Invincible (Elite Doms of Washington Book 6) Read online

  He couldn’t get any oxygen into his lungs.

  He swayed a little on his feet, and his hand landed on the nearest piece of furniture, a small Sheraton writing desk. It was a tiny, delicate thing designed for a woman. Jesus. So this is where the head bitch had sat writing her letters to other society members about him and his deplorable ideas, how he had corrupted her son, Charles, and led astray “that young girl Rebecca.”

  One such letter forwarded to him years ago by his friend, the Duchess Marchand, floated up in his brain like a ghost. Alexander Rockingham is the devil incarnate, and I will make sure he never sees either of them again. His fingers curled into a fist, and he smashed his knuckles down on the desk. His forehead pricked with sweat. He’d grown used to that bone-deep ache in his chest, ever present like an old war wound, but seeing where she planted herself, overlooking her family’s Memorial where her son lay six feet under? An assassin’s knife spearing his heart couldn’t have called up more pain.

  “You didn’t deserve him,” he gritted out. He leaned down and grasped one table leg, dragged it through the house, and let it bang down the stone steps of the front entrance. He tossed it in the middle of the drive to deal with later. Nothing was as important as getting inside those Memorial walls.

  His legs got him to the stone archway of the Memorial, and he stood there for long moments, his stomach churning with nerves and disgust. Inside, tufts of yellowed grass clustered around black rail fence that cordoned off several gravesites. A stone bench for someone to sit and reflect on lost loved ones lay lopsided, having lost one support leg. Dead tree branches littered the base of a large maple tree in the corner. Having everything and valuing nothing.

  He moved with slow strides, his gaze bouncing from headstone to headstone. Some names were etched clearly in polished granite, some so worn by age they were nothing but grooves giving them the appearance of children’s art projects, tiny hands pressed into clay molds for posterity.

  He paused at a dirt mound, not yet tamped down by rain or taken over by nature. Alice Wynter’s grave marker was an angel with a trumpet raised to the sky. The wretched woman was probably barking orders to the heavens as he stood there. Keep him out. He’s the devil. Corrupted. Evil. God, his gut roiled—not for the remembered words but for all the retorts he’d swallowed over the years.

  He turned, and found the only thing that mattered. A black granite headstone rose from the ground in the center of the graveyard. He choked down the lump that rose in his throat as he took in each letter of the name etched there.

  Charles Durham

  July 12, 1959 - June 8, 1981

  Fuck the Wynters. They hadn’t the respect to include their own son’s last name on his headstone. The black color of the granite raised more anger. Nothing that hateful family did was without meaning, and the black sheep reference might have him knock that trumpet off the shrew’s marker with his sledgehammer.

  Instead, Alexander crept closer to where Charles lay. With a long inhale, he placed his hand on the modest stone, warmed by the fading sunlight streaming through the trees. At least there was that.

  “Charles, I’m here.” His rough whisper hurt in his throat. “You’re where you asked to be … in the sun.”

  Because he said he looked better with a tan. Wasn’t that what he’d said, lying in that hospital room? Alexander’s throat closed, and he had to force air into his chest.

  For four decades, he’d caged the agony of losing Charles, never letting it fully out because he knew this day would come. Today, armed guards couldn’t throw his ass into the street like they had many times, including the day of Charles’ funeral, because he just couldn’t stop trying to get inside. He would stand here like he’d promised that bitch staring at him from the other side of the locked front gate. Tomorrow that thing was scrap metal. Today? He scrubbed his chin, not quite sure what to do first. Ask Charles for forgiveness for taking so long to get here? Ask if he was all right?

  “Rebecca, you should be standing here with me.” The words were lost in the wind like she had been the same day Charles had died. The three of them—once so close air couldn’t get between them—were now as far apart as three people could get. One was dead. The other was just … gone. The raw absence of them both cut his heart as if they’d been ripped apart only yesterday.

  His hand grew raw from worrying his five o’clock shadow. He hadn’t had two nickels to rub together back then. Now? At sixty years old, he had everything. He could have anything. He could fix anything—except them. He couldn’t bring back Charles or save Rebecca from running away from him.

  “If there is a God … ” Was there? It was one question he’d never been able to answer. He was done hedging his bets, though. He, a man who didn’t get on his knees for anyone, dropped to the ground and began to pray.

  Truth told, he couldn’t have anything. He had lost everything that mattered long ago.

  3

  Eric pulled up to the object in the middle of the limestone drive. That wasn’t … It couldn’t be … Oh, yes, it was. A Sheraton writing desk lay on its back, legs pointed heavenward like a submissive dog.

  He put on his sunglasses, lifted himself out of the driver’s seat, and stifled a mild groan. Annoying jet lag. His brain seemed to be floating in molasses—and on fire. He stood over the antique and scratched his stubble, then turned to squint up at the Wynter country estate home. He still didn’t understand why he was here or what Alexander was doing with this crumbling place. And the price?

  “Two hundred million.” Eric sighed. “I don’t understand, Alexander.” The man didn’t do things rashly. Something was afoot, not that Eric was displeased to be here. Yesterday morning he’d been at the bottom of the man’s exclusive guest list. By that afternoon, he’d been summoned to the States by Ryan Knightbridge, Alexander’s nephew, for his “estate settlement genius”—exact words. A tad exaggerated, but he’d take it.

  A man with the broadest shoulders he’d seen outside a comic book launched across the pebble drive toward him. His black, formal, coat flapped in the wind.

  “Mr. Morrison?” The man extended his hand. “Tony. Alexander’s assistant. We expected you—” Tony turned his handshake, glanced at his Rolex, and then glared at Eric “—tomorrow.”

  “Eric.” He flexed and broke Tony’s grip. “Caught the first flight from London.” He leaned to peer at the house over Tony’s shoulder. “Alexander inside?”

  Tony folded his arms over his chest. “Mr. Rockingham doesn’t do surprises.”

  Did the guy think to scare him off to a hotel for twenty-four hours? Not when he finally had an opportunity to serve Alexander. “Yeah, well, I was also told he was in a hurry. So, this desk—”

  “Mr. Rockingham is walking the property. You can wait inside.”

  Okay, Eric wasn’t getting anything out of this guy. He scanned the front of the house and noted the walkway to the side yard and presumably a pool and gardens beyond. Perfect. “I could use a walk. I’ll take a look around.” He darted around the human tank.

  “Inadvisable.”

  Eric twisted to glance back over his shoulder at Tony. “Excuse me?”

  “Just give him some space.” Tony reached into his jacket, drew out a pack of cigarettes, and held it out to him as if in a peace offering.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  Tony patted his chest. “Damn. Come with me. I’ll show you inside.”

  Okay, they were playing the who’s-got-the-biggest-cajones game. Whatever. He followed Tony toward the house, because why not? The man needed a light, and Alexander needed space. Eric needed to keep his ass here and closer to Alexander than he’d ever imagined possible. He wasn’t going back to watching Alexander from the sidelines as he had for the last seven fricking years—one of his endless guests at the man’s home-turned-BDSM-playground—dreaming, fantasizing, lusting after Alexander like a teenager on steroid-induced hormones.

  He stepped inside the entryway and froze. Okay, now the $200 millio
n price tag made sense. Artwork crammed every inch of the walls. He counted a Kirchner, a Botticelli, a DaVinci line drawing, and at least five—no six—Jean Metzinger oils. He let out a whistle. Was the final heir, Marston Wynter, stupid? Sure, the man had been banned from every auction house and reputable seller activity due to that little illegal ivory-selling stint a few years ago, but he could have gotten someone to offload this hoard.

  “Guess the bad reputation stuck.” He turned toward Tony but found himself alone.

  Well, no time like the present to start earning his genius reputation. His footsteps echoed a little in the portico as he strode by an art auctioneer’s dream. He had never understood people’s obsessions with owning things and collecting property like Monopoly board wins. The world offered so much to explore. Of course, he’d be out of a job if everyone lived as he did—plane to hotel, to plane, to yet another hotel.

  He strode to a Gustav Klimt painting, a beautiful woman awash in blues and purples. His cock woke up at the sight of the image thanks to the memory of meeting Alexander for the first time at a Paris art auction. Alexander had failed to win a Klimt that day but succeeded in becoming Eric’s singular obsession. Jesus, let his dick behave today. Nothing like punching a hole in your pants while talking about auctioning antiques …

  A gust of wind blew over him as the front door slammed open. He startled at the bang and turned as Tony strode by him to a box on the stairs.

  “Alexander back?” Eric asked.

  The man glanced up at him, a small square can in his hand, and walked by him and out the front door without a word.

  Eric moved to the open doorway just as Tony handed Alexander the can. The man popped open the plastic top, emptied its contents over the Sheraton desk, and tossed the can to the side. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, ignited it with a lighter, and dropped the small linen square onto the desk to create an instant bonfire. In the middle of the driveway. In front of the Wynter estate. Using an antique Eric could have sold for, what, half a million?

  Eric stepped outside and sidled up to Alexander.

  “Eric.” Alexander didn’t take his eyes off the blazing piece of furniture.

  He swallowed. “Alexander. Last year at auction a Sheraton desk just like that went for $475,000.”

  The man’s blue eyes turned his way. “It belonged to Alice Wynter. I have as much use for it as I had for her.” He held out his hand, which Eric took. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll meet you inside.” He dropped his handshake. “Tony, take a walk around the perimeter. Check things out.”

  Tony nodded once, and Alexander’s broad back disappeared into the house. For long minutes, he stared at the yellow flame dancing up the desk legs and breathed in the acrid smoke as the surfaces curdled and blanched in the flame’s heat. Was Alexander losing it? He drew out his phone and got Ryan Knightbridge’s voicemail.

  “Ryan, want to give me a call? I’m at the Wynter estate standing in front of a bonfire fueled by a half a mil antique. This isn’t an ordinary estate sale, is it?”

  4

  Alexander flipped keys over the ring he’d been handed thirty minutes ago. One of these opened this door. If not, one kick would get him inside. He tried the one key that looked as new as yesterday, and it worked. The wood frame gave off a loud crack as he turned the knob and pushed open the door to Charles’ bedroom. He stepped into the musty air and met a time capsule. The same walnut furniture and the same red and blue checked fabric covering that God-awful wingback chair in the corner greeted him.

  “You didn’t have the stomach for it, did you, Alice?” he asked the lifeless space. The woman had promised to take a blowtorch to the room or at least the queen-sized bed where he, Charles, and Rebecca had been found, tangled in that Queen Anne bedspread by Charles’ brother, Marston. As usual, the hag’s bitter words had no real teeth. To this day, he could not understand why Marston had run his mouth to his parents like a four-year-old tattling on the other kids.

  In a rare masochistic moment, he forced himself to focus on the most familiar of the room’s details, starting with the bed, and then up to the sailboat print, now faded under dusty glass. He strode over to get a closer look. The print resurrected the cry of seagulls and the cut of a sharp, salt-tinged wind.

  “Charles, you and that ridiculous little schooner.” How Charles had avoided frostbite when he’d taken it out in Boston Harbor one January, he’d never know.

  He pulled the photograph he’d been saving for this occasion from the lapel pocket of his suit coat. It was square, yellowed, and curling on the edges, and his most prized possession next to the letter Charles had written when he’d sent the picture. It was the last communication he’d had with him. He stared down at the picture of two young men—so young, so foolish, so unprepared for what was going to happen to them—pressed on either side of a young woman, her rose gold hair sparkling in the sunlight. Rebecca. Jesus, he’d been so naïve.

  He set the picture against the small hobnail lamp by the bed and shut his eyes. He needed one minute to shake off the sadness that arose whenever he pulled out that photograph. What had he expected today would bring? Rainbows and angel song? This day was bound to raise regrets.

  A man’s throat cleared. “Forgive the intrusion … ”

  His eyes snapped open to find Eric standing on the threshold, hands stuffed into his jean pockets. Alexander should fill him in. The man had shown considerable grace given what he’d witnessed so far. “Come in.”

  “Forgive me for being early. I know you expected me tomorrow.” He stepped in closer. “This Marston’s room? I understand the items that Alice specifically willed to her son have been—”

  “Sons. There were two. Marston and Charles. This was Charles’ room.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. I’ve been here once. Ten years ago when Raymond Wynter thought of selling. The paintings downstairs, though? Jesus. Leaving them like that … ”

  Alexander chuffed. “No one wants to touch Marston since he sold ivory across state lines.”

  “I’m impressed you knew that.”

  “The art world is a small place, and selling the entire estate and its contents in one transaction made things easy for him. He likes easy.”

  Eric’s eyes brightened as he stared at the print above the bed. “Is that a–”

  His hand rose, stopping the man’s advance toward it. Rude and aggressive, but no one was laying a finger on the contents of this room. “You won’t touch a thing in here.”

  Eric raised his hands in a surrender gesture and stepped backward.

  Alexander nodded once. “Forgive the emotion.”

  “No apologies necessary.” The man’s eyes softened as if understanding, though how could he know the rage running up and down his spine at any hint of dismantling this room?

  A man’s heavy footfalls pounded up the stairs. So, the prodigal son had finally arrived. He was surprised it had taken Marston this long, once he discovered the identity of the buyer.

  Marston Wynter filled the doorway. “Knightbridge Associates was you.” Spit flew from the man’s lips. The eldest Wynter son always had been a blowhard. The extra fifty pounds on his frame was unexpected, but little else had changed. Shocker.

  “Marston.” He glanced at his watch. “Less than twenty-four hours. I’m impressed.”

  “Fuck, the ink’s not even dry.”

  Eric strode forward and extended his hand. “Eric Morrison.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “He’s with me.” Alexander noted the man’s manners hadn’t changed, either. “And, you’re trespassing.”

  Marston sneered. “Felt good to say that to me, didn’t it? I had expected something more original from you, Alexander.” He breached the room, crossing the threshold. “At least that’s what my brother called you. Original.”

  “I thought you didn’t have a brother.”

  “Oh, I had one all right, until you took him away, corrupted him and Rebecca, you sick bastard.”
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br />   “Hard to take someone away when you’re banished from their deathbed.” Alexander bore down on the man. “Leave.”

  “So you can continue your redecorating?” Marston angled his head toward the front of the house where the bitch’s precious Sheraton had been reduced to ash. “A bit dramatic, even for you.”

  His fingers curled into fists. “Don’t pretend you know a thing about me.”

  The man let out a hiss worthy of a viper. “Visiting mother’s grave. I’m allowed to do that, you know. State law.”

  “She lies outside this house. If you’re smart, you’ll back out of this room.” Fabric strained across Alexander’s chest and arms as every muscle tensed to finally land a punch on that smug face. If they’d been alone, he might have done it. “Eric and I have business to attend to.”

  Marston glanced at Eric and then back to him. “I’ll bet you do.” He spun on his heel, but before stepping through the door, he paused. “Try not to mess up the sheets too badly, will you? You know how Mother despises freaks, and your presence might raise her from the grave.”

  “Let her.” Let the she-devil even try.

  Marston huffed an amused breath but sauntered back to the hallway.

  Alexander filled his lungs with stale air and stretched his neck from side to side. Fuck. His hands cramped as if itching for a fight, and his heart clawed at his ribs as if wanting out to join them.

  “Thought you were going to punch him.” Eric half laughed but then stilled.

  “It’s this house. Forgive my outbursts, but I’m incapable of giving a shit right now.” He stretched his fingers and turned to Eric, a man who didn’t deserve to be in the wake of his past. “I’ve waited almost forty years to be standing in this room.”

  “Then you should take your time.”

  So, Eric did understand. “Inventory everything. We’re going to auction the antiques, paintings, whatever is of value. Donate the proceeds. Every cent goes to CAG-LBTY. Do you know what that is?”