Mercy (Buchanan-Renard 2)

This was utopia. He had a new life, a new identity, and so much money he would never have to touch the principal. He could live like a king on the interest alone. And that was more glorious to him than his surroundings.

Behind him, he heard the rustle of clothing and knew the woman was getting dressed. She called out to him. He glanced back just as she blew him a kiss and walked out the door. This one, he thought, had been better than any of the others, and he knew he would have her again. She was so creative in bed, so brashly uninhibited. Perhaps he would call her tomorrow, but then he remembered the blond he had scheduled to entertain him. What was her name? He couldn’t remember. He did remember how she had intrigued him. She reminded him a little of Dallas, and perhaps that was why he wanted her. A remembrance of the past. The Sowing Club. It seemed a lifetime ago, yet it had only been a little over six months since he’d climbed into that plane. Dallas and Preston were dead. He’d read about them in the paper, and he often found himself wondering exactly how they had died. Had Buchanan killed them, or had the other one shot them? What was his name? Clayborne. Yes, that was it.

Ironic, he thought, that the weakest member of the club had survived. Poor, poor Cameron. John knew how claustrophobic he was. How was he enjoying prison life, he wondered, and then he smiled. Had his mind snapped yet?

Monk was probably dead. John had seen the blood on his shirt. He wouldn’t have risked getting medical aid, and John thought he probably crawled into a hole somewhere like a wounded animal, hiding while he died.

He finished his brandy and put the glass on the table. Yawning, he walked through the living room and down the hall. The woman had worn him out, and tomorrow was going to be a busy day. He wanted to get up early so that he could be on his yacht by nine. He would do his last-minute packing for his cruise in the morning.

He opened the bedroom door, stepped inside, and turned on the light. He could smell the woman’s perfume. He smiled again. No, life didn’t get any better than this.

Turning toward the bed, he lazily stretched his arms out and then untied his robe. He took a step forward, then leapt back. “No!” he cried. “No!”

There in the center of the satin sheets lay a long-stemmed red rose.