A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

I was crestfallen. My stomach sank down around my feet. Somehow I knew what I would find. The evidence of what had been nagging me for some time.

Why me? Generally, I find myself attractive. I’m considerably intelligent, although not brilliant. I’m a reasonably good cook. I’m an excellent housekeeper. I’m loyal but sometimes impatient. I’m stubborn like hell but not quick to get mad. In other words, I’m an ordinary woman. I couldn’t fathom why he wanted me.

It was common knowledge that this man was considered the catch of the century. Wealthy, successful, intelligent, beautiful…beautiful beyond compare. He could have anyone just by pointing. Why me? I couldn’t work it out and the reason was before me in vivid detail.

They looked like they belonged together. Birds of a feather, if you will. Two magnificent swans. I’m more of a sturdy mallard than a swan.

I clicked on an article about the accident. It happened in January on the road to St. Moritz. He was driving a Range Rover. The roads were icy, though it hadn’t snowed in weeks. The writer speculated that an oncoming truck caused Sebastian’s SUV to careen over the side of the mountain. The Rover hadn’t dropped far, but it had landed on the passenger side badly, killing her on impact.

Phantom tears stung my eyes; the real thing refused to fall. When she had been an anonymous, faceless specter, I hadn’t given her much thought––anyone willing to work in medicine needs thick skin and a strong stomach. After seeing that picture, though…so much joy, so much hope. I knew what that felt like. I also knew what it was like to have it ripped away. I closed the computer and crawled into bed. This couldn’t be anything other than a passing whim on his part, a sexual curiosity. The question was––what was I going to do about it?

* * *

The guests began arriving early on Thursday. I watched a metallic blue Porsche pull up to the entrance from the window of the upstairs den. A man, handsome and well dressed, stepped out of the car and handed Bentifourt a Louis Vuitton duffel bag. He was extremely fit, evident by the cut of his jacket, young, around thirty, and he was handing a seventy-year old man his bags to carry. This was going to be a long weekend. A woman stepped out of the passenger side and my eyes widened. Paisley. That would make him, Marcus, the husband; all the details from that scandalous night indelibly branded on my mind. She threw her arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick peck on the lips. They disappeared inside while Bentifourt slowly trailed behind, weighed down by their luggage.

I raced downstairs to see if I could help. Totally ignoring his objections, I managed to wrestle some of the bags away from him.

“Is Sebastian here?” Paisley asked no one in particular, nibbling on the end of her sunglasses looking inconvenienced. Then she turned to me. “Be careful with my things. And put us in the east wing––near Sebastian. We don’t want to be near the other guests.”

I watched Bentifourt’s expression turn weary. He sighed and drew himself up. “We have the best guest room ready for you, madam.”

“It’s okay, Paisley, whatever. Who cares where they put us,” Marcus interrupted in a placating tone.

The door to the office banged open and Sebastian walked out. He looked furious. His eyes skipped from me, to Bentifourt, then to the bags we were holding while Paisley gave him a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile.

“What the fuck, Paisley,” he practically growled, his narrowed eyes full of unmitigated disgust.

Marcus stepped forward. “Sebastian, it’s okay. We’ll take whatever room, really, it’s not a problem.”

“You’re here ten minutes and you’re already turning my household upside down. Bentifourt show them to the guest wing.” And with that, he walked back into his office and slammed the door shut. For a horrified moment, I thought it would fall off its hinges.

She whined the whole way up to her room.

By six, all the guests had arrived except for one, Mrs. Redman. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t incredibly curious about her. Charlotte was right. He was bent out of shape worse than ever. He slammed every door he opened and closed, shouted for Bentifourt more times than I could count, and wouldn’t come out of his office to greet his thirty guests. Each of who gave Bentifourt a weird curious expression when they inquired about him and were told he was not seeing guest until dinner.

A half an hour later, a bright red Rolls Royce Phantom pulled up. Charlotte and I followed Mr. Bentifourt out to help him unload the car. The driver opened the passenger door and a long, slim leg poked out. She stood up and scanned the open doorway, her well-exercised body wrapped in a clingy, simple pale blue dress. She had golden blond hair cut in a chin length bob parted to the side and her make up was flawless. She didn’t appear to be a day over forty-five, even though she was more than ten years older.