Alice in the Shallow Grave E-Book

Mia Kingsley

• Herausgeber: Black Umbrella Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 112

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

For years, I've kept secrets for a living. Everything went smoothly—until now. Suddenly, three pushy men want information from me—information I neither can nor want to give them. But my new admirers don't seem to know the meaning of the word "no"...   A dark reverse harem romance with juicy secrets, gruesome murder, and bittersweet revenge.

Leseprobe

ALICE IN THE SHALLOW GRAVE

MIA KINGSLEY

A DARK REVERSE HAREM ROMANCE

CONTENTS

Alice in the Shallow Grave

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

About the Author

ALICE IN THE SHALLOW GRAVE

For years, I've kept secrets for a living. Everything went smoothly—until now. Suddenly, three pushy men want information from me—information I neither can nor want to give them. But my new admirers don't seem to know the meaning of the word "no"...

A dark reverse harem romance with juicy secrets, gruesome murder, and bittersweet revenge.

CHAPTER1

"Have you spoken to Flynn?" I asked, looking up from my notes.

Number 46 frowned. He exhaled noisily and ran both hands through his hair. His physical discomfort hung palpably in the space between us because he hated talking about his feelings. However, it was desperately necessary in order to avoid another debacle like the bloodbath in April. With a snort, Number 46 stood up and paced the expensive hotel room. "Yes," he finally grumbled.

"And how did that make you feel?"

With his back to me, he stopped and looked at his reflection in the large mirror that hung above the dressing table. "Good."

Number 46 was normally prone to chatter. The curt answer told me all I needed to know. I made a quick note, and except for the faint scratching of the fountain pen on the paper, there was silence in the suite of the White Court Hotel. After setting the pen down again, I said, "From your reply, I gather that while you felt fine, the conversation itself did not go pleasantly."

He laughed bitterly. "You could say that. I had to kill Flynn."

I quickly made a mental note not to mention Flynn again. It was progress that Number 46 had at least considered trying to talk to his henchman before killing him in one of the choleric fits he was known for. Number 46 was finding it increasingly difficult to control his people, which was why he had come to me.

After making a few more rounds of the room, he sat back down and propped his elbows on his thighs. "What do you want me to do now, Dr. Grayson?"

"Have you tried keeping a diary?"

To my great astonishment, he nodded and pulled a small black notebook from his pocket, which he handed to me without hesitation. "It's not much, but I did at least try."

"That's good," I praised. "Very good." I flipped through the pages, skimmed a few lines, and reached to give it back to him.

"You can keep it and read it. Maybe you'll get a few more tips for me, Doc. Anyway, in case I get shot in the spur of the moment, it's better no one finds that thing in my pocket. Besides, I bought a ten-pack right off the bat." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm telling my men I'm going out for a smoke if I want to write something down."

"A good tactic." Out of the corner of my eye, I squinted at my wristwatch. "Our time is almost up. Do you have anything else you want to talk about?"

Number 46 eyed my legs a touch too thoroughly.

I'd known him long enough to know what he was thinking. He thought it was exceedingly unfair to have to spend an hour with me in a hotel room every week and not be allowed to fuck me. It had taken me almost two months to get him off the question.

Number 46 was quite attractive and only a few years older than me. But it would have been completely unprofessional to sleep with him.

I understood the impulse on his part, though. My skirt was a touch too short, my heels a few inches too high, my blouse too tight, and my bra too visible. Anyone who saw me in a hotel with one of my patients would be led to believe I was a prostitute. It was the perfect disguise.

That's why I had the luxury of not running a practice and instead taking $1,500 an hour. My clients couldn't go to just any therapist, and I wasn't willing to take on every patient that walked through the door for a pittance. I had no business card and no fixed address. My patients came to me by referral, and other than that, no one talked about my existence.

Number 46 had come to me through Number 25. Number 25 was a high-ranking politician who regularly took bribes from Number 46. Since number 46 had been a thorn in the side of number 25 because of his choleric fits, he had sent him to me.

I only treated men. Both professionally and personally, I'd never gotten along very well with women. Men were easier to control, especially when it came to emotions. Any one of them would have died before voluntarily admitting to seeing a psychiatrist once a week to get the stress and murders off their chest.

Just as I would have died before I divulged any of the secrets my patients entrusted to me. If only because I had a very good idea of what they would do to me if they learned of my betrayal.

Number 46, for example, had cut off the testicles of the last traitor, forced him to eat them, and then skinned him alive. He still had blood under his nails when he came to me. Since then, I started charging him $1,750 an hour.

"I haven't had sex in two years," he said completely out of nowhere.

Me too, I almost replied. In fact, it's been almost four years for me. But I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. At least on that subject. Instead, I flipped my notepad closed, screwed the cap on my fountain pen, and set both on the table that stood between the couches. I'd been doing my job long enough to know at what point to stop taking notes.

Number 46 visibly relaxed after I leaned back again.

"Is the reason physical?" I asked in the same neutral voice as usual.

"No. Yes. Not exactly." He fell silent and bobbed the toe of his shoe.

"I take it you're emotionally blocked, and that's why you can't get an erection?"

"Something like that. I had such trouble controlling my aggression before I came to you, Doc, that I was afraid to have one of my lapses in the presence of a woman. I had this mistress, her name was Jeannie. Jeannie looked a bit like you, dark hair too, though not as long as yours, bright green eyes, and the prettiest mouth I've seen in my life. Unfortunately, she often used her mouth to say stupid things. When my tantrums got really bad, I worried too much that Jeannie would say something that would set me off, and I'd kill her... or worse."

I wasn't sure I wanted to know what he thought "worse" meant. Probably not. So I merely crossed my legs and nodded in understanding, while in truth, looking at my shiny black pumps. Impotence was one of the leading reasons why men came to me, and I was largely unconcerned about the fact that no one knew where or with whom I was.

Number 46 laughed. "I mean, it's not like I'm a monster. Killing women during sex is in a different league."

I thought back to the story of the cut testicles and wasn't sure I shared his view. My watch made a soft beeping sound.

"I'm afraid our time is up. I think it's a good sign that you're rational enough to recognize the danger. That means we can work on it. Do you think Jeannie is secretive enough for you to bring her?"

A grin spread across his face. "Are you going to watch, Doc?"

I made no reply, but waited patiently until he answered me like the adult he was: "No. No way. I could cut out her tongue, and she'd still be blabbering."

"Fine. We'll find another way."

"You're very attractive, Dr. Grayson. Have I told you that today?"

"I will not sleep with you. If you hint at it again, I'll have to raise my price."

He raised both hands. "Okay. Okay. I was just trying to say that I feel safe with you."

I had already stood up and smoothed out my skirt. He felt safe with me? Irritated, I stared at his broad chest because he had also stood up. Number 46 was a good six foot five and made of pure muscle. I, on the other hand, measured a scant five foot four—he could have easily broken me in half, and he felt safe with me like I was the threat? Inwardly, I made a mental note to talk more about his mother next time. I couldn't remember if he'd ever mentioned her before.

Number 46 buttoned his jacket. "Goodbye, Doc."

"Goodbye."

I waited the usual fifteen minutes, using it to go over my notes, before leaving the suite as well.

Except for one man waiting outside a room a few feet away, looking at his cell phone, the hotel hallway was empty. I walked to the elevator and tapped the floor impatiently with my foot. For such an expensive hotel, the White Court's elevator moved surprisingly slowly. It felt like an eternity passed before the doors finally opened to let me in.

It was late evening by now, and number 46's confession had shaken me, so I considered having a drink at the hotel bar. It had been so long since I'd last had sex—maybe a casual one-night stand would bring me back to my senses.

I straightened my blouse as the elevator doors crept toward each other with agonizing slowness. They had almost closed when a strong male hand pushed between them.

The waiting man from the hallway had obviously changed his mind and decided to follow me.

Practiced, I took in the details: expensive shoes, perfectly tailored clothes, and heavy cufflinks with the initials EE.

He smiled at me, clever eyes sparkling behind the frames of elegant horn-rimmed glasses. "Good evening, Dr. Grayson."

I eyed him up and down. He was definitely not one of my patients because as handsome as he was, I would not have forgotten him. There was, however, a certain resemblance to Number 14. Number 14 was of Irish descent and the head of a large criminal organization. The two men shared light brown hair and a neat, short beard. That's where the similarities ended, though, because Number 14 had green eyes, while the man in front of me had brown.

"Do we know each other?" I asked in my best therapist manner, with an absolutely expressionless voice.

"Not yet." He moved in close behind me. Too close. Then he pressed the penthouse button on the control panel before punching in a six-digit code. Instead of going down to the ground floor, we slid up at a snail's pace.

It was ridiculous, considering who I'd just spent sixty minutes with in a thoroughly soundproofed hotel room, but the man behind me made me nervous.

I wanted to leave the elevator at the first opportunity, but the elevator only stopped at the top floor. The doors opened and revealed a bar whose existence I had not been aware of.

The man put his hand on my back and pushed me forward. "Join me in the White Room, Doctor."

"No, thank you." I took a quick step to the side and turned away to get out of his touch. Hastily, I pressed the button for the ground floor.

He grabbed my wrist. "I'm afraid I do insist, Alice."

My eyes narrowed. How did he know my first name? To my patients, I was always and only Dr. Grayson—many of them probably believed that "Doc" was my first name.

I hadn't used my first name since...

Energetically, I straightened my shoulders. "No."

"That wasn't a request." His grip tightened. The fine hairs on the back of my neck bristled at the quiet, insistent way he spoke.

I went through my options. Either I followed him to the bar and listened to what he had to say before politely declining—or I made a scene.

Scenes in public were bad for business. There was a chance Number 46 would find out about it and think his cover had been compromised. I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth.

"All right. Provided you let go of me."

"Evander."

"Evander?" I raised an eyebrow.

"My name is Evander Edwards." He indicated a bow and held out his arm to me.

Seeing no other option, I linked my arm to his and entered the bar at his side. Evander Edwards explained the initials on the cufflinks. I eyed him with another quick sideways glance. "Edwards—like the pharmaceutical company?"

"Yes."

Great. I really hoped Evander Edwards didn't want anything important from me, because I would be hard-pressed to refuse. Edwards Pharmaceuticals wassomewhere in the top 50 of the Forbes Global 2000—an annual list of the two thousand largest publicly traded companies in the world. With annual sales of more than $80 billion, it wasn't surprising. Evander Edwards definitely had enough money to afford my hourly rates. And more than enough money to make my life damn difficult if he wanted to.

In fact, I was sure that the company's portfolio now included a football team and several television stations.

"What are you drinking?" he asked after selecting a table in a quiet corner. He let me go first so that I sat wedged between him and the wall in the narrow alcove.

His knee bumped against mine as he sat down, but I wasn't able to get any further away from him.

"Water," I replied stiffly.

Evander gave me an appraising look and said to the waiter, who promptly seemed to sprout from the floor beside the table, "A white wine for the lady." He looked at me again. "Chablis Grand Cru, I'm guessing. An old fashioned for me."