The Kiss Plot: Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy Read online

  The Kiss Plot

  Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy

  Nicole French

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or rendered fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2019 Raglan Publishing.

  All rights reserved.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy.

  Cover design by Raglan Publishing.

  To every queen.

  Contents

  Prelude

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Interlude I

  Part II

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Interlude II

  Part III

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Interlude III

  Part IV

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Postlude

  Legally Yours

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Nicole French

  About the Author

  Prelude

  In his head, it wasn’t quite an onomatopoeia, but it was close. Repetitive and grating, like the worst kind of figurative language. Like a nursery rhyme someone had composed on the spot, or a fingernail tapping on a window. Innocuous at first, but eventually you thought it might break your brain completely.

  Something was leaking in the corner. A broken pipe, maybe, or a crack in the ceiling. Eric had no idea because the room was pitch-black. Cold and damp, it also reeked of sweat and mildew mixed with clumps of dirt on the floor, and whatever the liquid was had been slapping in a steady, sloppy pool interminably since he’d been tossed in here like a dog.

  Eric pressed his head into the wall, hoping the chill might quiet the sounds. It didn’t work. How long had he been lying on the dusty concrete? Hours? Days? His stomach rumbled. He had barely been able to eat lunch in his suite at the Waldorf, and that had been hours before he was due at the church along with half of New York. Even after he’d gone down to deliver his vows to Jane’s room and hear her voice before the ceremony, his nerves had been too jittery to stomach much more than a salad and some nuts. There would be food at the reception, after all. After the deed was done, and he and Jane were finally married.

  Of course, things hadn’t exactly gone as planned, but they never did with Jane. Fucking hell, she’d looked stunning, though, standing there at the crossing, a white, lethal combination of fury and beauty, like one of the carved archangels in the church come to life. She had been so angry, so betrayed, even after their shouts had echoed around the small chapel while the wedding guests murmured in the main hall.

  For a bit, he’d honestly thought she was going to leave him there. That poetic justice would finally be served, and he’d be the jerk left at the altar.

  Still, in the end, Jane had chosen the vows, hadn’t she? Gritted through her teeth, sure, but she’d still said them. Eric had to believe a part of her had meant them. He certainly had.

  But before he could tell her, everything had gone to hell.

  He twisted on the floor, which was difficult, considering his hands were duct-taped behind his back.

  Was anyone looking for him? He had barely heard the commotion of Grandmother collapsing as Carson and his thugs shuttled him away. The cathedral doors were still open when the words “she’s dead!” echoed off the high stone walls of St. John the Divine. And if that were true—if the cantankerous, stubborn, pearl-dripping matriarch of the de Vries clan had finally met her maker—well, it wasn’t likely that many others would care if Eric was alive or dead either.

  His cousin Nina, for instance, and her husband, Calvin. Nina wasn’t a bad egg, but both were undoubtedly relieved that he might be out of the picture, unable to take what even Eric had to admit should rightfully belong to his cousin, considering she was the one who stuck around for the last ten years.

  Or his aunt Violet, who made no secret of her anger that the family’s holdings were to be transferred to a prodigal son like Eric rather than her own dutiful daughter.

  His mother, to whom he had barely spoken in a decade, was more likely diving into a bottle of gin while she survived her second marriage to a hedge fund owner.

  Would any of them care that Eric had vanished?

  Doubtful.

  And Jane.

  Jane.

  Jane.

  Eric slumped to the floor, suddenly light-headed. Jane’s face, so perfect and imperfect at the same time, flashed again through his mind. She had looked almost alien in the white dress, simple but for the train that seemed to stretch miles. Her black-brown hair pinned back into a demure bun, except for the bright streak of red in the back she’d kept just for him. Her glasses were gone, the black nail polish replaced with clear, the dark makeup, the wild jewelry…all of it traded for the almost doll-like woman standing there, waiting for him.

  Except her lips. They had still been a bright, garish red. Taunting him even as her mouth twisted with hurt and rage.

  Eric pressed his forehead into the concrete, willing the vision of her face, contorted in anger, to disappear. God, it hurt. His chest was like a twisted sponge and throbbed with an endless ache.

  And it was his fault, too. Not because of what he’d done—in the grand scheme of things, did it really matter that he’d slept with Caitlyn Calvert, a family friend, five years ago? After he and Jane had done equal damage to each other’s hearts anyway?

  No, it wasn’t that. It was the fact that he’d concealed it. That he’d kept it to himself with every dinner party, every event, every moment they’d shared with Caitlyn over the past six months. He’d known, and he’d never told her.

  Just like he’d never told her about so many other things that filled him with regret. Like Janus.

  Deorum vocas.

  He had never hated Virgil so fucking much.

  The door to the room slammed open, and a light was flipped on, revealing to Eric for the first time something of his surroundings. Not that it did him much good. After hours in darkness, the harsh glare of the single fluorescent bulb dangling from the ceiling was blinding. Eric felt rather like the men in Plato’s cave, squinting with the pain of sudden sight. Except, of course, he hadn’t escaped at all. He was still trapped.

  “In the chair.”

  A deep voice Eric recognized as Carson’s sounded behind him, and Eric’s eyes adjusted just in time to register two others: Jude, Carson’s right-hand man, and an enormous bodyguard who had retrieved Eric from the church with Carson. The two lugged him roughly off the floor by his bound wrists and shoved him onto a seat in the middle of the room. It w
as an odd chair, with a stiff metal back and a large circle cut out of the seat. Rather like sitting on a toilet. Not uncomfortable—especially compared to hours on the floor—but still odd.

  “His ankles,” Carson said as he walked into the room.

  Eric squinted into the light while the thugs wrapped tape around his ankles and the chair legs, then wrenched his arms to be secured over the back of the chair. Carson approached curiously, almost like he was viewing a zoo exhibit.

  It was the first really good look at the man Eric had gotten since he was twenty-two, newly tapped to be a member of the Janus society and initiated through Inquisition-style bullshit like this. Back then, he hadn’t known what it meant. Had thought it was just another Ivy League society, like Skull and Bones. Another circle jerk for rich assholes, a place to make sure you had your fingers on the right pulses, so later when you were really someone, you’d have the connections to make the world turn. He had done it out of loyalty, a way of following in his father’s footsteps. It had been a last chance at gaining his family’s approval, since he couldn’t seem to do it with his career or his would-be-bride.

  And then Penny died, and Eric had said “fuck it” to them all. To the company. To the family. And to Janus. Because really, what did he need of a secret society that protects the powerful when he had no intention of keeping power at all?

  He hadn’t realized it until now, of course, but Janus never saw itself as a mere society. Its members considered themselves gatekeepers—hence the name after the Roman god of beginnings and endings. Of passageways. And while membership meant support from all those gatekeepers and easier passage through the ranks of society, it also meant loyalty. Tithing. Permission from all.

  Permission that Eric, unknowingly, had not been granted when he had decided to marry the illegitimate daughter of its powerful head—its Caesar. It didn’t matter that neither he—nor Jane, for that matter—knew she was the product of a secret, one-night tryst before Yu Na, Jane’s mother, had even left Korea. How could they have known she was related to John Carson, the man who called himself Titan within the ranks of Janus? Who had become Caesar long before Eric joined.

  All that mattered was that those lines had been crossed when Eric had flouted Carson’s orders. And now he was paying the price.

  John Carson hadn’t changed in the last ten years. Still a tall man, taller even than Eric’s six feet and almost two inches. Still with a full head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair that gleamed with some kind of oil. Still clean-shaven but for the goatee that ringed his mouth with the precision of a stamp.

  His dark greenish eyes—nearly black in this light—sparked as he removed his suit jacket and handed it to the guard, who returned it to the outer room before rejoining them.

  Carson nodded.

  Jude stripped the duct tape from Eric’s mouth with a burning tear. Carson crossed the room and squatted so he was eye to eye with his captive.

  “I must say,” he remarked. “You haven’t aged well, Triton. You look at least ten years older than, what is it now? Thirty-two?” He looked to the other men. “Or is it thirty-three?”

  “Not until January.” Jude flipped through his phone, looking bored from his place against the wall. “He’s a Capricorn.”

  Carson rolled his eyes at the astrology reference. Jude always had his quirks. “Close enough.”

  Eric glared at Jude, a man who had joined the society a year or two before him. “What the fuck are you doing here, Jude?”

  Jude grinned and continued paging through his phone. “You didn’t think I’d miss out on the fun, did you? Or have you forgotten how much I enjoy hunting big game?”

  “Is that what I am? A fucking elephant to slaughter?”

  A finger slid under his chin, forcing him to look straight and into the face he’d been dreading.

  “More like a whale,” Carson said as he turned Eric’s face from side to side, like he was checking goods. “One that is in quite a bit of peril, I would say.” He dropped Eric’s chin and stood up straight. “You have been beached, Triton. It is your own fault, really. You swam too close to shore.”

  “Does that make you Captain Ahab?” Eric asked.

  Eric didn’t even bother to mask his contempt as Carson circled the chair. Jane would have had some fun with him right about now. Probably called him “Daddy Dearest.” Teased him about his turtleneck. Asked him if he knew how to use contractions or if he spoke like a Bond villain on purpose.

  In spite of himself, Eric chuckled.

  Carson’s dark eyes flashed dangerously. “This is Anton,” he said, gesturing to the unfamiliar guard. “Do you know where Anton is from, Triton?”

  Eric glanced at the man, who had a striking resemblance to King Kong. “Let me guess…Skull Island?”

  There was a thick grunt, and then a blow to Eric’s temple that made him see stars. Eric shook, and when he regained his vision, found Anton massaging his knuckles meditatively.

  “Good God, Triton.” Jude chuckled from the corner. “Some things never change. Almost thirty-three, and you still can’t resist poking the bear, can you?”

  “I wouldn’t anger Anton if I were you,” Carson said as he examined his fingernails, one by one. “He has a bit of a temper with people who aren’t his friends. And comparing someone to a giant ape is not very friendly.”

  Anton grunted in agreement.

  “Apologize,” Carson prodded.

  Eric just glared. “Why am I here, Carson?”

  “Anton,” Carson spoke as if the question hadn’t been asked, “is from St. Petersburg. He trained with the KGB before he defected, oh, five years ago. He works for me now. Under my protection. So, you see, he’s very loyal, since he knows that without my help, he’d have intelligence agencies from two world powers hunting him down like a dog.” Carson bared his teeth like he was a wolf himself.

  This time, Eric didn’t respond.

  “Anton learned a lot with the KGB, though,” Carson continued. “Skills that have been very useful in my…line of work.”

  It wasn’t hard to imagine why. All the members of Janus brought certain things to the table; “contributions” provided through their unique resources. The politicians brought power, of course, in the ability to control and effect policy in the favor of the society. There weren’t many of them, considering how easily they were bought anyway. Those who owned large corporations usually had myriad different goods to provide for members’ enjoyment—Jude, for example, earned his keep by trading in women, while another member whose family owned half of California wine country provided booze.

  Eric didn’t know what kinds of contributions his father and grandfather had made, though Jude had suggested to him a few months ago that some stock tips would be welcome. Nor did he know if his cousin Calvin, Nina’s husband, was a member either—those kinds of discussions were forbidden if he wasn’t. De Vries Shipping operated a solid half of the major ports on the East Coast, plus another fifty worldwide on top of its ventures in railway, trucking, and other forms of freight. You couldn’t get anything in or out of this country, or many others, without DVS. And many of the members of Janus had a lot of things they wanted passing through those watery gates.

  Eric wondered if Carson was one of those. John Carson was the CEO of Chariot, one of the largest engineering and research firms around, but more importantly, the biggest arms dealer on the planet. Carson’s society moniker was Titan for a reason: he really did see himself as a god of destruction. And if he went around the world selling his wares to the highest bidders, such salesmanship undoubtedly required a strong-armed escort like Anton.

  “Did he go with you to Korea?” Eric spat. “Let me guess, you were selling across the border. But I guess Kong here was a fetus back then. Like the daughter you abandoned, right?”

  Jane.

  Carson’s dark eyes glinted dangerously, and Eric fought the urge to look away. It was strange, but when the man was angry, he really did look like his daughter. Both had those haz
els that flashed almost green in bouts of rage. Jane’s features otherwise took after her mother, Yu Na. But her height. That lanky yet lithe stride. Those moody expressions that changed with each new emotion. All of that was obviously inherited from the man in front of him.

  Eric wondered how she was doing. If she had registered what had really happened. She wouldn’t know that the man who had claimed her husband was also one of the most dangerous people on the planet. She wouldn’t know why Eric had followed him out of the church like a dog on a leash.

  But before he could wonder any more, something found his cheek with a harsh crack—an open-palm slap from Anton, whose hand felt more like steel than skin.

  “Christ!” Eric shouted, shaking the chair.

  “Next time, you’ll speak about me and mine with a bit more respect, I think,” Carson said.

  Again, Jude chuckled, but seemed to regret it when he caught Carson’s attention.

  “Hermes,” Carson said. “Leave us.”

  Jude’s face slackened. He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but instead, gave a curt nod. His eyes darted toward Eric. “Have fun, Triton.”

  The heavy door slammed shut behind Jude. Carson pushed up the sleeves of his sweater, like he was the one getting ready to do heavy labor. Instead, the Russian was the one to pull a waxy rope, knotted at its base, from a hook on the wall.