tonight, it will surely result in devastation—and I’d tried to warn Grosvenor. I’d tried.

  “Come on,” Raoul says, urging me away.

  The door to the back room is cracked open, permitting me to see a sliver of Erik’s right side. He looks good in the untucked button-down shirt. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, baring his forearms. There’s dirt on his elbow. He’d been outdoors before coming in, and he hadn’t thought to clean himself off before dressing in his idea of formal wear.

  There is something incredibly endearing about that smudge of dirt.

  “He’s going to do something bad, Raoul.”

  “That’s not your problem.” He tries to move me again. “My car will be here soon.”

  I can’t leave. Not yet.

  Sylvia unfolds a few printed pages. She holds them too close to the microphone, which is suddenly working again. The rustling is amplified over the speakers. She titters with girlish laughter. “Ooh, that’s a terrible sound,” she said. “I think I’ve had too much champagne. Or perhaps not enough? Mario?”

  The audience laughs as her literary agent spouse hurries forward with a fresh flute. She takes a long drink before returning it to him half-empty.

  Sylvia looks down at the pages she brought. Rustles the papers again. Gives another nervous laugh.