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Silk on the skin—luxurious, luscious..lethal.
London-Fall, 1888
The city is in a panic as Jack the Ripper continues his
murderous spree. While the Whitechapel police struggle to find him, Detective
Inspector Rudyard Bloodstone and his partner are working feverishly to find
their own serial killer. The British Museum's beautiful gardens have become a
killing ground for young women strangled as they stroll through.
Their investigation has them brushing up against Viscount
Everhard, a powerful member of the House of Lords, and a friend to Queen
Victoria. When the circumstantial evidence
points to him as a suspect, Rudyard must deal with the political
blowback, and knows if they are going to go after the viscount, they'd better
be right and have proof.
As the body count grows and the public clamor for the
detectives to do more, inter-department rivalries complicate the already
difficult case.
What would you do to stay young: Lie, Manipulate..kill?
He wrapped an end in each hand and pulled. His fingers crept
up the silk and he tugged a bit harder still. The material pressed deeper into
the flesh of her neck. Bright pink dotted her cheeks and radiated down to her
jaw. The veins in her temples popped out and pulsed in time to her heartbeat.
She moaned, pushed her hips upward and writhed against him. Her soft pubic hair
tickled his testicles. Isabeau’s unsubtle way of letting him know she wanted
him inside her. He obliged.
Her hands encircled his wrists. She tugged hard outward,
harder than usual. A choked sigh escaped her. He paid no attention. This was
standard. Isabeau always insisted he maintain pressure until she signaled for
him to release his hold. In the past, when she reached the edge of consciousness,
she’d beat along his upper arms. This time she thrashed her head back and
forth, something he hadn’t seen before. Her eyes bulged in an unattractive way
and she clawed at him. Her nails gouged the skin on his hands, drawing blood.
She hurt him and he wanted to slap her. He almost let go of
one end of the scarf to do that. Instead, he pulled tighter. Isabeau tried to
insert her fingers into the spot where the material crossed over. Her mouth
opened and shut, soundless and fishlike. She swatted at the mattress wildly.
Red-faced to the point of being near purple, she bucked beneath him.
She fired his blood with her lack of inhibition. Never had
she responded with such intensity. Raw power surged through him, primitive,
animalistic. He pumped hard. Ready to climax, William clenched his fists,
twisting the scarf one last turn. Odd, feathery touches tapped his biceps,
feminine and subtle grazes, and then she went limp. Spent, he released his hold
and collapsed on top of her, his heart pounding while he caught his breath.
Isabeau didn’t move and her head stayed turned to the side.
She hadn’t cried out the way she normally did when sated. Perhaps she was
disappointed with his effort. He gave the thought a mental shrug. At the end of
the day, it really didn’t matter. He’d arrange for her departure first thing in
the morning.
William rolled over and slung a sweaty arm over his eyes. He
tried to decide which was worse, telling her tonight the affair was over or
waiting until morning. The idea of doing it after such a rambunctious sexual
endeavor seemed bad form, but he wanted to get it over with. He turned onto his
side, prepared for histrionics, caterwauling, great tears and verbal abuse.
“Isabeau, look at me. I’ve come to a decision and it will
likely distress you.” Nothing. She didn’t stir. “Isabeau?”
He shook her by the arm. Still no response. William let go
and her arm dropped listless to the mattress. He raised her arm again and let
go. Again, it fell listless. He straddled her and patted her cheeks. Nothing.
Her head twisted without resistance first right then left depending on the
direction of his pat. He slapped her harder. Nothing. Vacant eyes stared fixed
on the ceiling. He bent an ear to her chest. Nothing. William leapt from the
bed, snatched a silver mirror from the dressing table, and held it under her
nose. Nothing.
