The prick’s not dead, but we’re past involving emotions. Still, I heed a single principle of that ruthless arsehole.
Don’t slither about amongst the dead. Toy with your victim, sure. But from a distance.
Constructing a background at Greco Technologies places me too close to the target. In addition, my strict upbringing dictates Arlington, England must be my next step. As a royal duke who oversees an area almost the size of the largest borough of New York, it’s imperative I return to Arlington soon. Mother almost had a heart attack when I forwent the Queen’s birthday. I have missed more than my fair share of garden parties at Buckingham Palace. However, a prestigious education, as well as my favorite of the mundane duties—serving in the British Armed Forces—will never compare to the thrill of the kill. At this moment, the kill might be delayed, though, because something else has piqued my interest. A petite female with wild coppery hair and darling freckles. One who begs my acquisition.
“May I ask a question?”
“No, you may not, Burt the Butler,” I answer, continuing to jab, jab, uppercut, straight right.
Burt continues as if I hadn’t even responded to his silly queries. “Due to your new alias, I’m to assume your enjoyment of murder at adistancewill not suffice in this situation.”
I rub a forearm across my sweaty temple. “Get on with it.”
“I won’t remind you of your pending and very importantengagementin Arlington, but I deserve . . .”
I toss a left hook. Steadying the bag with both hands, I then square my shoulders and jab harder.
“The reason why Whitson is breathing, pray tell, does it involve a young lady?” Burt taps his fingers along the buttons of the butler uniform he’s worn almost every day of my entire life. “Three days ago, I had Monica create the fictitious Dr. Finch.”
I had gotten all but three steps away from Luxury and her father when I gave the order to upload my new alias to the internet for my curious, new challenge.
“I’ll let you in on a secret. Someone looked you up,Dr.Finch.”
I exhale at his insinuation. The beautiful Luxury has checked into the alias.
“Burt, I don’t have a tiny bone in my body. You changed the royal diapers.” I wink.
“Speaking of age, Ms. Whitson’s quite uncanny. I recall when you were a slightly less brooding twenty-three. You had—”
“Yes, twenty-three. Quite young, exceedinglyreceptive.”
“Alright, Victor. I’m to assume over a decade later, we’re still letting skeletons lay where they’ve fallen.”
I continue to divert Burt’s attempt to discuss the past, jesting, “You’ll love her.”
“I assure you I will have the same feelings you do about the young woman once you’ve grown tired of her.”
I rarely joke, but when I do, Burt’s my chosen victim. “She might bethe one...who entertains me longer than a fortnight.”
There’s grumbling under his breath, as usual, then Burt composes himself. “What happened to Middle Eastern women being the most beautiful, exotic women in the world? I distinctly recall you saying that less than a week ago.”
Taking the thick towel from him, I wipe my sweaty face and shrug. “When in Saudi Arabia, yes. In France, nothing can compare to a gorgeous Parisian telling me exactly what she would like to do to me. Now I’m in America, the situation calls for?”
“Luxury Whitson?” he murmurs knowingly.
“Luxury, hmmm,” I allow the name to roll around on my tongue. Whitson had called his daughterLuxand another enduring nickname. “Burt, you dirtywanka! She was supposed to give me her name the next time we crossed paths.”
“I am not a dirtywanker. Cross paths with her before I becomecrossand take an extended holiday.”
“Alright, we’re even. No quitting on me.”
His thin brow lifts. “How, sir?”
“You disclosed information about my next conquest.”
“The young ladyisnot your conquest. What of Dr. Whitson? You’ll bed his daughter, then kill him?”
I clasp the punching bag, stalling the jerky movement. “Speaking of Luxury’s father, whoever sanctioned Whitson’s death knows him intimately. You saw that thesis on why the old man should die,” I say.