Battle Royal by Lucy Parker

Chapter Thirteen

The Flat of Humphrey the Cat

(Some big, grouchy dude also sleeps here. No idea who he is, but at least he knows how to work the can opener.)

They took thecheesecake back to Dominic’s flat for what remained of the night. When he unlocked the door and held it open, Sylvie slipped past him with a small, very private smile. Her cheeks were flushed. He’d wondered if stiffness would creep back into his reactions, that instinctual need to withdraw and recalibrate.

Yet his body and his mind were at ease. Relaxed.

Cautiously, tentatively . . . happy.

Endorphins played havoc on the brain, but that wasn’t why he was constantly drawn close, why he reached out and cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the heated skin.

And he didn’t think it was why her fingers closed over his wrist, holding him.

“We had sex,” she said, that smile deepening in her eyes.

“Yes, we did.”

“We had sex.” Sylvie moved her head, the slight shake of a person adjusting to a game changer. “And it was really good.”

His mouth curved. “Yes, it was.”

She released his wrist to take a gentle hold of his shirt, pulling him toward her. When her soft lips brushed his, a renewed skittering of arousal clenched his abdomen.

Sylvie’s hand brushed down his chest as she turned, looking around his lounge with avid interest. She had been making a quiet humming sound. It stopped. Her gaze moved over the exposed beams, the open fireplace, the built-in bookcases, the piano, brick walls and spiral staircase. Her fingers rose to cover her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said behind her hand.

He put the boxes of cheesecake on the table and went to turn on the kettle. The kitchen was attached and open plan. The previous occupant of the flat had modernized it, but installed electrics that mimicked the appearance of antiques.

He’d put in an offer on this place within an hour of the first viewing.

“Weep.” Sylvie dropped her handbag on the couch. “I was feeling all smug because my bakery is so much cooler than yours, and then you pull out my dream house. I currently live in a concrete box with an authoritarian rental agreement, and you have a living room straight out of the posh, antique-y villages in Midsomer Murders.”

“Hopefully with a lower body count.” Dominic heard a telltale thudding on the stairs. “Although at the first opportunity, Humphrey would like to begin that tally.”

Sylvie swung around as the enormous cat thumped onto the last step. With an audible groan, Humphrey rolled sideways to the floor. As evidenced by the noise he made every time he went up and down the stairs, he had perfectly adequate paws, so why he couldn’t just walk down the remaining step instead of collapsing like a Victorian heroine on her fainting couch remained a mystery.

“Oh.” Sylvie started forward with totally misplaced concern. “Dom, I think your cat’s sick.”

That shortened version of his name slipped out again. Even as a kid, nobody had ever called him Dom. Evidently, his demeanor didn’t encourage a friendly nickname. Like more and more things right now, it was unique to Sylvie.

He liked it.

He took down two mugs. “Just give him a minute.”

As she ignored him and went to crouch by Humphrey’s side, the tabby menace flipped over, with admittedly impressive agility for his age and stature, and stared beadily up at her.

Dominic could already see she was about to repeat Pet’s error of judgment on meeting his cat. And as he hadn’t managed to intercept his sister’s urge to grab and cuddle, the scratch down her arm had been inflamed for a week.

Pet had since nicknamed his pet Humphrey “Boggart.” In normal circumstances, he might protest at a member of his household being compared to a malevolent spirit. In this case, it was not only accurate but bordering on generous. Pet sarcastically inquired after Boggart’s welfare on a semiregular basis. Maimed anyone else lately?

“Don’t pat him,” he warned sharply, moving quickly around the kitchen bench as Sylvie made an incomprehensible enamored sound and stretched out her hand. “He doesn’t like people and he scratches—”

The moment Sylvie’s fingers touched his cranky, diminutive head, Humphrey hunched his body, drew himself up—and collapsed into a boneless puddle. He expanded across the rug like dough spilling out of a bowl. A noise like a rusty hacksaw undulated through the room.

He was purring.

The little shit hadn’t even purred for Sebastian.

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” Sylvie said, getting right down on the floor to scritch under Humphrey’s chin. The cat batted against her hand. Affectionately. What—and Dominic could not overstate this—the fuck? She looked up. “This is your terrifying satanic cat?”

Humphrey peered up from beneath her rubs and strokes. And smirked.

“You are the feline Iago,” Dominic said flatly.

“Don’t listen to him.” Sylvie pretended to cover the flicking ears. “You’re so handsome.”

Rolling his eyes, he returned to the kitchen to pour the tea. Sylvie still had her heart set on cheesecake, but he couldn’t face anise-flavored cream cheese at two o’clock in the morning. Regardless of the time crunch to confirm the Midnight Elixir recipe, he stuck a piece of bread in the toaster.

When he took a slice of cheesecake and a fork into the living room, she was curled up on the couch with Humphrey draped over her chest, his purrs rattling louder with every stroke down his back. “Food.” He passed her the plate and she took it with murmured thanks. “Feel free to have the cat, as well. Permanently.”

“Dominic.” Sylvie cupped her hand around Humphrey’s neck. “Is that any way to talk about your son?”

He supposed he should be honored that when he returned with the tea and his toast, she nudged the annoyed cat onto a cushion so she could curl up against him instead. She did so with apparently instinctual ease, resting her head on his shoulder, and he breathed in deeply as he slowly lifted his hand to sift his fingers through her hair.

Her hairline was still a bit damp. He could smell the remnants of her perfume. Lightly, he ran his fingertips over her temple.

In his peripheral vision, Humphrey’s paw stretched toward his plate. He wouldn’t eat the toast—although he’d lick the butter just to be a dick—but it was one of his favorite pastimes, knocking other people’s life sustenance to the floor.

“Don’t even think about it.” Dominic moved the plate out of reach.

The cat’s response was to turn around and stick his backside out.

“With every passing day,” he mused, “I become more of a dog person.”

“You’re too busy for a dog.” Sylvie forked a bit of cheesecake into her mouth. “A temperamental, pessimistic cat is your ideal pet. Don’t be so ungrateful. It sounds like your grandfather knew you to a tee.”

With a faint huff of a laugh, he tilted his head tiredly back against the couch. Between an already long day, the unexpected order, and a fairly mind-shattering orgasm, he could easily drop off right here. “How’s the cheesecake?”

“Gross.” Sylvie was clearly not devastated on Darren Clyde’s behalf. “There’s a horrible aftertaste that’s not present in the drink. But . . .” She put a bit more on the tip of her tongue, considering. She swallowed. Twisted in his arms to face him. “Pomegranate. The missing ingredient is pomegranate.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment, and she turned to burrow more comfortably, looking highly satisfied.

The rain was hitting the windows and increasing drowsiness crept over them.

“Raspberry syrup,” Sylvie said softly, and he opened his eyes.

“What?”

“A tablespoon of raspberry syrup for every cup of Sorceress emulsion.”

The ingredient he’d missed.

He looked down at the top of her head, where strands of pink and purple caught the light overhead. “Thank you.”

“Mmm.” She finished the rest of her cheesecake and pushed the plate away. Humphrey crept forward and extended his tongue. And was so offended by what it encountered that he leapt off the couch and stalked back toward the stairs. Darren Clyde proved useful in at least one instance, then. “Dominic?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m worried this wedding isn’t going to happen.”

They were both currently investing hours of work every day into crafting cake proposals for this wedding. They were both exhausted. And both of their businesses could receive a huge financial boost from a successful contract.

But it wasn’t even a question where Sylvie’s main concern was directed. Not at a potential lost contract, but at the welfare of two people whom they both liked a great deal.

He stroked the side of his thumb over her cheekbone. “Is Rosie getting cold feet?”

There had been obvious underlying tension in the princess’s body language today—or rather, yesterday; it seemed like eons ago now. Ditto Johnny, when it came to that. And Sylvie had been in private consultation with Rosie for a long time.

In the car, while Pet put on her headphones to continue the audiobook she’d also started debriefing for him, Sylvie had told him in a low voice what Rosie had said about Jessica Maple-Moore. Dominic had always thought Johnny was walking an unenviable path, purposefully eschewing all privacy and a great deal of autonomy, forever. Once the marriage license was signed, there was no exit clause. He’d always be connected to the royals, a public figure, fair game in the eyes of the tabloids. And even his reason for it all—their relationship—would never be entirely theirs alone. So Jessica’s ultimate decision that she had to walk away was entirely understandable. In her shoes, he’d probably—

Sylvie’s breath was lightly fanning the hollow of his neck. He looked down at where she lay with her cheek against his shoulder. Her long lashes were lowered as she watched her fingers playing with his shirt buttons. Her nails were painted midnight blue, and she’d painted a dozen tiny silver stars on her thumbnails; she’d told him that she’d have liked to stick on actual crystals, but even with glove use, she didn’t want to risk them falling into a batter. She’d sweated off most of her makeup making love with him, during a night he hoped he’d still remember as a very old man, and the thin blue veins standing out on her temples had an appearance of vulnerability that made his arm tighten.

Would he? Would he walk away if he were in Jessica’s position or Johnny’s position? If, hypothetically, he’d held someone in his arms who could become the center of his life, if he suddenly had that knowledge deep inside, if he’d felt their heart beating close to his, and to be with them would involve that level of sacrifice—would it be too much?

“Not cold feet in the usual sense,” Sylvie said. He’d pulled a blanket around her as the air turned chillier with the advancing night, and she was plaiting the fringe. That knee-jerk stress tic that he’d always found reluctantly endearing; even four years ago, he remembered he’d found it oddly relaxing to watch Sylvie at her station, nervously plaiting offcuts of dough as she waited for her turn in the judging. “She’s . . . I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say ‘tormented’ over what even this engagement is doing to Johnny’s life. And clearly Patrick was such an influence over her own life that the precedent with Jessica is looming large. I feel like at this point it’s fifty-fifty what happens next, whether she’ll fight to have a life with Johnny. Or whether she’ll act so he can have a life without everything that surrounds her.”

Her arm suddenly slipped around his ribs, holding him tightly, and he ran his fingers down her forearm, again that instinct to comfort overriding all else.

He thought of Johnny standing stammering in the Captain’s Suite at that first meeting, his obvious misery at dealing with his future mother-in-law, the bullying demeanor of Edward Lancier. In retrospect, he couldn’t even use the Father Christmas epithet; there was something so genuinely unpleasant about the man, it was totally inapt.

And he thought of the expression in Johnny’s eyes every time he looked at Rosie.

“He doesn’t want a life without her,” he said. “I don’t have a fucking clue why he looked so shifty yesterday, but he’s going into this with his eyes open. And beneath the bumbling puppy exterior, that man has a heart of gold and, I suspect, a core of iron. If Rosie won’t fight for their relationship, I’d lay a bet he will, like hell.”

Sylvie kept her head lowered for some time. And then she looked up at him, searching his eyes, and smiled faintly. “Four years ago, if someone had told me that one day I’d never find greater comfort than in the sound of your voice and the scratch of your stubble, I’d have questioned their sanity.”

So lightly, so easily, she could say things that he’d never forget.

She had finished plaiting an entire section of blanket. He flipped the end around so she had more to do.

“Ultimately, we can’t control what anyone does,” he said at last. “All we can do is keep working on the proposals. Keep looking for a key to unlock the Patrick design. One thing at a time. One day at a time.”

Her fingers had stilled when he moved the blanket for her. Usually, Sylvie’s expression was very open. She seemed to live life in its entirety that way, appreciating and inviting in experiences. But occasionally, that enigmatic shadow slipped into her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “One day at a time.”

With her hands wrapped in the blanket, she reached up and kissed him.

“As much as I love your lounge and was hoping you might play the piano,” she whispered when their lips parted, “I think I’m ready for bed.”

The shadows had slipped into pure desire.

And his body was at least ten years too old to react this swiftly.

Pushing off the couch, he swept her up into his arms and carried her toward the door. She was still clutching the blanket. “Over three decades and it’s finally happened,” she said, sounding totally thrilled. “I’m going to be carried upstairs and ravished.”

He walked past the spiral staircase.

“Why aren’t we going upstairs?”

“Because my bedroom is this way.” He nudged the door open and walked down the short hallway.

“Oh.” She kicked her feet, making it difficult to keep a firm grip on her. “What’s upstairs, then?”

“Humphrey’s room.” Balancing her weight, he managed to get his bedroom door open.

When he laid her on his bed and saw her face, her lips had tucked in between her teeth.

She cleared her throat. “The cat has a bedroom?” There was a quiver in her voice.

His brows drew together. “Yes.”

She levered off one of her boots and toed the other free. Her head was ducked low while she gave the task more attention than it needed. Dominic watched narrowly as her breath caught in a suspicious hitch.

He opened the drawer in his bedside table, found the box of condoms, and tossed it onto the bed. At her continued silence, he found himself saying in his own humiliatingly heated defense, “It’s a cramped, poky little box with a window better suited for a prison. It’s too small for an office.”

Sylvie had already stripped off to her underwear. She came up on her knees and started unbuttoning his shirt. “You gave your despised cat his own bedroom. Despite everything, this day is great.”

She shoved his shirt the rest of the way off, took his face between her hands, and pulled him down on top of her.

They landed and rolled, Sylvie straddling his hips. The laughter in her face softened as she stroked patterns over his stomach, making him go rigid in reaction.

Everywhere.

“Dominic.” She flattened her palms over his ribs, holding him. Bending, she touched her nose to his. “I’m starting to suspect you might be kind of okay.”

Their lips touched.

“Deep, deep down,” she murmured.

They were so mutually exhausted that he’d expected the sex to be a slow, lazy build of pleasure, but the moment he held himself still for her and she slid down on him, her internal muscles a wet, hot fist around his erection, the intensity spiked.

She leaned forward to grip the headboard as she rode him, her eyes closed. He held her hips, rubbing her against his pelvic bone with every thrust. Through the prickling ecstasy in every nerve ending, he watched her lashes flutter, her chest flushing red as her breaths quickened.

Slipping his thumb between their bodies, he touched her lightly, gradually increasing the rolling pressure to follow the cues of her body and the sounds she made.

“Dom.”

Sylvie orgasming was, without question, the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. She shuddered, her thighs spasming to clasp him tightly, her hands scrabbling for his.

He linked their fingers as she rocked back and forth, unable to stop pushing against him.

When she had her breath back, she finished him in her mouth, her fist tight around his length as her tongue lapped and tickled under the head, drew him in, sucked hard, and brought him to such an intense release that his knee jerked up and his vision whited out.

It was after three by the time they pulled the covers up and she cuddled close under the curve of his arm. She lay with her lips against his skin, her fingers idly playing about his nipple, tickling down to his navel. He had now officially pushed his body beyond the ability to rouse sexually, but her touch still provoked a tingling, drowsy pleasure. She fell asleep almost immediately, her weight against him lax and warm and trusting, and—no.

If he were in Jessica’s shoes, he would never have walked away.

An Unfortunately Short Time Later

Still in the flat of Humphrey the Cat.

More specifically, the en suite of Dominic the Human.

Who’s really kind of okay.

Deep, deep down.

Many regrets about vomiting in his loo, though.

On balance, it was still a great day. She’d worked herself into exhaustion and she was deeply worried about the royal couple. She would also be disappointed if the cake contract became redundant; she was only human. On the flip side, she’d collaborated with Dominic professionally, which had turned out to be almost as enjoyable as competing against him, and she’d shagged him into exhaustion. Definitely more ticks on the plus side.

However, the current situation was admittedly a low point.

Taking deep, gulping breaths, Sylvie turned to sit against the vanity, resting her sweaty forehead against her knees. Nausea was hot, roiling distress in her stomach, rising up her throat. She swallowed repeatedly.

She’d had about ninety blissful minutes sleeping in Dominic’s arms, clutching his pec like a teddy bear, before she’d become ill. From dreamless, comfy oblivion to throwing up in his en suite, all in the space of sixty horrifying seconds.

Her mortification was complete when a hand came to rest on her hair, stroking her gently, but even now, she was shocked by how much comfort his touch could give her.

Her eyes wet, she turned to press her face against his chest with a little sound of misery, and felt his palm tighten on her head.

“When did you start feeling rubbish?” His voice was low and soothing, and her eyes prickled.

Through clenched teeth, she managed, “I felt fine when I went to sleep and then . . .” No. Wasn’t going to be able to finish that sentence.

Her stomach had clearly been biding its time since the assault of Byron’s scone and was now exacting its revenge. As she put her hand over her mouth and surged upward again, Dominic tucked her unraveling plait out of the way and held her.

The next half hour was a blur. She was making the executive decision to strip all thirty minutes from her memory. They had never happened.

After the experience of which she had zero recollection and definitely wouldn’t still be cringing over in her aged care home, her grand plans for the rest of the night involved curling in a ball and awaiting the arrival of the Reaper. When Dominic picked her up in his arms and carried her back to bed, it wasn’t quite as sexy as the first time he’d swept her off to his room.

Yet, for every kiss earlier tonight, every thrust of his body, every time her neck had arched and her lips had parted, somehow as she crawled beneath the sheets and he lay beside her—this was the most intimate and significant moment she’d ever had in bed. As he tucked the blanket around her shoulders, touched his lips to her temple, and held her hand.

She couldn’t think of a single man from her past that she would want anywhere near her when she was sick. And if she had the energy to move her limbs, she’d probably wind them around Dominic like an octopus.

For the remaining dark hours of the night, he didn’t leave her side. He murmured comfort in her ear, he held her up through the utter bliss of a shower and found her one of his shirts to wear. Finally, when her continuing misery left him repeatedly pacing, he wrapped her in a quilt and took her out to the lounge. Settling her on the couch with the most infinite care, he sat down at the piano and he played her favorite Bach for her.

As a pianist, he wasn’t quite at the level of Patrick. But it was very close.

And as Sylvie lay drifting with her cheek against a cushion, the music wrapping around her, and tears slowly sliding over the bridge of her nose, she felt the tether on her heart start to fray, that guarded thread that had kept it in her own possession, lonely but secure. Protected. At no risk of shattering into infinite pieces like the little glass deer.

By half past six, her stomach felt raw and battered, but finally like the calm after the storm. Back in bed, she lay like a rag doll, barely able to lift her hand and scratch the itch on her nose.

When she vocalized that thought, Dominic, stretched out on the bed beside her again and looking equally tired, rubbed the tip of her nose with exaggerated care.

The backs of his fingers touched her forehead. He frowned. “You’re not hot, at least. Still no sore throat? Headache?”

She shook her head. “No. Just the nausea.”

“Some of my staff are out with the bug that’s going around, but it doesn’t sound like . . .” He broke off. “Just a minute.” He slipped off the bed. “I’ll be right back. Rest.”

He touched her curled hand as he strode out with enviable vigor.

While he was gone, the door creaked, and Sylvie heard the sashay of fur brushing past wood.

Seconds later, her second main man Humphrey came flying onto the bed in a blur of tabby bulk and immensely long whiskers. He marched triumphantly up and down her body a few times, kneading her through the covers.

“You look right at home for a cat I suspect is not allowed on this bed,” she informed him, scratching his ears.

An assumption confirmed when Dominic came back in and exchanged looks of mutual loathing with his reluctant family member. The irascible furry son with the best feline real estate this side of Notting Hill.

“Since she’s relaxed for the first time in hours,” he said to Humphrey, “you can stay for exactly five minutes.”

Humphrey flicked an insouciant tail.

Dominic held up the box in his hand. “The cheesecake with the ‘horrible aftertaste.’ Which also has a strange smell that doesn’t belong to any of its myriad ingredients.”

Sylvie put a protective hand over her poor stomach. “But we put it in the bakery fridge right away.”

“I suspect it came complete with off taste and smell at point of purchase.”

Unbelievable. “So he’s given me food poisoning now.”

“I wish I had punched the prick,” Dominic said, coming to sit on the side of the bed again. Despite the cold dislike in his words, his hand was very gentle on her skin as he ran it down her upper arm.

Sylvie tucked her arm under her head. She was too exhausted to indulge her usual Darren wrath. Too exhausted even to argue when Dominic had told her he’d left a message with her staff that she wouldn’t be in this morning. She closed her eyes. “He’s bigger than you thought, remember.”

Lips on her browbone.

“He could be the size of a fucking double-decker bus.”

She drifted into her nap smiling.

It was her phone that woke her. Dominic must have set it to silent, but the vibration disturbed Humphrey, who dug his claws into her arm. She opened her eyes with a jump, lifting her head. Her cheek felt hot and sticky, the room a bit too overheated. For a moment, she had no idea where she was.

Voices drifted through the open door. She recognized the cadence of Dominic speaking, and she was fairly sure the feminine response was Pet.

Her phone writhed more insistently, and she blinked away the remaining confusion, snatching it up. Jay’s name was flashing.

“Jay?” She spoke huskily, crackling over the syllable, and coughed as she pushed up against the pillows.

“Syl? Are you okay?” His concern came through clearly. “Mabel took a message that you’re out sick today, but she said you seemed fine last night when you had to pull De Vere’s out of the shit. Very charitable of you, by the way,” he added with a dry edge. “I believe her words were ‘more than fine.’ Have you come down with something?”

“Just ate something that didn’t agree with me.” On a number of levels. “My body rejected it fairly gruesomely. I feel like a deflated balloon,” she said frankly. “And as I’m supposed to shoot Operation Cake tonight and the producers would have my head on a platter if I have to pull out, I think I’d better take the rest of the day away from the bakery if you can cope.”

Tonight was the always-feared night episode—also operating as the semifinal, thanks to Nadine’s early departure and the rescheduling of the location shoot—in which the contestants had to prepare a five-course dessert banquet for a number of celebrity guests. Which this year included the footballer Chuck Finster. Name of a Rugrat, kick of a stallion, thighs of a god.

What a time to be alive and probably looking like something that had recently dragged its way out of a tomb.

And how fortunate that her mind and body appeared to have lost all interest in any other man. She was no longer dancing around it, as she sat here in his crumpled sheets, with her bed-hair sticking to her face and a vile taste in her mouth. She was absolutely mad about Dominic De Vere.

“Of course we can manage. You rest up. But are you sure you’re up to working on the show tonight?”

She didn’t even want to think about tasting baked goods right now. One bonus of the night episode, however—most of the eating was done by the guest panel. She could probably get away with a handful of minuscule bites for the camera.

The acid on her tongue was a sour burn.

“I signed a contract. I’ll see it through.”

“They’re lucky to have you.” The warmth of Jay’s response made her smile faintly. “Okay. Go back to sleep. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Jay. Love you.” She ended the call as Dominic came into the room, Pet following behind him with a bunch of gerbera daisies in her hands. The flowers were beautifully arranged and tied with a polka-dot ribbon.

When her eyes met Dominic’s, the flip-flop in her stomach had nothing to do with dodgy cheesecake. She lowered her lashes for a second, feeling a rush of that ridiculous shyness that sometimes caught her off guard lately when he looked at her. When he’d been a total stranger, she’d gone toe-to-toe with him without a second thought. Now she knew him intimately—for God’s sake, she’d sucked on the man’s cock like a lollipop and was still blushing like a Regency deb.

“I heard your voice,” he said, “so I thought it was safe to let your visitor in. Although foisting Pet and Humphrey on you—you’ve already got an upset stomach; you don’t need a migraine.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Pet said. She thrust the bunch of flowers at Sylvie. “I hope you’re feeling better. You look awful,” she added, with the blunt brutality of a soigné twentysomething.

“What an effusion of warmth and compassion. Florence Nightingale walks again.” Dominic came over to the bed and, after the slightest pause, bent to kiss Sylvie’s cheek. Very low, with just a tinge of roughness to cover his glaring discomfort, he murmured, “You always look beautiful.”

Sylvie had to blink away yet another stupidly wet burn in her eyes.

Still with uncharacteristic awkwardness, he said something about tea and left her with Pet. The Road Runner had made slower exits from a room.

Self-consciously, she looked down at the flowers on her lap. She gently stroked a petal. “These are lovely. Thank you so much, Pet.”

The side of the mattress compressed, and when she raised her head, Pet was smiling at her. It was a genuinely affectionate smile, but just slightly twisted.

“It’s been pretty obvious since he kept that silhouette of you on his desk,” Pet said. “Dorian Gray couldn’t take better care of a portrait than Dominic. Someone tried to touch it with dirty hands last week and he reacted like a dragon guarding his hoard.”

Sylvie couldn’t help a small smile in return, but she said frankly, “It sounds like there’s a looming ‘but.’ Is this the precursor to a warning from a protective sister?”

Pet snorted. “Please. Like Dominic needs me running interference for him.” She played with the end of the bouquet ribbon. So inaudibly that Sylvie may not have been meant to hear, she muttered, “I still don’t know that he needs me at all.” She looked up. “It looks like he’s taking good care of you. I know he cares a lot about his people in his own . . . brusque way, but to be honest, I didn’t expect him to do such a good Nightingale impression. He almost cuddled you.”

There was, again, an odd little edge to those words.

“Pet,” Sylvie said, and hesitated. This felt beyond overstepping.

“You’re partly responsible for scoring me an invite to a royal ball,” Pet said. “Unless you leave my brother for a man who smiles more than once a month, we’re buds for life, you and me. Go on.”

“Dominic’s told me just a little about when he was younger.”

Pet’s smile faded, and Sylvie selected her next words very carefully. “I know he finds it difficult sometimes to . . . to physically show he cares.”

“And yet that doesn’t seem to be an issue with you,” Pet said, apparently before she could stop herself. She bit her lip.

Yeah—that was what Sylvie thought she’d seen in Pet’s manner.

She grimaced, feeling as if she were walking on very fragile ice. She didn’t want to break Dominic’s confidence; nor did she want to put any pressure on Pet here, but—“Pet . . . If you went out there right now and gave him a hug, I honestly think it would make his whole fucking month.”

Pet looked at her unblinkingly. And then she lifted one eyebrow, and again looked so like Dominic it was momentarily startling. “How to put this tactfully . . . You haven’t been inhaling buckets of cold medicine or anything? He’d be legging it down the street before I’d finished raising my arms.”

“No,” Sylvie said. “He wouldn’t.”

Pet just shook her head.

Sylvie touched the slim, curled fingers. “He does need you in his life. Very badly, I think.”

The other woman’s face worked for a moment before she got herself under control, the frothy, flirty exterior slipping back into place.

They sat in silence.

And then Humphrey, who had been snoring against Sylvie’s knee, bolted up and screamed.

Both she and Pet jumped violently.

The cat, totally unbothered at the close of his dramatic scene, plunked himself back down and went back to sleep.

Sylvie hadn’t even known a cat could make that sound. Hyenas, maybe. The odd owl. Mabel, the time Jay had accidentally used her best brush to touch up a spot of paint in the staff bathroom.

“What the fuck was that?”

Pet had recovered from the fright and just looked annoyed. “She leaned on your tail for two seconds, Boggart,” she said to Humphrey. “She didn’t go after you with a chain saw. Jesus Christ.”

Dominic came back into the room with a mug in each hand. “Who sat on Iago?”

“Me,” Sylvie said, fighting a smile. She took the mug he offered. “And you’re both awful.”

“Slow sips,” he warned. “Your stomach needs time to recover. And I don’t think you should be going to the studio tonight.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Stubborn.”

“Pot and kettle, De Vere.”

Pet moved to sit cross-legged and pulled out her phone, thumbing open an app. “I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better, because I’ve got an email from Kathleen Maple-Moore, your Jessica’s younger sister.”

Sylvie paused with the tea mug halfway to her mouth, and Dominic turned his head sharply.

“Kathleen inherited Primrose Cottage after Jessica’s death and must have changed its name,” Pet went on, scrolling down her screen. “She runs amateur art classes from there now and hires out studio space.” She lifted her head and smiled at them. “I’ve booked us in for a tour on Friday.”

Humphrey’s snores echoed through the room. It was like a cross between a wheezy donkey and a rusty seesaw. Hee-haw. Hee-ho.

It was Dominic who got over the blank surprise first. His eyes narrowed. “You had your headphones on in the car. You said you were listening to your book.”

“I turned it off to eavesdrop,” Pet said with absolutely no shame. “Everyone was being very furtive at that meeting. I was unacceptably confused.”

Sylvie eyed the phone. Clearly, Dominic had told his sister nothing on this subject, and Pet hadn’t seen the photographs Sylvie had taken at Abbey Hall—as far as she knew. Patent mistake to underestimate the sheer balls of Petunia De Vere. But she probably hadn’t had access to the envelope with the Oxford address. “If the name of the property is different, how do you know it’s Primrose Cottage?”

“And what do you mean, you booked ‘us’ in for a tour?” Dominic added pointedly.

“Maple-Moore is hardly a common name. And there are very few members of the family living in England. Most of them are still in Ireland, FYI. Jessica was born in County Clare. Once I found Kathleen’s website, I ran the records of her property and found it was legally retitled twenty-six years ago. It took about ten minutes. I’m a very good PA,” Pet said with a roll of her long-lashed eyes. “Incidentally, I’m currently your PA.” A pointed aside to her brother. “And this concerns bakery business.”

Complacently, she finished, “Also, Primrose Cottage is now Petunia Park. Which is even more twee, frankly, but I took it as cosmic confirmation that I ought to tag along.”

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Dominic raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Sylvie couldn’t help a giggle, which turned out to be a mistake. Her abused abdomen was not sufficiently recovered. She puffed out her cheeks at the twinge of residual nausea.

Pet studied her with alarm. And edged back a few inches. “Are you feeling poorly again? Did you say cheesecake was the culprit?” Yes, and she would thank everyone never to mention the word again. “Dominic said it came from the Starlight Circus. Whose owner, by the way, put up a trash post about De Vere’s on Facebook this morning.”

Sylvie stopped counting the rhythm of her deep breaths. She looked up. “He what?”

Pet was thumbing through her apps again. “Someone tagged me. Don’t worry—he sounds like a moaning dickbag. Nobody will take it seriously. But you must have pissed him right off, big brother.”

She turned the phone around and handed it to Sylvie.

Sylvie read the post with increasing fury. While skating around the edges of libel, Darren had insinuated a number of things about quality control at De Vere’s—ragingly ironic from the man selling salmonella. He’d thrown around terms like “overrated” and “overpriced,” and he’d called Dominic a “hulking thug who dominates the industry with all the integrity of a Corleone.”

First of all—Dominic was not “hulking.” He was broad-shouldered, huge-handed, and terribly elegant.

And secondly, Oh, I think not.

Ignoring the lingering weakness in her limbs, Sylvie calmly handed Pet back her phone and reached for her own. She started typing and soon found the number she was looking for.

Dominic had scanned the Facebook post with no interest at all. “Who are you calling?”

“The Food Standards Agency.” She lifted the phone to her ear. “I think Darren is due a surprise inspection.”