Temptress : a Single Dad Small Town

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Jessica Prince
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TEMPTRESS
 WHISKEY DOLLS

A SMALL TOWN, SINGLE FATHER ROMANCE

JESSICA PRINCE
 Copyright © 2023 by Jessica Prince
www.authorjessicaprince.com

Published by Jessica Prince Books LLC

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
 C O NT E NT S

Discover Other Books by Jessica

About Temptress

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue

Check Out More from the Whiskey Dolls

Discover Other Books by Jessica
About Jessica
D I S C OV E R OT H E R B O O K S B Y J E S S I C A

WHITECAP SERIES
Crossing the Line
My Perfect Enemy

WHISKEY DOLLS SERIES

Bombshell
Knockout
Stunner
Seductress
Temptress

HOPE VALLEY SERIES:

Out of My League
Come Back Home Again
The Best of Me
Wrong Side of the Tracks
Stay With Me
Out of the Darkness
The Second Time Around
Waiting for Forever
Love to Hate You
Playing for Keeps
When You Least Expect It
Never for Him

REDEMPTION SERIES
Bad Alibi
Crazy Beautiful
Bittersweet
Guilty Pleasure
Wallflower
Blurred Line
 Slow Burn
Favorite Mistake

THE PICKING UP THE PIECES SERIES:

Picking up the Pieces
Rising from the Ashes
Pushing the Boundaries
Worth the Wait

THE COLORS NOVELS:

Scattered Colors
Shrinking Violet
Love Hate Relationship
Wildflower

THE LOCKLAINE BOYS (a LOVE HATE RELATIONSHIP spinoff):

Fire & Ice
Opposites Attract
Almost Perfect

THE PEMBROOKE SERIES (a WILDFLOWER spinoff):

Sweet Sunshine
Coming Full Circle
A Broken Soul

CIVIL CORRUPTION SERIES

Corrupt
Defile
Consume
Ravage

GIRL TALK SERIES:

Seducing Lola
Tempting Sophia
Enticing Daphne
Charming Fiona

STANDALONE TITLES:
One Knight Stand
Chance Encounters
Nightmares from Within

DEADLY LOVE SERIES:

Destructive
Addictive
 ABOUT TEMPTRESS

Who knew the grumpy single dad next door would turn out to be The One?

As Sloane Chambers stood at her window and creeped on the new guy moving in next door, she was
immediately drawn to the tattoos, muscles, and the way his jeans hugged his perfect . . . frame. But
when she caught him hacking up her rose bushes with a chain saw, the battle was on.

For Silas Bridger, moving to a new town and starting a new job was his chance for a fresh start. He’d
already failed at being a husband, but he was determined to make things right with his teenage
daughter and be the father she deserved. Which meant there was no room in his life for complications.
Especially in the form of his gorgeous, sassy next-door neighbor.

When the attraction to Sloane becomes too intense to ignore, that line he kept firmly drawn is crossed.
But there is no way he’ll let a handful of passionate, earth-shaking encounters turn into something
more. He’s done with the dreaded L-O-V-E, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Because Sloane is
quickly becoming the kind of complication he may not survive.
1
 SLOANE

M y new neighbor was moving in today. The moving truck had shown up earlier, blocking half
of my driveway, but I didn’t really mind. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere. They’d been
unloading for a little over an hour, but so far, I hadn’t seen any sign of the person who would be
replacing the elderly woman who’d lived there before, Lucille Kleiner.
I loved Lucille. She had lived next to me since I bought my house a few years back. She was a
total badass. An old woman knocking on the door of ninety who had lived an extremely colorful life
and loved to share stories with me when I visited once a week for Martini Hour. She’d still had a ton
of get-up-and-go for a woman her age and had been in impeccable shape, but the fact of the matter
was, she’d needed help when it came to some things, and an assisted living facility was just easier.
I visited her regularly, so I knew firsthand that her new place was posh. It was more like a five-
star resort for seniors in the foothills of small-town Virginia than a nursing home, and I wouldn’t have
been surprised in the slightest if the place housed more than a few celebrities who wanted peace and
quiet at that time in their lives.
I’d been sad when she informed me she was moving, but luckily, she was still close enough I
could visit once a week for martinis and gossip. It had been a joy to live next to Lucille these past
few years, so I could only hope that the people replacing her were half as nice.
I hadn’t been home any of the times they’d come to look at the house before and after the offer was
made, and Lucille didn’t know anything about them beyond the fact they’d offered her asking price
without trying to haggle over things such as repainting and other cosmetic touches, which was
surprising. Lucille decorated how she lived, bold and loud. Each room of her house was painted a
different eclectic color. There were no grays or beiges or neutral tones to be found, and I couldn’t
image it working for anyone other than Lucille.
Apparently, they were eager to get moved in, something about the start of the school year coming
up. I was excited to have a family next door and was looking forward to meeting them.
For the fifth time that morning, I peeked through the slats in my blinds, hoping to get a view of the
new owners, when a large, black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulled into the driveway and
came to a stop.
My lips pulled into a smile of anticipation as the passenger door was thrown open and a girl who
I’d gauge to be in her early teens climbed out. She had long, straight hair that hung past her shoulders,
the strands streaked with different shades from deep caramel to the palest blonde that you could tell
was natural, a gift from the sun. She was dressed in cut-off shorts and a cropped tee that showed a
figure that hadn’t quite matured yet. Our houses were close enough that I could make out her features
well enough to see the girl was destined to be a looker. Even with the unhappy, pinched scowl
marring her pretty face.
I was able to see the driver of that big SUV once he rounded the hood and Oh. My. Sweet. Lord.
Above. My new neighbor was gorgeous. Tattoos of varying designs covered his arms starting at his
wrist, up defined forearms corded with thick veins, and beyond rounded biceps before disappearing
beneath his gray T-shirt that fit him well enough to show off a broad chest and shoulders. Perfectly
worn jeans hugged tree-trunk thighs and a lean waist.
“Holy momma,” I breathed as I leaned close enough to fog the glass with my breath. I pulled back
and wiped it clear with the side of my fist and studied the man as closely as the distance between our
houses would allow.
His dark hair was clipped short on the sides, only an inch or so longer up top, a style designed for
easy maintenance, but one that worked very well on him. I couldn’t see his eyes due to the mirrored
sunglasses, but I could tell he had sharp features and a strong, square jaw. And he looked equally as
unhappy as the girl when the two of them met at the front of the SUV.
I could just make out his mouth moving as he said something to the girl, and from her body
language, it looked like whatever it was only made her mood worse. With her back to me now, I
couldn’t see her face to gauge her reaction, but she crossed her arms over her chest, cocked a hip, and
threw one leg out. It was the classic pissed-chick stance.
She must have said something in return, because a moment later, the guy’s chest rose and fell on
what looked like a huff before he braced his hands on his trim hips and dropped his head forward,
giving it a shake.
The two of them were incredibly entertaining to watch. If my best friend, Asher, had been there
just then, the two of us would have been imitating their voices and trying to make up what we thought
they were saying.
Speaking of Asher, my cellphone started to ring. I pulled it out of my back pocket and looked
down to see her name dancing across the screen.
I quickly swiped and brought the phone to my ear so I could get back to my peeping. “Hey. What’s
up?”
“The new neighbors arrive yet?”
“Do you have ESP or something? I’m literally watching them this very second, and omigod, Ash!
You should see this dude. He’s basically the stuff of every woman’s wet dream.”
She whistled through the line. “Snap pics. I want to see.”
“Hold on.” Ever the loyal friend, I held my phone up and zoomed in, then snapped pic after pic
before shooting them off in a text. “Incoming.”
I went back to my stalking as I waited for her to open her text. Less than a minute later, she was
back. “Damn, Sloane! You weren’t lying. That guy is hot enough to fry an egg on.”
I heard her boyfriend in the background say, “You know I’m standing right here, right?” he
deadpanned. “Just want to make sure I didn’t become invisible in the past thirty seconds.”
“Ah, honey. You know there’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve been yours since you rescued
my drunk ass from that biker bar the day I ran out on my wedding.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. My bestie’s boyfriend wasn’t lacking when it came to looks either. And
like my new neighbor, he too was covered in tattoos. Asher and I had that in common. We were both
drawn to a man with ink. You wouldn’t have guessed given her ex-fiancé had been the picture of
country club preppy. Fortunately, they jilted one another—long story—on their wedding day, opening
the door for Asher to find her actual soul mate in the form of a sexy tattooed veterinarian.
I heard the sound of kissing through the line for a few seconds before Asher’s attention returned to
me. “Who’s the girl in the picture?”
“I think that’s his daughter,” I answered. “Her back is to me now, but when she first got out, I
could see her face and she looks young.”
“You see a wife or mom anywhere?”
My gaze occasionally darted back to the SUV to see if anyone else emerged, but it looked like it
was only the two of them, and they appeared to still be arguing.
“Not that I can tell.” I leaned in so close I practically smushed my face against the glass. “I can’t
tell if he’s wearing a ring from this distance.”
“Then you know what you need to do, right? You need to go over there and introduce yourself to
your sexy new neighbor. Then you’ll at least be able to spot whether or not there’s a ring.”
She was right. “I will. But they only just arrived, and it looks like the dad and daughter are
arguing. I think I’ll give it a bit so I don’t interrupt anything.”
“All right, babe. Keep me posted.”
I promised her I would and clicked off just as the girl slammed her arms down at her sides,
locking her elbows and clenching her fists as she threw her head back. I could almost hear what she
would likely be saying with that posture. It was probably along the lines of what I’d said to my own
father a million times growing up. “God, Dad!”
A moment later, she stormed into the house. The man stayed behind, either oblivious or uncaring
of the movers passing back and forth, witness to whatever had just gone down.
His expression and the way his shoulders slumped as he pinched the bridge of his nose was
exactly how my own father would react to me storming off after the earlier mentioned, “God, Dad!” It
was the look of every father of a teenaged daughter since the beginning of time.
Instead of following her into the house, he leaned back against the front bumper of his SUV and
crossed his thick arms over his equally thick chest and watched as the movers worked.
I decided it was the perfect time to go over and introduce myself to my new neighbor. I grabbed a
bottle of wine from the rack on my kitchen island and headed for the door.
Making a pit stop in the powder room off the kitchen, I gave myself a once over in the mirror.
There wasn’t anything special about my thin cotton tee and pale gray joggers, but the top showed a
hint of cleavage, and the pants made my behind look good. Well, the pants and the fact that my job as a
dancer for the popular burlesque club, Whiskey Dolls, kept me in peak shape.
It was my day off, so I was in my comfy clothes with no makeup, but my new skin care regimen
was giving my complexion a nice glow, and my hair was still looking good after my trip earlier that
week to Pure Elegance, the best salon in the county. I lived one town over from Hope Valley, but the
drive was worth it to have Nona work her magic. She’d chopped five inches off my light chestnut hair
so it rested right at my shoulders. Without the added weight, I had volume for days, and was really
pleased with how it still had that shine that seemed to only be accomplished in a professional salon.
I gave my locks one last quick fluff, then headed into the sunny day. I moved through the strip of
lush green grass between our houses, letting my right hand gently crest over one of the bright pink
roses on the bushes that I’d planted on the property line a couple years back. I’d always loved
gardening and Lucille had always been a fan of beautiful flowers, so I’d planted the roses for both of
us. I’d been tending and caring for those bushes, and now they stood tall, thick, and full of lush green
leaves, the stems speckled liberally with bright, happy pink flowers.
My own yard was filled with them as well, along with a ton of other plants and flowers.
“Hi,” I called out as I crossed over onto his property. A moment later, my bright yellow flip flops
slapped against the concrete of his driveway. I lifted my hand in a wave. “I’m your new neighbor,” I
told the man, pointing over my shoulder at my house. “I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself,
welcome you to the neighborhood.” I held out my free hand for a shake. “I’m Sloane Chambers.”
The man didn’t straighten from his position, still leaning against the front of the SUV, and he didn’t
uncross his arms from his chest, which, now that I was up close, I could tell was just as cut as the rest
of him. I was willing to bet he was sporting a six-pack at the very least. I could also see that the ring
finger of his left hand was bare, not even a hint of a tan line indicating he’d taken one off recently.
That finger had been bare for some time.
Asher would be happy to hear that.
He swiveled his head toward me, keeping those mirrored shades in place, and I couldn’t shake
the feeling he was giving me a once over, but it felt more like being under a microscope than a look of
interest. I was used to men looking at me the second way.
Sometimes I enjoyed it when I was in the mood for a little fun flirtation, and sometimes it grated,
but such was life, right? I wasn’t above admitting I knew how to attract a man. I had skills—and a
vagina, which basically meant I was magical—and if a man caught my eye, I’d use those skills to reel
him in. And I would have been lying if I said I wasn’t throwing a bit of that magic out just then to see
how my sexy new neighbor would react.
But judging by this guy’s flattened lips and the crinkle I could see forming between his brows, he
was unaffected.
His head dipped down as though he were looking at my offered hand, but he didn’t bother taking
it. “Silas Bridger,” he grunted in a deep baritone that held a hint of rasp, like he’d been a lifelong
smoker.
I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “Well, um, it’s nice to meet you, Silas. I saw
a very pretty young woman go inside. I take it that’s your daughter?” He answered by cocking a single
brow high on his forehead but otherwise remained mute. “I’d love to give you and your daughter and
wife an official welcome by making a home cooked meal for you guys.”
“Don’t got a wife, and no thanks.”
Well that answered one question. But also, ouch. Was this dude a robot or something?
Remembering the bottle of wine I gripped in my hand, I extended it out to him. “This is for you. A
housewarming gift. Hope you like red.”
He did that head dip thing again, looking at the bottle from behind those sunglasses. Finally, he
pushed off the SUV, but instead of turning to face me full-on, he started in the direction of the front
door.
“Don’t drink wine,” he called without a backward glance. “Got shit to do.” Then he was gone.
And I was left wondering what the hell just happened.
2
 SILAS

T he pounding in my head certainly wasn’t improved by stepping out of the sunlight into my
new home. Somehow, in the time between my last walk-through right before closing and
now, I’d forgotten the hideous paint job in pretty much every single room of the house.
The red living room walls reminded me of the elevator scene in The Shining. The dining room
was orange—and not like the pale color of sherbet either, but bright, eye-searing, stab-you-in-the-
temple orange. The kitchen was a neon yellow that reminded me of puke. And those were the common
areas. The bedrooms were worse. I didn’t want to know the number of peacocks that had to have been
plucked to make the teal color of the master bedroom. The room I’d designated as my daughter’s—
simply because it was the farthest from mine, and I knew that would make the emo-pod creature that
had eaten my lovely, sweet daughter happy—was the least offensive room in the house in a deep
forest green. My soon-to-be-study was fucking fuchsia, for Christ’s sake, and the last bedroom was
royal blue.
It was a goddamn nightmare, something you’d expect to see in a Candy Land fever dream, and it
was going to take me forever to prime and paint it all.
I was sure there were better houses out there, in fact, I was damn near certain of it. But after too
many months in a cramped apartment, I’d wanted the square footage, and this was the only place that
provided that while being close enough to my new job and in the school district Kim and I had agreed
on for Darcy. Plus, research had shown that the neighborhood was quiet, safe, and family friendly.
Otherwise known as boring, which was perfect.
I was due to have a little more boring in my life, what with my daughter officially full of raging
teen hormones and attitude that had her going from sweet and affectionate to the goddamn Hulk in two
point five seconds.
The sound of angry teen girl feet stomping down the stairs caught my attention, and I looked up
just as Darcy turned on the landing and stopped to glare down at me.
“So? What do you think, baby girl?” I asked, damn well knowing the answer already.
“It’s terrible!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms wide before letting them fall and slap against
her sides. “I mean, it looks like we just moved into some kind of demented carnival fun house or
something,” she crowed, throwing a hand out toward the wall. “I can’t believe you made me move
here. It sucks! I miss my friends!”
With that declaration, she turned on her heel and stomped back up the way she’d just come down.
A second later her bedroom door slammed shut.
I tried to do what my ex-wife Kim had suggested, inhaling deeply and counting to ten before
letting the breath out in the hopes of keeping calm. If there was anyone on the planet who knew what I
was going through, it was Darcy’s mom. Only, she’d had to deal with it for so much longer, and now
that I knew what she’d suffered through all those years, I was honestly considering putting the woman
up for sainthood.
My cellphone rang, and I let my breath out on a huff, feeling anything but calm as I pulled the
phone from my back pocket.
As if my thoughts of her had conjured her up, Kim’s name flashed across the screen. Dodging
boxes and avoiding the moving team still unloading my and Darcy’s lives into our new home, I
swiped to answer the call and brought the phone to my ear.
“It’s so bizarre you’re calling right now.” I grabbed the handle on the back door and twisted it
open, stepping out onto the back porch for a little privacy. “I was just about to call you. Remind me,
what do I do if Darcy accidentally gives herself alcohol poisoning? Do I pump her stomach here, or
do they handle that at the hospital?”
“Very funny, asshole.”
I chuckled at her put-out tone. “That’s what you get for being a transatlantic helicopter parent.”
Kim huffed indignantly, and I could picture her rolling her eyes. “I’m not that bad.” A crack of
laughter burst past my lips, followed by her heavy gust of breath. “Fine, maybe I am that bad. But can
you blame me?” Her tone changed, sadness infusing her words. “I’ve never been away from her for
any amount of time. I just . . . I miss her.”
I felt a squeeze in my chest. “I know, sweetheart.”
The two of us might not have worked as husband and wife any longer, but we’d both agreed that
was no reason for there to be animosity between us. We weren’t in love with each other anymore, but
that didn’t mean love wasn’t there. It just lacked the romance required to make a marriage work. We
still cared about each other, and we were determined to make this co-parenting gig our bitch. The
truth was, we were better off as friends, anyway, and as friends, we’d been able to develop a new
level of respect for one another.
I’d met Kim right before going into the Army. I’d come back from my first tour and proposed right
then and there. I’d gotten her pregnant between deployments. Then I became a Ranger, and because of
my job, I’d missed nearly every major milestone in our marriage and my daughter’s life. I’d been on
an op in the middle of the fucking desert when Darcy was born. Crouched on a rooftop in Kandahar in
the dark of night, watching my target through night-vision binoculars on my wedding anniversary.
There were recitals and plays and sicknesses I’d missed, time I was never going to be able to get
back.
I could admit I wasn’t the best husband or father. I’d made service to my country a priority above
all else, including my family, yet, every time I came home, they’d both greeted me with open arms.
My absence hadn’t been the cause of the divorce, in fact, it was the opposite.
After an explosion embedded a piece of shrapnel in my back too close to my spine for the doctors
to risk going in to pull it out, I’d been informed I was no longer fit for duty. It was ironic, really. The
docs left it in to keep me safe, and the Army didn’t want me anymore because it was in there.
It was after I’d been home for a year, struggling to re-acclimate myself to civilian life after
thinking the service was it for me, that Kim realized she’d liked it better when I was gone than when I
was home. Our marriage had worked for so many years because I was never around. The sad fact
was, once I got home, it became obvious that neither one of us knew the other at all.
The whole process of separating our lives from one another had been civil. I gave her the house
since it had been her and Darcy’s home more than it was ever mine, moving myself into a shitty two-
bedroom apartment until I could find something more permanent. I’d gotten a call from a former
Ranger buddy of mine, a guy by the name of Marco Castillo. He’d gotten out earlier than I had, but
we’d stayed in touch. He knew all about the struggle of trying to live the civilian life after serving for
so long, so when he heard about a job that matched my skill set better than the miserable nine-to-five
I’d been trapped in for a year and a half, he'd put in a call.
I’d talked it over with Kim since the new gig would take me an hour or so outside the city we’d
been living in, but she knew how much I hated the place I’d been working, so she pushed for me to
take it, to do something that made me happy. It was what she’d always done.
However, after I accepted the position, she had been offered a promotion to her dream job. The
problem was, it required she be out of the country for a year, setting up a branch of the company in
London. She’d dreamed her whole life of traveling but had given that up so she could carry all the
weight on the home front while I spent most of my time overseas, living my own dream.
It was her turn now, we both knew that.
That was why this goddamn eyesore of a house had been an impulse purchase. In order for Kim to
travel to London, we’d agreed that Darcy would live with me. That meant I needed somewhere
permanent for us to live so she’d feel settled. And that needed to happen before the start of the new
school year.
Needless to say, none of these decisions had made my daughter happy.
“I don’t think it comes as much of a surprise that I was a pretty shitty husband, doll face.”
Kim snorted through the line. “You weren’t that bad,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her
voice.
“You’re being kind. Anyway, you spent so many years letting me pursue what made me whole.
Now’s your time, Kim. Do this for you, yeah? Christ knows you’ve earned this.”
She sniffled through the line. “I know, but mom guilt is a very real thing. I feel like—like I’m
abandoning her.”
I wasn’t sure what I’d done right in a past life that I’d been lucky enough to make a child with a
woman as amazing as this one, but I knew how good I had it in the co-parenting game. I’d heard
horror stories. I counted my blessings that things weren’t like that for us. “Oh, honey. That couldn’t be
further from the truth, and the rational part of you knows that. It’s only one year, not a dozen of them;
it’ll fly by before you know it. If the ache for home gets too bad, I’ll put you on a plane for an
extended weekend myself. But just know, I’ll be sending your ass back too.”
She laughed, sounding a little lighter.
“For fuck’s sake, Kim. This is your time to be a little selfish, yeah? Find some British prick—but
one with good teeth—and let him fuck you until you can’t walk. Enjoy yourself.”
“You know the whole bad teeth thing is only a stupid stereotype, right?”
“Don’t give a fuck, doll. Just have fun. Live life. You have my word that I’ll keep our daughter
alive until you get back.”
“Thanks, Si,” she said softly. “Speaking of . . . how is she?”
I heaved out a sigh. “You mean besides sullen, grumpy, and pissed at the world?”
“Yeah, all that. Actually, now that I think of it, maybe I’m dodging a bullet by missing out on the
teen angst and drama for a while.”
I felt my lips curve into a smile. She wasn’t wrong about that. “Well, she hates me, she hates the
house, she hates the town and the neighborhood—”
“So what you’re telling me is she’s a normal, hormonal teenage girl.”
My chin jerked back. “Jesus Christ. Are you telling me this shit is what you all go through?”
“Believe me, Silas, being female is drawing the short straw in so many ways. Such as the fact that
the world hasn’t exploded into nothingness because we exist, yet you assholes with penises refuse to
give us the credit we’re due.”
“True words, doll. True words.”
“And she doesn’t hate you,” she said reassuringly. “She loves you like crazy. She’s going through
a lot right now. Her world’s basically been turned on its head. Once she finds her footing again, her
moods will level out.”
I hoped so, because every time she looked at me like I destroyed her life, I felt like someone was
shoving a goddamn fire poker through my chest. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
She let out a breath. “You do that. And thanks, Silas. I feel better after our talk.”
“I’m glad, honey.”
“So, how’s the move going? You met any of your neighbors yet?”
I thought back to the woman who lived right beside me, the total fucking smoke show, and felt my
jaw getting tight. That hadn’t been expected, that was for goddamn sure. It wasn’t often I got caught
off-guard, but seeing her flouncing across my driveway, a body built for sin and a smile that would
make most men fall to their knees, I’d been stunned speechless for a moment—or several moments.
Then I caught her scoping out my left hand, specifically, my ring finger. I saw the flair of interest
in her honey-brown eyes and the tip of her tongue peeked out to run across her bottom lip enticingly
as she looked me up and down.
She was good, I’d give her that. She knew how to snap her hips side to side enticingly as she
walked, how to bat those eyelashes and smile coyly. One look at her pouty bottom lip and I knew
without a doubt that she was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted, and she enjoyed the
hell out of playing games in order to get it. She probably led men around by their dicks on a regular
basis.
But I wasn’t that guy. I didn’t have the time or inclination for those kinds of manipulations. I had a
kid who hated the very air I breathed to focus on. The last thing I needed was the complication of this
woman, my neighbor, making me consider getting my dick wet for the first time in too damn long.
I’d pawned off the responsibility of raising Darcy on Kim for too long. I was past due to step up
to the plate, and there was absolutely no room for distractions. And that was exactly what Sloane
Chambers was: a distraction on mile-high legs with a killer rack and an ass that didn’t fucking quit.
For some reason, thinking about my new neighbor made me incomprehensibly grouchy. Not that I
wasn’t already a grumpy bastard most of the time anyway. Just ask my daughter. But I didn’t
understand my reaction to the woman I didn’t know from Adam, so I decided right then and there it
was probably for the best to avoid her at all costs.
“Nah, nothing so far.” I didn’t know why the hell I’d lied, and I didn’t care to think too hard on it,
not with a disaster of a house and a miserable daughter to deal with.
Best to push it and the woman out of my mind.
“Okay, well I’ll let you go, I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do. And I promise to try and be less of a
helicopter from now on.”
“I’ll do you a favor and not hold you to that.”
She pushed out a snort. “Thanks for that. Don’t let Darcy forget about our Zoom call later this
week. I’m missing her face desperately, even if all she’s using it for lately is to frown.”
“I’ll remind her. And I’ll take some pics, text them to you later.”
“Okay, Si. Be safe and be happy. Talk soon.”
I could handle the safe part, but it was the happy I wasn’t so sure about. My happiness was tied
directly to the girl inside. Her heart beat in time with my own, so as long as she was unhappy, so was
I.
I just hoped I could get through to her.
3
 SILAS

L owering the paint roller into the tray of primer, I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the
back of my hand and took a step back to survey my handy work.
It looked like shit.
Fortunately, it was just the primer, so I didn’t really care, but it was more than a little concerning
that the red was still showing through. I could only hope it wouldn’t bleed through the nice, pale gray
I’d gotten to paint the whole house with.
“Hey, Darce,” I called up the stairs. I waited twenty seconds for an acknowledgement that didn’t
come. “Darcy!” I hollered.
I heard the creak of her bedroom door opening, followed by a voice full of attitude. “God, what?”
It had been like this for the past three days. Once the movers finished and took off, Darcy had
closed herself up in her bedroom, only coming out when I all but forced her. Even then, she hardly
talked to me, and once I released her from the torture of my company, it was right back to her room,
like I didn’t exist.
Would it have been nice to have a little help painting these god-awful walls? Yeah. But I was
picking my battles, and I’d chosen to let this one slide. Plus, I would have been lying if I said it
wasn’t a little nice to have a reprieve from the constant attitude.
I only had a few more days until I started my new job, and I wanted to get as much of this done as
possible before that time. I wanted to make this as close to a home as possible before my new job
took me away from Darcy. She’d start school the following week, and I wanted her to feel settled
before that time came. It was the least I could do for her after uprooting her entire life. I figured if I
could at least get the main living spaces and her bedroom finished, she’d stop hating the new house so
damn much.
Personally, I could live with a bedroom the color of gangrene and an office that looked like a
unicorn shit all over the place. I wanted to get this done for her.
“Come take a look at this.”
She let out an exaggerated, “Ugh!” that was followed by her stomping down the hall and stairs.
She stopped at the landing, arms crossed over her chest, foot tapping indignantly, like she was in the
middle of something life-alteringly important. “What?”
I let out a huff of my own, quickly reaching the end of my rope. “Can you come all the way down,
please?”
She rolled her eyes so hard, she looked like something out of a scary movie. I half expected her
head to start spinning in a circle. Instead, she stomped down to the base of the stairs and resumed her
closed-off, pissy stance. “All right. I’m down here. What’s so important?”
 Keep your cool. Keep your cool. Keep your cool, I chanted inside my head. My relationship with
my daughter was tenuous, to say the least, and most of that was my fault. She’d spent the first thirteen
years of her life hardly knowing me, then all of a sudden, I was just there. I’d seen it in her face every
single day since having been discharged, she was still unsure how to act, or what to say. Unsure of me
in general.
And I couldn’t blame her one damn bit.
To her, this had to feel like she was living with a stranger, so as often as she made me want to
scream or pull my goddamn hair out, I forced myself to keep calm. I couldn’t image what this whole
upheaval had been like for her. I was sure it was scary, especially with the one constant in her life
now four thousand miles away.
It broke my fucking heart every time she looked at me with contempt or wariness. I kept reminding
myself to be patient, that this would take time, but I would eventually guide us there. I’d earn her trust
one of these days. I hoped my heart could survive the wait.
I placed my hands on my hips and looked around at the primed living room, hallway, and
stairwell—everywhere that had been painted blood-spurt red. “So? What do you think?”
Darcy’s eyes rose higher on her forehead. “What do I think of what?”
I shot her a bland look. “You’re kidding, right? I know it still looks like shit, but even with just
one coat of primer, it’s a serious improvement from what was here, don’t you think?”
She scrunched her nose as she took everything in before saying hesitantly, “Dad, I don’t think you
did a very good job. Is it supposed to be so . . . streaky?”
I bugged my eyes out at her, feigning offense. “Are you serious? This is a job on par with the
professionals. I can’t believe you’d say that.”
The giggle that wrenched itself free from her lips was a healing balm for my soul. The sound was
so beautiful, so light and happy, that I nearly fell to my goddamn knees. Pure music to my ears. “No
offense, Dad, but I don’t think there’s a professional painter out there who would hire you, not in a
million years.”
I sucked in a dramatic gasp and placed a hand to my chest. “You take that back right now.”
She giggled again, shaking her head and slowly moving backward as I creeped in her direction. “I
can’t. It’s the truth.”
“Then you’ll live to regret it.” I snatched the paint roller from the tray and bolted for her. She let
out a shrill scream that morphed into a hysterical laugh as she turned to run, but I was too fast for her.
With one long swipe, I painted a primer-white stripe from her head all the way down her back.
She stopped, sucking in a gasp so large, she stole most of the oxygen in the room. With her arms
extended out at her sides, she slowly turned, her jaw hanging open and her eyes bugged out. “You did
not just do that!”
It was a damn good thing I’d laid down drop cloths everywhere, because a second later, Darcy
snatched up one of the clean, unused brushes and dunked it right into the can of primer, flinging a thick
streak of white wide as she charged at me.
Her laughter gave me life as we attacked each other with paint until we were both covered,
clothes and skin streaked with white. Darcy’s eyes were dancing, the smile on her face so big I felt
like the pieces of my heart that had been in tatters at her unhappiness were stitching themselves back
together.
She got me good, right down the center of my face, just as her cellphone began to chime from her
back pocket. And that was all it took for her to completely forget we were having a moment for the
first time in longer than I wanted to think about.
 She dropped the paintbrush, and it landed on the drop cloth with a sickening splat. I watched her
face, seeing the instant whatever she read on her phone sucked all that joy right back out of her.
“Everything good?”
My little girl disappeared in an instant, replaced with the sullen, moody version I’d had for far
too long now. “No. It’s not good,” she spat, the miserable frown overtaking the beautiful smile she’d
just given me. “That was Kelsey texting to tell me that Ryan Summers asked Jeanie Smith to be his
girlfriend.”
It was like she was speaking a totally different language. My brow furrowed, the drying primer on
my face pinching my skin tightly as I frowned in confusion. “And that’s bad?”
“Ugh! Yes, Dad! That’s awful! I had a crush on Ryan all summer long, and Kelsey said he was
going to ask me to be his girlfriend. But then you made me move here and ruined my life!”
For the love of—I pulled in a calming breath through my nose before responding, careful to keep
my tone neutral. “Sweetheart, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Your mom and I already told you
that you can’t date until you’re sixteen.”
She shot acid at me from her eyes. “You don’t get it!” she shouted, throwing her arms up. “God,
you’re the worst!” she issued as she stormed up the stairs. Then she landed the killing blow, gutting
me open right before slamming her bedroom door shut. “It should have been you that left, not Mom! I
hate living with you!”
4
 SLOANE

I was elbow deep in soil, working in the flowerbeds in my backyard, when the sound of the
neighbor’s back door opening and slamming shut drew my attention from the weeds I’d been
pulling.
Over the past few days, I’d caught sight of my sexy new neighbor as he came and went a couple of
times, but there had been no more attempts at conversation since my efforts to welcome them to the
neighborhood had been so rudely rebuffed.
I didn’t know what the hell the guy’s problem was, but he’d been a total asshole. I told myself to
ignore him; pretend he didn’t exist.
Only curiosity had me creeping over toward our shared fence, dusting the dirt from my gardening
gloves as I leaned forward to peek through the knot hole in one of the boards. Almost every inch of
him was covered in white paint, but that did nothing to hide the sadness and defeat etched into his
features and the way he held his big, strong body. I would have been lying if I said it didn’t tug at my
heart a little as I watched him brace his hands on his hips and tilt his head back toward the sky, or
when he heaved out a sigh and dropped it forward, giving it a disheartened shake.
I didn’t know what he was struggling with, but it was clear that whatever it was, it weighed
heavily on him.
He moved to the hose coiled on the holder and pulled a few loops free before twisting the handle
until water poured from the nozzle. I blinked out of my stupor when he stripped out of his shirt and
began to soak himself down, washing the paint off his chest, face, and head in the middle of his
backyard.
My mouth went dry as the Sahara at the sight of all those rippling muscles and the tattoos that
were drawn into golden tanned skin. If I thought he was a sight with his shirt on, it was nothing
compared to what he looked like without it.
Most of the paint was gone thanks to his backyard rinse, but there were still flecks of it here and
there he’d have to scrub away. And on that thought, my mind went straight into the gutter. I pictured
the man standing naked under the shower spray, working soap across his skin. He was a man’s man,
meaning he’d probably used his hands to work up a lather, nothing as froufrou as a shower puff or
even as functional as a washcloth. I bet if I were to run my hands across his body to scrub him clean,
all those muscles would feel like rocks beneath my palms. I could imagine rubbing across his
chiseled stomach like a washboard.
God, he really was gorgeous. It was such a shame he was a world-class jerk.
I swallowed to relieve the dryness in my throat as he tossed the hose aside and cranked the water
off. His bicep clenched and bulged when he lifted his hand to rake it back and forth over his short
hair, sending droplets of water flying.
Even that was sexy.
His chest heaved, his thick, rounded pecs riding and falling on a weary inhale before he turned,
facing the back door. He stared at it as if he were steeling himself to go back inside. I counted the
seconds, all thirty of them, before he finally disappeared back inside, none the wiser that I’d been
spying on his personal, private moment.

“I think I might be a dirty, creepy, peeping Tom.”

At my admission, Asher stopped in the process of uncorking a bottle of wine and blinked once.
Twice. “I’m sorry. What?”
I chewed on my bottom lip, then told her about the scene I’d witnessed the day before. “I felt like
an asshole for spying on the man when he was having a moment. I really did. I just couldn’t make
myself stop.” My lips pulled into an eek. “That’s really weird isn’t it?”
She worked the cork out of the bottle with a pop as she gave my questions some thought. “Well,”
she started as she poured us each a glass, “it’s not the sanest behavior. But I don’t really blame you. I
saw the pictures.” She shrugged casually, took a drink, and rounded the island, passing the second one
to me before taking a seat on the stool beside mine. She’d come over after our Whiskey Doll
rehearsal for a bit of gossip and wine, and I’d finally opened up about the less than stellar first
meeting with the dude next door. “The guy is five-alarm hot. I don’t think you can be held accountable
for staring when he’s shirtless.”
I nodded, my eyes big. “Yes, exactly! And I have to tell you, shirtless?” I blew out a whistle. “It’s
something else. I think I stared for so long because I was frozen in place by the sight of him.”
She sipped her wine thoughtfully, her gaze traveling to the kitchen window that faced next door.
“You really haven’t talked to him since that first time?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Not once. I’ve tried giving him the benefit of the doubt that maybe he
was stressed from the move or something. But the few times I saw him in passing and waved, he just
kept right on going like he didn’t see me.”
She raised a brow in question. “Maybe he didn’t see you?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, he saw me. He’s just an asshole.”
She gave me a sympathetic look. “I think maybe it’s still a little early for you to make snap
judgments. I mean, you don’t want to get into a war with your neighbor, right? Maybe he really and
truly is having a stressful time of it.”
I thought back to the pain and sadness in his eyes when I’d been spying. Maybe she had a point.
I’d always been the kind of person to see the best in everyone, even to my own detriment sometimes.
I’d been burned more than once because I’d been so set on believing in someone who didn’t deserve
it.
You’d have thought that would jade me, but I was an eternal optimist, something my mother
sneered at regularly.
“When will you learn, Sloane?”
“You can’t trust people, Sloane. You’ll just end up broken-hearted.”
“You’re so naïve, Sloane.”
“One of these days, you’ll see. You’ll let someone in who’ll crush you, and I’ll be there to say I
told you so.”
That last one was a particular favorite of hers, said so much I couldn’t help but think she was
giddy at the idea of being able to say that to me one day.
I didn’t need a therapist to tell me the reason for my optimism was because I was desperate to go
so far in the other direction of my bitter, cynical mother, that I could never be anything like her. It
killed me that she let heartbreak and a hard life sour her to anything good. For as long as I could
remember, she’d clung to the bad, feeding it until it festered and turned her into a miserable shell of a
woman.
I wouldn’t be like that. I would never be like her.
So I told myself that Asher was right. I needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. He probably
was a good guy.
“You’re right,” I said, nodding resolutely. “I’m jumping the gun. I should give him another
chance.”
We held our wineglasses aloft and clinked them gently against each other. “Cheers to that, and to
hopefully discovering your neighbor isn’t a shithead.”
I could drink to that.
5
 SLOANE

A sher was wrong.

My neighbor was such a shithead!
My tires squealed as I whipped my car into the driveway and slammed on the brakes. I was in
such a state at what I was witnessing that I forgot to put the thing into park before I threw the door
opened and tried to climb out.
“Son of a bitch,” I mumbled as my car started drifting backward while I had one foot hanging out
the door. I was going to run over my own damn foot if I wasn’t careful.
Pulling my foot back into the car, I slammed the gear shift into park and yanked up the parking
brake for good measure before leaping out and running toward the destruction my neighbor was
currently causing.
“Hey, what the hell?” I shouted, but he couldn’t hear me over the sound of the freaking chain saw
he was wielding. I waved my arms above my head frantically, yelling to catch his attention as he
butchered the rose bushes I’d tended for so long between our houses. “Hey, knock it off! What the hell
do you think you’re doing, you selfish prick?” I yelled at the top of my lungs, the last three words
spilling out right after he caught sight of me and turned off the stupid saw.
He pushed the safety glasses covering his eyes up into his hair and pulled down the bandana he’d
been wearing as a mask, letting it pool around his neck. Any other day, I would have taken in the way
he swiped at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand or the way his forearms flexed while
wielding the dangerous tool and thought it was sexy as hell.
But that was not the case just then. I was too busy staring at my massacred roses.
“Excuse me?”
At his question, I blinked and dragged my attention away from the carnage, an unexpected surge of
rage flooding my veins, a feeling that was totally out of character for me. “What the hell do you think
you’re doing?” I shrieked, stabbing my fingers at the mangled bushes. “Have you lost your mind, or
are you really that big of an asshole?”
He blinked slowly, staring at me in befuddlement like I was speaking a different language.
“What?”
“You’re ruining my rose bushes, you insufferable bag of dicks!”
It almost looked like humor flashing in his eyes just then, but that couldn’t have been right,
because this man clearly didn’t have a sense of humor. Or a soul, apparently.
“No, I’m not,” he stated plainly. “I’m cutting down my rose bushes. They’re on my property, after
all.”
I slapped my hands down on my hips, infuriated. “No, they’re not.”
 “Yeah. They are.”
“Says who?”
The way the corner of his mouth trembled, it almost looked like he was fighting back a smile, but
again, no sense of humor for the plant murderer. “Says the survey I had done before buying the place.”
He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “I have the paperwork inside if you want proof. But I can
assure you, these shrubs are well over the property line.”
My shoulders deflated a tad as some of that righteous anger seeped away. I had a sneaking
suspicion he was right, even without seeing the survey. After all, when Lucille had lived here, it
wasn’t like either one of us paid much mind to such things as property lines. It wouldn’t have
surprised me at all I’d crossed that invisible barrier when I planted the roses.
But still . . .
“Okay, fine,” I relented, but maintained a snarky tone. “Say you’re right.”
“Which I am.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, deepening my glower. “Say you’re right,” I repeated, stressing
each word, “and my roses are on your property, what the hell do you have against pretty flowers, huh?
Are you just that big of a jerk you have to destroy something beautiful for shits and giggles?”
His brows rose high on his forehead. “Shits and giggles?” he repeated with a bewildered laugh.
“It’s a saying,” I snapped. “Now stop avoiding the question. Why are you ruining these beautiful
bushes?”
He mimicked my stance, his lips curving up in a grin that, damn it, looked really freaking good on
him. “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”
With an air of impatience, I rolled my eyes and waved my hand in annoyance as if to say, ask your
damn question already.
“You look your fill when you were staring through that hole in the fence the other day?”
Oh shit.
My eyes nearly bugged out of my skull. “I wasn’t—that’s not—I didn’t—”
“You’re not as stealthy as you think you are, sassy.”
Sassy? What was that? And why did I like it so damn much?
Also, son of a bitch at being caught!
“I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” My face felt like it was burning from the inside, and I just
knew my cheeks and neck had to have been beet red. I cleared my throat, guilt making it feel tighter
than usual. “Sorry,” I murmured. “It won’t happen again.”
He arched a brow like he wasn’t sure he believed me, and if I were being honest, that was a
promise I wasn’t quite sure I’d be able to keep. He made for such good people watching, no woman
in her right mind would have been able to resist.
Fortunately, he put me out of my misery by changing the subject before I could do anything else,
like melt into a puddle of shame and embarrassment. “As for the roses, I’m cutting them down
because my daughter’s allergic.”
Well, damn it. I hadn’t been expecting that.
“Oh.” I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth and bit down, feeling like a world-class asshole
for the scene I’d just made. I looked back over my shoulder at all the plants and flowers filling my
yard, worry creeping in and forcing my brows to pinch together. “Um, just roses specifically, or all
kinds of flowers?” I loved my pretty yard. The bright, cheery colors made me happy, even on the gray,
dreary days. But I didn’t want to risk making an innocent kid sick so I had something nice to look at
when I stared out my window.
 “Just the roses. The rest of what you’ve got is fine,” he answered, reading the concern on my face.
“Oh, um . . . okay.” That creeping guilt came on even stronger.
I’d perved on the guy through the fence like a psycho. I’d gotten into a shouting match in the
middle of the front yard over flowers that were planted on his property. I’d called him ugly names.
And I’d put his daughter at risk.
Oh my god!
I was the shitty neighbor! Not him.
I had not seen that coming.
Well, this is embarrassing as hell.
“Dad?” My head whipped over to the young teenage girl standing in the open doorway next door,
a look of concern on her beautiful face. She hesitantly stepped farther out onto the porch, her eyes
bouncing back and forth between us. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, honey. Everything’s good.”
She looked like she wasn’t sure, so when her worried gaze flitted over to me, I smiled, lifting my
hand by my waist in a tiny wave. “Hi.”
She offered a small smile, her shoulders loosening a little. “Hi.”
“Do me a favor, baby girl, and grab the card from my wallet and order some pizza for dinner,
yeah?”
“Okay, Daddy.” She pointed another smile, this one bashful and adorable. “Bye.”
My heart melted a little bit as I issued a soft, “Bye,” right before she turned and skipped back into
the house, leaving me alone with her father once more.
“She’s beautiful,” I said, unable to stop the words from tumbling out because it was the god’s
honest truth.
“Thanks,” he said on a grunt, and when I turned my attention back to him, I saw the earlier humor
had drained away, replaced with the flat, emotionless man I’d met that first day.
I cleared my throat, looking away from him to the mangled rose bushes. “Well, um . . . I guess—
that is—sorry,” I finally managed to spit out. “For calling you names and . . . you know.”
He arched an arrogant brow that made my eyes narrow in a scowl. “Peeping on me through the
fence?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, using indignation to hide my humiliation. “You know, a
gentleman wouldn’t keep bringing that up.”
He let out a bark of humorless laughter. “Sassy, I’ve been called many things. But a gentleman
certainly isn’t one of them.”
For some unknown reason, that statement made my belly flutter. My body was reacting to this guy
in totally inappropriate ways. I needed to get the hell away from him before I did something even
stupider than starting a fight when I had no leg to stand on and turning into a weirdo creeper.
“Whatever,” I grumbled, spinning on my heel and stomping back toward my house.

Silas

I placed the chainsaw on the shelf in the garage and pulled off my work gloves, tossing them aside
before toeing off my boots and rushing into the house. I needed to finish removing that bush, but that
would have to wait until later—preferably when my tempting-as-fuck neighbor wasn’t home.
That was exactly why I’d gone out there to do it earlier, because her car hadn’t been in her
driveway. I assumed she’d be at work and I’d have a good few hours to clear out the bushes. But
she’d come screaming up the driveway and jumped out of her car, dressed in the tiniest fucking yoga
shorts I’d ever seen and a cropped tee.
There was no denying the woman was gorgeous, but with all that smooth, tanned, toned skin
showing, it was damn near impossible to keep my tongue in my mouth. It was best if I just kept my
distance.
I rounded the corner into the living room and found Darcy hanging over the back of the couch, her
face pressed against the front window, staring in the direction of Sloane’s house.
“What are you doing?”
Darcy glanced over her shoulder at me before turning back to the window and separating the slats
in the blinds with her fingers for a better look. “That’s our neighbor?”
I moved into the kitchen, the open floor plan making it so I could see directly into the living room
as I washed my hands at the sink.
“Yep.”
“She’s really pretty.”
I arched a brow as the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I wasn’t sure I liked
whatever direction my daughter’s mind was going. Something told me it would make avoiding the
woman next door that much more difficult.
“I guess,” I replied, keeping my tone emotionless.
Truth was, the woman was too fucking beautiful, especially for my own good. That was a huge
complication I couldn’t afford to have, not when my main focus needed to be repairing the
relationship with my daughter.
It didn’t matter that the sight of her jogging down the steps to her car day after day made my dick
stir. Or how I’d caught myself imagining moving behind her whenever she was bent over in her yard,
pulling weeds, and thrusting into her. It didn’t matter that the times she’d smiled and waved, doing her
best to be polite, I’d felt like I’d been punched right in the gut, because, Christ, but she had a beautiful
smile.
None of that mattered.
The only thing that did, the most important thing in my entire world, was Darcy. A relationship,
even one based solely on sex, needed to be pushed so far into the back of my mind it was as if it
didn’t exist.
I moved to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water and unscrewing the cap. As I brought it to my
lips and drank deep, Darcy moved off the couch and came to sit on one of the barstools across from
me.
“You’re telling me you don’t think she was pretty?”
Fuck yeah, I thought she was pretty. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit that to my fourteen-
year-old daughter. “What I’m telling you is that I haven’t given it much thought.” It was amazing how
easily that lie rolled off my tongue.
I wasn’t sure if she bought it, but she moved on. “Well, is she at least nice?”
Was she nice?
At that question, I thought back to the fire in her eyes when she caught me taking my chainsaw to
the bushes on my property. With how she’d come at me, I’d expected a knock-down-drag-out, but as
soon as I mentioned my daughter’s allergy, the fight had drained right out of her. Not only that, but I’d
seen the way she had turned around and looked back at her yard, her thoughts registering so clearly on
her face they might have been running across her forehead in blinking neon letters.
I’d been trained to read people, and it had taken nothing to know what was playing in Sloane
Chambers’s head. She’d worried that her yard was dangerous for my girl, and something in my gut
told me that if I hadn’t put her mind at ease, I’d have come home one day to find she’d dug everything
up.
I thought back to her smile, small but completely genuine, when she’d looked at my daughter, and
that cute-as-fuck wave.
Yeah. She was nice. Sweet enough to give you cavities, actually. Which didn’t help things one
goddamn bit.
I finished off my water and tossed the empty bottle into the trash can across the kitchen. “I don’t
know. I’ve spoken all of five words to the woman.”
I didn’t know why the hell I was lying to my girl, but I wasn’t going to dig into it just then. This
was my last day before starting my new job, and there was still too much to do to stand around talking
about a neighbor who shouldn’t matter.
Fortunately, the pizza arrived a short while later, and my girl forgot all about her curiosity of the
woman next door.
I, however, couldn’t say the same, because later that night, once Darcy was long asleep in her bed
and the house was locked up tight, I took my fist to my cock and stroked it until I came with the image
of Sloane’s ass in those fucking shorts on the backs of my eyelids.
6
 SLOANE

A sher came dancing up to me at the end of Whiskey Dolls rehearsal, a massive grin on her face.
“So?” she started giddily. “How are things going with Sexy Neighbor Guy? Any progress there
since we last talked?”
“Shh,” I hissed with big eyes, worried someone had overheard, but I should have known it was a
waste of time. I loved these women, but when it came to gossip, they were like freaking bloodhounds.
It didn’t matter how quiet we were, if there was a piece of news they considered juicy, there was no
keeping it from any of them.
Alma skipped over to us, sliding to a stop and plopping down on the floor right beside me,
excitement dancing in her eyes. “Ooh, who’s Sexy Neighbor Guy?”
Naturally, that caught Layla’s attention, who grabbed Marin’s hand and pulled her over. “Did
someone say sexy neighbor?”
In no time, every Whiskey Doll in the studio was gathered around, eager to know what was going
on.”
Damn it.
Marin let out a little squeak. “Are you seeing your neighbor?”
Sweet merciful hell.
Alma waggled her brows lasciviously. “That’s so hot. A neighbor booty call? Talk about
convenient.”
“I’m not sleeping with or seeing my neighbor,” I insisted.
Delanie, a sweet, romantic-at-heart, believer in fairy tales, looked at me hopefully. “Well . . .
maybe you will, eventually. That would be so romantic, don’t you think?”
Alma rolled her eyes playfully and teased, “You’re just saying that because you’re all disgustingly
happy and in love right now.”
Delanie’s whole face lit up, her cheeks flushing a happy, rosy pink. She’d been sickeningly happy
since her boyfriend, a mechanic from Hidalgo, proposed to her a few weeks back. She was in the
midst of wedding planning bliss, and everything was sunshine and rainbows. We were all beyond
happy for her, but she’d been bitten by the same bug most happily committed woman were. The one
where they wanted all their friends to be just as in love as they were.
I reached out, wrapped my fingers around her hand, and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “That’s a
sweet thought, but it’s not going to happen, believe me.”
Her expression fell as Asher spoke up. “I take it that means the situation hasn’t improved?”
I let out a sigh and dropped my head back, rolling it on my shoulders to stretch it out after the
workout I’d just gotten in rehearsal. “You could say that,” I answered, thinking about the situation
with the rose bushes the day before. “It may have come to my attention that I’m the problem neighbor.
Not him.” I admitted, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth and chewing on it as embarrassment
washed over me for the millionth time since my last run-in with the gorgeous man.
Alma’s face pinched into a look of puzzlement. “How is that even possible? After Delanie, you’re
the sweetest person I know. And I only put her first because I’m half convinced she’s actually a
cartoon fairy-tale princess come to life.”
“Aww,” Delanie cooed, smiling affectionately.
“What makes you think you’re the problem neighbor?” Asher asked.
I explained the situation with the rose bushes, and how I’d rushed from the car spewing mean
names before even giving him a chance to explain.
Marin reached across and patted Layla’s back when she began to choke on the drink she’d just
taken from her water bottle in an effort not to laugh. She pulled her face into a wince as Layla
continued to cough and sputter. “Yeah, calling the guy a bag of dicks might not have been your best
moment.”
I still cringed at that one in particular.
“It’s nothing you can’t come back from,” Layla insisted reassuringly, once she’d stopped choking
and was able to speak.
I lifted my shoulder in a shrug as I tugged at the hem of the cropped tee I’d pulled over my sports
bra. “Maybe. But I’m not sure there’s any coming back from being caught peeping on him through a
hole in the fence.”
Asher sucked in a breath that quickly morphed into hysterical laughter. “He caught you?”
“Yep. Called me out on it after all the name calling,” I muttered glumly.
“Oh, we’re going to need the full story on that one,” Alma announced with a shit eating grin, but
before they could start peppering me with a million and one questions, our boss and the owner of
Whiskey Dolls, McKenna, came into the studio.
“Hey, girls. I’ve got someone here I want you to meet. This is our new head of security, Silas
Bridger.”
Oh, you had to be shitting me.

Silas

When Marco had called me about a job working as the head of security for a club called Whiskey
Dolls, I’d initially blown him off, thinking the position was nothing more than a glorified bouncer. But
then I’d done a bit of research and discovered that Whiskey Dolls wasn’t just any nightclub. It was the
most popular burlesque club in the tri-state area, if not even farther.
I’d called Marco back to ask for more details and discovered the job was a lot more intensive
than I’d originally thought. As it turned out, the place had garnered no small amount of fame over the
years, and the women who performed there were viewed as local celebrities.
The owners of the club, a married couple named Bruce and McKenna, had apparently had issues
not too long ago with a former employee, and wanted to make sure the dancers were safe. As the new
head of security, I’d have a team of guards under my command whose main job was to ensure the
safety of these women. When I found out how much the position paid, I’d nearly swallowed my
tongue.
I hadn’t understood why these two people were offering that kind of compensation, but I wasn’t
one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’d interviewed over the phone and had been offered the job by
the end of the call.
Now I was on the premises for the first time, meeting my new bosses face to face, and, after being
shown the ropes, I understood why this position was so damn important to them.
McKenna spoke as I scanned some of the letters they received here at the club on a pretty regular
basis. “As you can see, there are a lot of weirdos out there.”
That was putting it mildly. There was no shortage of hate mail, letters from religious fanatics who
claimed they were all destined for hell for engaging in the sin of lust and such to women accusing
them of turning their husbands on by dancing provocatively.
Most of those were laughable, nothing but rantings from bitter, unhappy people with nothing better
to do with their time, but there were some that raised my brows. I hadn’t seen a single performance
there, but from some of these letters, they were talented enough to have garnered fans that bordered on
worrisome. It wasn’t surprising, given their level of fame. But it spoke to Bruce and McKenna being
good, solid people that they wanted to look out for their crew like this.
“We’re just so glad you took the position,” McKenna continued as I placed the letters back on the
desk that would officially be mine starting tomorrow. “These girls aren’t just our employees. I’ve
been friends with most of them for years.”
Bruce hooked his arm around his wife’s shoulder, pulling her into his side. It was funny to see
such a small, lithe woman cuddled into the huge bear of a man.
“These girls are Mac’s family. We’ll do whatever you suggest if it means keeping them safe.”
“I appreciate your faith in me,” I told them. “You’ve already got a great setup in place. That’s
obvious.” With the exception of restrooms and the women’s dressing area, practically every inch of
the club, inside and out, was covered by security cameras. “But if it’s good with you, I’d like to look
through the résumés of the team you’ve already got in place. Just to see if I come across anything that
sets off any alarms.”
It wasn’t long ago that a security guard on staff had been infatuated with one of the dancers. I was
determined to make sure nothing like that would happen again.
McKenna nodded. “Of course. Those men officially fall under your authority. You have final say
when it comes to hiring or firing. Marco spoke highly of you so I’m confident your judgement will be
best.”
I had to admit, I was glad these two didn’t plan on micromanaging every little thing I did. The
freedom to do my job without interference from people who didn’t know the first thing about this kind
of shit was a relief. “Then I think this is going to work out great. I look forward to working here.”
Bruce gave me a jerk of his chin in quiet approval while McKenna smiled brightly. It was clear
my joining the staff was a relief to her, and I was glad to provide that for her.
“Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the club and you can meet the security team, then I’ll introduce
you to the girls once their rehearsal is finished.”
I followed the tiny, spunky blonde through the club taking it all in, and I had to admit, the place
was cool as hell. The wood was a deep, warm cherry and the booths and chairs were upholstered in
rich red leather and crimson velvet curtains were draped from the walls. The whole thing pulled off
that cool prohibition vibe I dug.
I met the guys working security, and while most of them seemed cool enough, there was no
missing the discomfort with a couple of them. Those were the résumés I was going to study the
closest.
Afterward, we headed to the back of the club past the offices and stock rooms to a large room
with mirrors on the walls and dark wood floors. A cluster of women were sitting around toward the
back of the room as I followed McKenna inside.
I vaguely thought I heard her introduce me to the group, but all I could focus on was the woman
sitting at the center of the group. My sassy little neighbor was staring in my direction, mouth agape
and eyes wide as saucers.
Suddenly, the microscopic shorts and tiny tops made perfect sense, as did the fact she had the
sexiest body I’d ever seen. Her ass alone had been plaguing my thoughts since the first time I saw her
a week ago.
“Ladies,” I said, tipping my chin in acknowledgment while my gaze stayed rooted to Sloane. I
couldn’t have looked away if I’d tried. “Sassy,” I greeted.
I didn’t miss the curious back and forth glances from the other women in the room.
“Do you two know each other?” McKenna asked.
But before Sloane could answer, the brunette sitting beside her sucked in a breath. “Wait. That’s
him isn’t it?”
Another woman turned to Sloane, eyes wide. “That’s Sexy Neighbor Guy?”
I didn’t bother masking the smirk that tugged at the corners of my lips.
“Yep, I can see it,” a third woman announced.
“Did you hear him call her Sassy?”
“Yeah, that was cute.”
They continued on like that, speaking about me like I wasn’t standing right there. I didn’t have the
first clue what Sloane had told her friends about us, but despite my determination to avoid the woman
at all costs, I couldn’t help but think this was certainly an interesting development.
7
 SLOANE

T he sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grew worse as I climbed out of the car and
gathered the bags of groceries stashed in my trunk. It was the same twisting, sickening
feeling I experienced every time I had to make a visit to my mother’s house, however, since she had
been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, I found myself doing more and more for her. I brought her
groceries once a week and cleaned her house at least once a month because the pain was too bad for
her to do it herself.
The doctor had given her a medication that was supposed to help manage that, but she refused to
take it. I wasn’t sure if it was stubbornness that kept her from taking those pills or simply that she got
some sick sort of pleasure out of having me wait on her hand and foot. My gut told me it was the
latter. She didn’t seem to have a problem getting herself to and from the bars regularly, or to the little
corner store down the block when she was out of smokes. But I knew that pointing that out to her
would only start a fight, and I didn’t have the time or energy for that.
With my arms loaded down, the handles of the plastic bags digging into my skin, I struggled with
the knob before finally getting the front door open and stepping across the threshold.
“Hey, Mom. I’m here,” I called out as I moved deeper inside, the dank smell of stale cigarette
smoke clinging to the air and latching onto my skin and hair, making my eyes water and my stomach
lurch.
She rounded the corner, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips, the ash at the end so long it
crumbled off and fell to the floor where it would stay until I inevitably came to clean her place
myself.
“About time,” she grumbled, falling into the recliner in front of the television and picking up the
remote. She began flipping through channels without giving me a second glance or offering to help me
unload her groceries. “You’re late. I thought you’d forgotten about me like usual.”
I closed my eyes and pulled in a deep breath before remembering the stench of cigarette smoke. I
stifled the need to cough and lumbered into the kitchen so I could put the heavy bags down and give
my arms a break, only every inch of counter space was laden with dirty dishes and trash.
With a huff, I bent forward and set the bags on the floor. “I’ve never once forgotten about you,” I
said, feeling the sting of her accusation burrow beneath my skin.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered.
I knew my relationship with my mother wasn’t healthy. I needed to put up serious boundaries if I
wanted to stop getting my heart smashed to pieces on a regular basis, but it was obligation that had me
coming back time after time. That and the hope that maybe, just maybe, one day she’d be the mother I
always wanted. The one I’d so desperately needed growing up instead of this shell of bitterness and
anger.
She’d been like that since my father took off. I’d been so little I didn’t even remember what the
man looked like, but even though his face had faded from my memory, the heartbreak he’d cause my
mom somehow festered and grew until it took over everything.
“You think I don’t know you’re ashamed of me, but I do. You’d love nothing more than to pretend I
don’t exist.”
I tried my hardest to focus on my breathing, holding an inhale in my lungs as I silently counted to
ten before blowing it out. It was the same thing time after time. The only emotions my mother seemed
capable of directing toward me were guilt and misery. No matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. I was a
lousy daughter, I didn’t care about her, and on and on. There was simply no winning with her.
It was a shot to the chest every time she accused me of not caring about her, but over the years, I’d
gotten used to the manipulation. Still, that didn’t mean the pain wasn’t there.
“That’s not true. I’m here right now, aren’t I?”
She harrumphed. “Like you don’t wish you were somewhere else. Just like your father. I’ve never
been good enough.” With that, she shifted her focus to the television playing one of the gameshows the
loved so damn much, her way of basically saying she was done with the conversation, whether or not
I was.
Attempting to defend myself would have been pointless, so I didn’t even try. Instead, while her
show played on in the background, I started work in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes and throwing away
trash. I wiped down the counters and emptied ashtrays of crushed cigarette butts. The garbage can
was overflowing in the cabinet beneath the sink, so I took it out and cleaned up something
unidentifiable yet nasty that had spilled everywhere.
When I opened the fridge, I was overcome with the smell of rotten, moldy food so nauseous it
made me gag. I had to breathe out of my mouth as I tossed the spoiled food out and scrubbed the
shelves and bins with bleach.
Of course, if I said anything to her, she would have said it was my fault for buying the fresh
produce she let go to waste without a care. I knew it was useless to try and get her to eat better, but I
couldn’t help myself. I could have very well flushed that money down the toilet for all the good it did.
If it couldn’t be cooked in the microwave, heated in a saucepan, or slapped between two pieces of
bread, my mother didn’t want any part of it.
Once the kitchen was no longer a pit, I stocked the fresh groceries and heated up one of her
preferred frozen meals. I took it out to her, setting it on an old, tattered TV tray and took a step back.
“Okay, Mom, you’re all set. There’s fresh food in the fridge, the pantry’s stocked, and I cleaned the
kitchen. You need anything else before I head out?”
She hadn’t spoken a word to me in the past hour as I cleaned the mess she made, but at my
question, she scoffed and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “No, you just go. Go and leave me here
all by myself like you always do.” The sneer she gave me as she finally looked my way made my
insides shrivel. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at me with any kind of affection. All
I’d seen from her for years was animosity. “Just like that bastard father of yours. Both of you always
leaving me behind.”
How I could be anything like a man I didn’t even know was beyond me, but it was her favorite
insult.
Having reached my quota on the number of insults I could take, I hooked the strap of my purse
over my shoulder and bent to kiss my mother’s cheek. Just as she always did, she turned her face
away from me.
 I hid the pain that caused and said my goodbye, pushing the word past the painful lump that had
formed in my throat. “Bye, Mama. I love you and I’ll see you next week.”
She didn’t respond. She never responded. And even though I knew that would always be the case,
that tiny coal of hope inside of me had never fully burned out. Instead of letting it roll off me, it never
failed to burn like a lash to my skin.
Without another word, I walked out the door, knowing that even though I shouldn’t, for no other
reason than my own sanity, I’d be back next week. I climbed into my car and backed out of her
driveway, pointing it in the direction of the one place I knew would heal the wounds my mother
always inflicted.
While my mom’s house reeked of cigarettes and bitterness, Lucille’s flashy apartment smelled the
same way her home always had, like Chanel No. 5 and warm chocolate chip cookies and love.
The instant she opened her door, the pleasant smells enveloped me.
“Oh, my darling girl!” Lucille threw her arms wide, the silky sheen of her long, flowy black and
gold caftan glimmering beneath the florescent lights of the hallway. She pulled me into a hug that went
a long way in fighting back those all-too familiar demons that always clung to me after a visit with my
mother. “What a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you were coming to see me today.”
We ended our embrace and she stepped aside so I could enter the small apartment of the
retirement community she now lived in. It was decorated the same as her house had been, bold and
loud and full of interesting things. Framed photos and movie posters covered the brightly painted
walls. Two very heavy, very ornate curio cabinets held fine china and vintage perfume bottles—the
kinds with the fancy aspirators—as well as more pictures and knickknacks she’d picked up from her
travels all over the world.
“I’m sorry. I should have called ahead.”
She waved me off. “Nonsense. You know very well you’re welcome here any time. It’s just had I
known I could have had that sweet boy Grady run to the store to pick up some more vodka. He loves
running little errands for me. I’m afraid I hosted a small get-together the other night, and, well, my
liquor cabinet took quite the hit.”
I gave her an admonishing look that morphed into a grin. “Lucille, Grady is a nurse here, not your
personal chauffeur.” Though it didn’t surprise me one bit that she had a member of the staff—
probably more than one—wrapped around her little finger already, or that she was hosting parties
with the other residents. God only knew what a bunch of octogenarians could get up to with that much
booze in their systems.
She clasped my hand in both of hers, her skin warm and soft, like crepe paper. She gave it a pat
and said, “Have a seat darling. I’ll make us both a cup of tea. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds perfect.” I moved over to the plush peach velvet couch, kicking off my shoes and curling
my feet beneath me while she set the kettle to boil and went about making tea for both of us.
There were two things Lucille took very seriously: her martinis and her tea. When she claimed to
be putting the kettle on, she meant putting together a full tea service.
A few minutes later, she came into the living room carrying a gilded silver tray complete with a
fancy pot and beautiful matching delicate cups and saucers. She placed it on the coffee table and
poured us each a cup, then took the tall, deep hunter green wingback chair catty-corner from me.
“Okay, sweetheart. Tell me what happened.”
“Why do you think something happened?” I asked as I poured a splash of milk into my tea and
stirred in a single sugar cube.
She gave me a look that warned me not to bullshit her. I should have known better. There wasn’t
much I’d been able to get away with when it came to Lucille. As sad as it made me when I really
thought about it, Lucille was more of a mother to me than my own.
And just that thought brought back the cloud of sadness that had started to dissipate and those
ever-present tears in my heart grew a little bigger.
“Oh, darling. You saw her today, didn’t you?”
It was uncanny how well she was able to read me, and truthfully, I didn’t know what I would do
without this incredible woman. I was so lucky to have her in my life.
I cupped the delicate cup in my palms, relishing the warmth that seeped through the china into my
skin. “I had to take her groceries,” I defended weakly.
Lucille placed her cup and saucer on the table and stood from her chair, moving to sit on the
couch beside me and offer comfort. “Of course you did. Because you’re a kind, loyal, big-hearted
person. I take it things didn’t go well?”
I let out a humorless scoff. “Of course they didn’t. This is my mom we’re talking about. If there’s
ever a chance to throw a guilt trip my way or make me feel like shit, she won’t hesitate. This time I
was “just like my father” for leaving her there all by herself.”
Lucille’s expression went hard, and it had nothing to do with the Botox she got on a regular basis.
If there was one thing that pissed this wonderful woman off in a very big way, it was how my mother
treated and spoke to me.
“The fact that she could say that to you, knowing that waste of oxygen abandoned not only her, but
you as well, speaks to her character—or lack thereof, darling. Not yours. You are a beautiful woman,
inside and out, and if she can’t see that, it’s her loss.”
I sniffled, bringing the fine china cup to my lips and sipping the steaming liquid inside. “I know. In
my mind, I know everything you’re saying is right. I try to brace for her bitterness, but she still
manages to get to me every time. It’s like I have no backbone when it comes to her.”
Her features fell, her eyes shining with sympathy. “Oh, my sweet girl, that’s not true at all. It isn’t
that you lack a backbone, it’s that you’re the most loyal person I know. When you love someone, you
love them wholly. That is such a wonderful quality for a person to have. But being loyal doesn’t mean
you have to allow someone to hurt you over and over. One of these days you’re going to wake up and
realize that relationship isn’t worth the tender heart, just because she’s your mother doesn’t give her
the right to make you feel bad about yourself. And when that day comes, the only person who will be
losing anything is her. Just give yourself a little grace, darling. You’ll get there.”
I wasn’t a hundred percent sold on that, but hearing the determination in her voice certainly
helped. “You really think so, huh?”
She plucked her teacup up and sipped, watching me over the rim. “Oh, honey. I don’t think, I
know. Because you may think you lack a backbone, but when I look at you, I see the strongest woman
I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.”
This right here, her wisdom and her passion and her faith in me, were all reasons why I’d come to
love this woman so whole-heartedly. Why, whenever I was in pain, she was the first person I wanted
to see, because I knew she could make it better in no time at all.
“I love you, Luce. I hope you know that.”
She waved her hand. “Of course you do, I’m quite fabulous, darling.” I giggled and cozied deeper
into her couch. “And I love you just the same.” She placed the teacup down and clapped her hands
together, giving her brows a waggle as she demanded, “Now, tell me all about the new neighbor.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 At this time Mr. Hay had become very proficient in Arabic, and his
family have still in their possession some examples of Arabic writing,
then beautifully executed by him in the highest style of Oriental
manuscript; and a friend, writing from London to his mother, Mrs.
Drummond Hay, says, ‘I met the other evening Mr. Burchardt Barker,
the Oriental translator to the Foreign Office; he told me that a letter
from the Sultan of Morocco had been sent home by your son, Mr.
John Hay, and that he had never seen anything more beautifully
translated by any Orientalist.’
It was either during this stay at Seville, or on a subsequent
occasion, that Mr. Hay visited the Alcazar, then in course of
restoration.
The architect was employed in reconstructing the beautiful
arabesque stucco-work on the walls, by taking moulds of the injured
portions, and, after remodelling the defaced parts, casting from these
moulds fresh plaques to replace those injured or missing.
After gazing for some time on these restorations, and vainly
endeavouring to puzzle out the Arabic inscriptions which enter so
largely into arabesque decorations, Mr. Hay asked for the architect
and inquired of him whether he was aware that he had reversed all
the inscriptions!
The poor man was horrified. He declared he would undo and
rectify his work, begging Mr. Hay, for pity’s sake, not to betray to any
one his discovery: as, if it were made known, he would be a ruined
man, and he and his children would starve. Mr. Hay having shown
him exactly what his error had been, left Seville without betraying the
architect.
In the summer of 1838 Mr. Hay made an expedition into the
interior of Morocco, of which he wrote an account entitled Western
Barbary. This little book, written with all the vigour and freshness
inspired by youth, and with a thorough knowledge of the wild people
amongst whom he travelled and whose sport he shared, was
published by Mr. Murray and attracted much attention and praise
from the press at the time.
During a visit to England in 1838, Mr. Hay made an application to
Lord Palmerston for a diplomatic appointment in the East, and in this
connection relates the following incident, which occurred after his
return to Tangier in the next year.

A respectable Moor, named Selam Lamarti, who was employed

by my father to attend as guard upon my younger brothers and
sisters, and who was very anxious about my future career, inquired
one day whether I should like to have my fortune told by one who
had never failed to predict correctly the life and fortune of any man or
woman whom she might have happened to see, and the chief events
of whose future life she felt intuitively that she could foretell. I replied,
‘As you say she, you refer, I suppose, to a woman, and probably to
an Arab gossip, who expects that I shall reward her handsomely for
telling me a parcel of lies about the happiness and good fortune
which are in store for me.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘she is not an Arab gipsy, but my first cousin, a
young Moorish maiden named Leila, with whom I have been brought
up from infancy as with a sister. If she tells your fortune she will not
take money, nor even a present, in return for her predictions. The
Most High God, who foresees and knows all things, has gifted her
with this incomprehensible power, for which she has attained great
fame; but it is not every one whose fortune can be told by her, only
those whom she occasionally selects, from feeling—as she
describes—a sudden innate inspiration which she cannot explain.
Last Friday,’ he continued, ‘she and her mother were seated, muffled
in their haiks, praying at the grave of a relative in the Mohammedan
cemetery. You, whom she knows by sight, were walking with a
companion on the high road through the cemetery, and you stopped
for some minutes near to the spot where Leila was seated, and she
had a good view of your features. After you had passed Leila told her
mother, and afterwards myself on her return home, that your future
life was seen by her clearly, as in a mirror.’
‘Is she fair? Is she pretty? Can I hear from her own lips my
future?’ I exclaimed, foolishly flattering myself that this maiden might
have fallen in love with me and sought an excuse for a meeting.
‘Hasha’ (God forbid), cried Selam, ‘that you or any man should
visit, or even speak to her, until she meet her bridegroom on her
wedding night, except it be her father, or I as her foster-brother, in
the presence of her mother. Yes, she is very fair and pretty, with a
sweet gentle voice and manner. If you wish to learn the chief events
of your future life, Leila says she must see you again and have a
long look at your features and expression. I will arrange to-night the
hour when you are to accompany me to stand below the lattice
window of her house, where she will be able to gaze at you, though,
as you know, her features will not thus be visible to you.’
This was agreed upon, and the next day Selam accompanied me
to the door of Leila’s house, where, leaving me standing in the street,
he entered, but shortly rejoined me, saying, ‘She is now at the
window.’ I could just see there was some one behind the lattice, so I
looked up and smiled, hoping she might show herself; but not a
glimpse had I of the fair Leila. After waiting a few minutes there was
a tap at the window, and Selam said,
‘That is the signal that you may leave. To-night I shall learn from
Leila, in presence of her mother, the chief events of your future life.
She is a clever girl, and, what is rare with our women, can read and
write Arabic.’
 The following day Selam related Leila’s predictions as follows:
‘John, whom I have so often seen as he passes through the
cemetery on Fridays, will in a few months return to London, and will
be appointed “Katseb” (secretary) to the English “Bashador”
(ambassador) at Stambul; he will rise in favour and become his
confidential secretary. He will be sent by the Bashador on missions
to several countries in the East and return to Stambul. After a few
years he will go back to England, and then on his intended return to
Stambul he will visit Tangier, where he will find his father in bad
health. His father will die and he will be appointed in his place. He
will be in great favour with the present and future Sultans, and will
attain to a much higher rank than his father now holds. There are two
maidens who will love him—one dark, the other fair. He will marry
the fair one, who lives in a distant land. He will have a long and
happy life, and when he is old he will retire to his own country with
high honours from his sovereign and from other sovereigns of
foreign countries. He will live to an advanced age.’
Leila declined an offer of money or a present, and I was never
allowed to see her fair face or hear her sweet voice. Without
narrating here the various events which have happened in my long
life I may say that Leila’s predictions, by an extraordinary
combination of circumstances or chances, have all been verified.
Though I never had an opportunity of letting Leila know that I had
fulfilled her expectations, I hope she may have continued to take an
interest in my career, whether she be in this or in the other world.
 CHAPTER III.

ALEXANDRIA. 1840.

Mr. Hay did not long remain without employment. In his Note
Book for 1840 he thus describes his entrance on the career of a
diplomatist.

Waiting with some anxiety to learn what might turn up and be my

fate, I stayed for some months in Town, and in May, as I was walking
down St. James’ Street towards the Foreign Office, I met Henry
Forster, brother of the late General Forster, then a senior clerk in the
Foreign Office, who said, ‘Hay, I have to congratulate you, for you
have just been marked with our chief’s initial letter.’
On my asking for an explanation, Forster informed me that my
name had been sent up by my kind friend Mr. Hammond (the late
Lord Hammond, then Senior Clerk) for the post of attaché at
Constantinople, and that Lord Palmerston, as usual when he
approved a note or a memorandum, had signed P. Before I received
this appointment, Lord Palmerston’s private secretary asked me
whether I was a Whig or a Tory, adding that his Lordship had
directed him to question me, as he had appointed so many members
of Tory families to foreign posts that it was his intention in future
before making an appointment to inquire of a candidate to which
party he belonged.
I replied that, as I hoped to obtain employment abroad, where it
would not be necessary for me to take part in politics as Whig or
Tory, my party would always be that which upheld the honour and
interests of my own country.
I was told that, when my reply was reported to Lord Palmerston,
he said, ‘Mr. Hay may be a Tory, but he will do for diplomacy.’
On my appointment I was directed, before proceeding to my post,
to attend for some weeks at the Foreign Office to learn the forms,
&c.
Before the present Foreign Office was built there was, at the back
of the old buildings, a street, the houses on the opposite side of
which were overlooked by the rooms occupied by some of the junior
clerks. In a window of one of these houses two elderly ladies used
sometimes to be seated, sewing, and a youthful clerk was wont to
amuse himself dazzling them by means of a looking-glass. The
ladies wrote a note to Lord Palmerston, complaining of this
annoyance; upon which his Lordship sent a memorandum to be
circulated amongst the clerks:
‘The gentlemen in the office are requested not to cast reflections
on ladies. P.’
After working for some weeks as an assistant clerk in the Foreign
Office I was ordered to proceed, in the first place, to Alexandria,
where I was to remain for some time to assist Colonel Hodges, then
our Agent and Consul-General in Egypt—as there was a press of
work in consequence of the question with Mehemet Ali—and was
told that Lord Palmerston desired to know when I should be ready to
start. I replied, ‘To-day.’ This pleased Lord Palmerston, but I was
given three days in which to prepare, and told that, if I had not a
carriage of my own, I was to buy one at Calais and post with all
speed through France to Marseilles in order to catch the mail-packet
thence to Alexandria. At the Foreign Office I was given £100 to pay
all expenses.
Posting down to Dover, I crossed to Calais, and there bought,
second-hand, a light britzska, in which I deposited the two huge bags
of dispatches, of which I was in charge for the admiral at Malta and
our agent in Egypt. As bearer of dispatches I had the preference
over other travellers for fresh horses, and travelled very rapidly, day
and night, arriving at Marseilles several hours before the packet left.
After selling the carriage I had bought at Calais, I took a bath and
had dinner at an hotel.
During dinner, I was waited on by two Maltese. Having finished, I
requested that my bill should be brought; upon which, one of the
waiters observed to the other sotto voce in Arabic, ‘We will not
present a bill; let us charge him fifteen francs, and we will divide the
five which remain over and above the charge for bath and dinner.’
Knowing Arabic, I understood the plot; so when they told me I had
fifteen francs to pay, I replied that I wished to see the landlord before
leaving. He was summoned and I then related to him what had
passed between these rogues of waiters. Upon which he demanded
very angrily what they meant, and one of them, very much flurried,
replied foolishly that they had not supposed the gentleman knew
Maltese! The landlord dismissed the two waiters from his service
then and there, and I paid him his bill of ten francs.
It is remarkable that though Malta has been occupied by a great
number of nations—Phœnicians, Romans, Arabs, Franks and
English—Arabic is still the language of the inhabitants.
Before arriving at Alexandria, I learnt that the plague was in
Egypt, and, having heard so many dread stories about this disease
and the dangers incurred from contagion, I landed with my hair
standing on end from terror, fearing I should be plague-stricken and
die—as I had heard might happen—after a few hours’ illness.
There was much contention at that time between medical men at
Alexandria regarding the contagion from plague. The chief Italian
doctor—whose name I have forgotten—who was said to be very
clever, mounted a donkey covered with oil-skin, the doctor wearing
also clothing of a supposed non-contagion-bearing texture. He
visited the plague patients, but carried an ivory wand with which he
touched their ‘buboes.’
The other chief medical man was Dr. Lorimer, an Englishman,
who did not believe in great danger from contagion but rather in the
risk of infection from visiting, or living in, unhealthy quarters of the
town where there were no sanitary arrangements.
These two doctors were on friendly terms, and when they met in
the streets during their visits to plague patients, some banter
generally passed. The Italian doctor was wont to salute Dr. Lorimer
with ‘Tu creparai’ (Thou wilt die), and the latter returned the gloomy
salutation with a ‘tu quoque.’ The Italian died of the plague whilst I
was at Alexandria, but Dr. Lorimer kept in good health and was
unremitting in his attendance on the sick, doing many acts of charity.
He told me, in support of his theory of infection rather than
contagion, that there were several houses in Alexandria of a better
class, but situated in an unhealthy part of the town, whose tenants,
even when observing the strictest quarantine, had caught the
plague, whilst there were whole streets in a healthy quarter where no
cases ever occurred.
Some years before, in Morocco, I had experience of the danger of
going into dwellings where there is disease.
 When the cholera morbus visited Tangier in 1836, Mr. Bell—at
that time Consul under my father, and who had been surgeon on
board Lord Yarborough’s yacht Falcon—devoted his spare time after
office hours to attending, gratis, upon cholera patients and had much
success: I sometimes accompanied him to interpret when he could
not find an assistant who spoke Arabic, and on one occasion he
requested me to aid him in giving directions to a poor Moor whose
son was attacked with cholera. I accompanied Dr. Bell without fear,
but when he requested me to lift the dying man, already looking like
a livid corpse, to enable him to pour some liquid down his throat, I
shuddered, and, trembling, held the man in my arms till the dose was
administered. The patient died shortly after.
I returned home feeling ill and shaken; and, whilst standing before
a fire trying to warm myself, was seized with terrible cramps and fell
in pain on the hearth-rug. I was put to bed with bottles of hot water
on my body. Dr. Bell was sent for, but was not to be found. Having
heard that sometimes oil relieved pain in cholera, I got a bottle of
good French oil and adding a few drops of laudanum to a full tumbler
of oil, drank it off. This relieved the intense pain. When the doctor
arrived, he approved of my remedy and said I had an attack of
cholera asiatica.
The danger from plague by contagion cannot, however, to my
mind be called in question. That dire disease was introduced into
Morocco about the year 1826 by an English frigate which our
Government had dispatched to Alexandria, where the plague was
then raging, to convey from that port to Tangier two sons of the
Sultan, returning from a pilgrimage to Mecca. No case of plague or
other illness had occurred on board the frigate during the voyage,
and the Sultan’s sons and other passengers were allowed to land at
Tangier.
 The Customs’ officers being suspicious that in the numerous
boxes, brought by pilgrims who had been permitted to embark with
the Moorish princes, contraband goods were being smuggled,
caused some of the cases to be opened. One contained Egyptian
wearing apparel, which the owner said he had bought second-hand,
and subsequently confessed had belonged to a person who had died
of the plague at Alexandria. The two Moorish officials who opened
the boxes were attacked with the plague that night and died in a few
hours. The disease spread rapidly throughout Morocco, carrying off
eighty per cent. of those who were attacked.
Shortly after my arrival at Alexandria, I was presented to Mehemet
Ali by Colonel Hodges. I need not give a description of this
remarkable man, of whom so much has been written, but I was much
struck by his keen eyes, like those of an eagle. The Colonel proved
to be no match for him in discussing the grave questions then at
issue regarding his desire to be independent of the Sultan’s sway,
whilst Mehemet Ali showed markedly his personal dislike to the Irish
colonel, who was hot-tempered and blurted out in very unguarded
language the views entertained by the British Government at that
time regarding Egypt.
On hearing that I was attached to the Embassy at Constantinople,
Mehemet Ali fixed on me his eagle eyes with no friendly expression,
and I could perceive, from words let drop then and afterwards, the
extreme hatred his Highness entertained towards any one connected
with our Ambassador, Lord Ponsonby, the persistent and successful
opponent of his ambitious views.
About this time a portion of the Mahmud Canal was being dug by
the unfortunate Egyptian fellahin, assisted by their wives and
children, according to the ‘corvée’ system. Men, women and children
dwelt in miserable hovels near the canal, and I have seen the
wretched people working by thousands. A platter of bean soup and
some coarse bread was all that each person received to keep body
and soul together. No pay was given—or if any were made, it was
retained by the overseers—and the greatest misery prevailed. I was
told that there were two young fellah girls, sisters, who possessed
only one garment between them; so whilst one worked the other
remained in her hovel until her turn came, and then she donned the
long blue shift and the weary one remained nude. Yet have I seen
this joyous race, after emptying the baskets of earth they carried,
filled with mud grubbed up by their hands, without aid of spade or
other implement, singing and clapping their hands as they returned
to the canal, balancing the empty baskets on their heads.
The Egyptians have been bondsmen for thousands of years, and
are a degenerate and cowardly race.
On one occasion, when the younger son of Mehemet Ali, Abbas
Pasha, a cruel tyrant, visited the canal, a wretched fellah, with hardly
a rag to his back, walked to a mound of earth above where the
Pasha stood and cried out to his fellow-workmen: ‘Slaves and
cowards! There stands the tyrant. Strike and destroy him, or—if you
have not the courage to strike—spit, and you will drown him!’ This
rash but brave fellah was seized and beaten until he lay a corpse.
To give another instance of the cruelty of this monster, Abbas
Pasha. It was the custom in Egypt for any one of position to be
accompanied, when on horseback, by a ‘sais,’ or footman, who ran
beside, or preceded, the rider; and it was astonishing how these men
could keep up for miles with a horse going at a fast amble or trot.
The ‘sais’ of Abbas Pasha, having run by the side of his master
during a long journey, became footsore and, his shoes being worn
out, begged that a new pair might be given him at the next village.
The Pasha replied, ‘Thy petition shall be granted.’ On arrival at the
village, Abbas Pasha ordered that a blacksmith should be sent for,
and when he came said, ‘Bind the sais, and nail on his feet two
horse-shoes; see that they are red hot before they are fastened on.’
This was done, and the tortured man was left writhing in agony,
whilst the Pasha returned to Alexandria.
One day, finding that I was not needed at the office, I went for a
ride. When I had gone about four miles beyond the town I met an
Arab, mounted on a ‘huri,’ or dromedary, riding at a great pace
towards Alexandria, his face muffled up, as is usual with these
people. He stopped his animal as I passed, and, showing me a little
object he had in his hand, said, ‘I hear you Franks care about these
things, and am going to Alexandria to find a purchaser.’
It appeared to be a very beautiful gem, apparently cut in agate, of
the head of Bacchus. On my asking where he had found it, he told
me in some ruins at a distant spot. I offered him a few piastres for
the gem: but he refused my offer, saying that he knew a similar
object found on the same site had been sold by a friend of his for a
sum equivalent in piastres to about £5.
Though not myself a collector of antiquities, my father was an
archaeologist, and possessed a beautiful collection of coins, &c., and
I decided on purchasing the gem as a gift to him: so, after some
wrangling, I became the owner on paying about £2. The Arab, on
receiving the money, turned back and rode off at a rapid pace.
Being very anxious to learn whether my acquisition was one of
great value, I returned to Alexandria and called on the Austrian
Consul-General, Monsieur Laurin, a collector of gems and other
antiquities, and a great connoisseur. On showing him the gem he
pronounced it to be a very beautiful work of art, and, if genuine, of
great value and worth ten times what I had given; but said he really
could not say without putting it to a test whether or no it were
counterfeit. He informed me that imitations of all kinds of antiquities
were imported from Italy and sold to travellers. When I related to him
the incident of my meeting with the Arab, when riding out in the
country, and the language and appearance of the man, he said there
were Europeans at Alexandria who sold these objects, who were
quite capable of hiring an Arab and his camel, and, on seeing that an
English stranger was about to take a ride, sending him to encounter
the traveller, in the hope of getting a good price.
With my permission, Monsieur Laurin used a penknife to scratch
the back of the gem, which he said was agate, but he still hesitated
in declaring, though he used a magnifying glass, whether the head of
Bacchus was also cut on the agate or was composition. He said
there was one way of solving the doubt, which would not injure a
gem, but that if it were a counterfeit it would disappear,—which was
to plunge it into hot water. He added that the head was so beautifully
executed, it deserved to be kept on its own merits and not to be put
under the test, as it would be greatly admired, he felt sure, by my
father. I insisted, however, on the test being applied, so hot water
was brought. Into this I dropped the gem, and in an instant Bacchus
disappeared and I found myself the possessor of a flat piece of
agate.
My father, as I have said, was an archaeologist. When he lived in
the neighbourhood of Valenciennes, in 1826, a French labourer
discovered, in the neighbourhood of that town, a beautiful bronze
statue of Hercules, about eighteen inches high, and, hearing that my
father bought coins and other antiques, brought it to him. The statue
was then in a perfect state: the club was of silver, in the left hand
were apples of gold; the lion’s skin over the shoulder was in silver,
and in the eyes were two small rubies. My father made the man an
offer, which he refused.
A few days afterwards he brought back the statue in a mutilated
state—the club, apples, lion’s skin, and ruby eyes were gone, having
been sold to a jeweller. My father gave the man 100 francs for the
statue, and this beautiful work of art became his idol; though offered
a large sum to part with it, he declined, and in his will bequeathed it
to the British Museum, where it can be seen amongst other gems of
ancient art. His collection of coins and other antiquities he left to the
Museum of the Antiquarian Society in Edinburgh, of which he was for
many years honorary secretary.
Dated June 27, 1840, Cairo, I find among my notes the following
entry:—
‘Heard a good story of the last of the Mamelukes, a fine old
Saracen, one of the very few who escaped the massacre at Cairo.
‘The old fellow had been invited to an evening party at the house
of the former Consul-General, Colonel Campbell, where there was
assembled a large party of ladies, to each individual of whom he
determined, in his politeness, to address what he imagined to be the
most flattering remark possible. Thus he made the tour of the fair
sex, saying to each, “I see you will soon make a child!”
accompanying his words with an expressive gesture. Married and
unmarried were greeted alike! and to a young widow, a flame of the
Colonel’s, notwithstanding her persistent denial and offended dignity,
he repeatedly asseverated she would “make a child!”’
 CHAPTER IV.

CONSTANTINOPLE AND LORD PONSONBY. 1840.

Colonel Hodges had been hospitable and very kindly disposed

towards me, but I hailed with pleasure the day when I embarked—in
an Austrian steamer, in consequence of relations being broken off
with Mehemet Ali—to proceed to Beyrout and thence to
Constantinople, to join the Embassy.
At Beyrout, where I spent a few hours, I went on board the flag-
ship of Admiral Sir Charles Napier, where I heard it was decided to
attack Acre, and that a battle was impending between the army of
Ibrahim Pasha, and the Turkish and British troops commanded by
General Smith.
On arrival at Constantinople, I presented myself to Lord
Ponsonby, who, after listening to the tidings I brought, directed me to
address him a dispatch reporting all I had related to his Excellency;
adding, that I must lose no time in preparing it, as he was about to
dispatch a messenger overland to England.
Never having written a dispatch in my life, though I had
corresponded privately on passing events in Egypt with members of
the Embassy at Constantinople and the Foreign Office, I felt very
nervous—especially as the report was required immediately by his
Excellency. Half-an-hour after my interview with Lord Ponsonby,
while I was still writing, the late Percy Doyle, then first attaché, came
in with a message from the Ambassador to request that my report
should be brought to his Excellency at once. I said the draft was not
quite finished, and that I wished to copy it out.
Doyle answered he must take it up at once to his Excellency, so,
after I had scribbled the few lines that remained, without allowing me
even to read it over, he carried it off. I waited for some time for his
return and then, to my dismay, he announced that Lord Ponsonby
had read my draft, and, as there was no time to have it copied, had
enclosed it, as it was, in a dispatch to Lord Palmerston. It was
published in the Blue Book, with other dispatches on Eastern affairs.
It was in this year, when a victory had been gained over the
Egyptian army in Syria by the combined British and Turkish forces,
that a number of trophies in flags, banners, &c., were sent by
General Smith and Admiral Sir Charles Napier, who commanded the
British forces, to the Ambassador to present to the Sultan.
A day having been fixed for the audience, Lord Ponsonby
prepared the speech he proposed to deliver, and directed Mr.
Frederick Pisani, Chief Dragoman of the Embassy, to write out a
translation into the Turkish language, and to learn it by heart. He was
instructed not to pay any attention to Lord Ponsonby’s utterances
during the audience, but, when requested by his Excellency, he was
to repeat the prepared speech, and subsequently the replies, which
had likewise been prepared in answer to the Sultan’s language, of
which his Excellency was able to guess the purport. Lord Ponsonby
gave these directions, as he knew that Mr. Pisani was a nervous
man, and might find it difficult on such an occasion to render the
Ambassador’s language adequately into eloquent and polite Turkish,
if not prepared beforehand.
The Ambassador and members of the Embassy in uniform, with
numerous kavasses, proceeded in the state kaik from Therapia to
the Sultan’s palace.
To each attaché a banner or flag was given, to carry for
presentation at the audience. To me was allotted a Turkish banner,
on a very long pole, with crescent and spear.
All the ministers and other dignitaries of the Porte were
assembled at the palace, and stood in two lines on each side of the
Sultan, as the Ambassador and suite entered the reception hall.
Keeping my eyes fixed upon the Sultan as I entered, I lowered
unwittingly the pole and banner, which were very heavy, and nearly
carried off on the spear the fez of one of the ministers. This
‘gaucherie’ produced a suppressed giggle from an attaché.
The scene that followed was very ludicrous, especially as Lord
Ponsonby had not warned the members of the Embassy of the
nature of the address he was about to deliver, or of the instructions
he had given to Mr. Pisani. Advancing with great dignity near to
where the Sultan stood, and putting out occasionally his hand as an
orator might do, Lord Ponsonby commenced with a very grave
expression of countenance, counting ‘one, two, three, four, five,’ &c.,
up to fifty, occasionally modulating his voice, as if he desired to make
an impression upon the minds of his hearers, putting emphasis upon
some numbers, and smiling with satisfaction and pleasure when he
reached the higher numbers of thirty up to forty. Of course his
Excellency knew that the Sultan, his ministers, and other officials at
the Court were not acquainted with the English language.
On concluding, he turned to the interpreter and motioned him to
speak. Mr. Pisani recited in very eloquent and flowery Turkish the
Ambassador’s prepared speech.
 When Lord Ponsonby commenced the enumeration, I hid my face
behind the banner, and pinched myself sharply, to check the outburst
of laughter which inwardly convulsed me.
The Sultan replied, expressing his sense of gratitude to the British
Government, his thanks to the British naval and military forces and
their Commanders, as also to the Ambassador. This Mr. Pisani
translated. Then Lord Ponsonby commenced again to count from
sixty upwards, pausing now and then as if dwelling upon particular
numbers, which by his voice and gesture it would appear he desired
especially to impress on H.I.M.’s mind.
Mr. Pisani again repeated the language which he had been
desired to prepare.
The trophies were handed over to Turkish officers appointed by
the Sultan to receive them, and the Ambassador and his suite
retired.
Not one of the Turkish officers present during the audience
appeared to have the slightest suspicion of what was taking place,
and even if they had subsequently learnt that the Ambassador had
counted instead of making a speech, they would have
comprehended that the desire of his Excellency was that his
prepared speech should be clearly and properly translated by the
interpreter on such an interesting occasion.
It was at this time that Bosco, famed for sleight of hand and magic
art, visited the Turkish capital; and Lord Ponsonby—who never went
out at night, not even to a dinner or reception at other Embassies—
being desirous of witnessing the performance of this renowned
magician, invited Bosco, who was a gentleman by birth, to dinner to
meet a large party, requesting that he would entertain the company
after dinner by his marvellous sleight of hand.
 Bosco arrived a little time before dinner was announced. The
room was crowded, and he was introduced and entered into
conversation with several of the guests. During dinner he was quiet
and unassuming, and did not take part in the general conversation;
but just as Lady Ponsonby was preparing to move, Bosco rose and,
turning to the Ambassador, said, ‘I beg your Excellency’s permission
to say a few words before the company leave the table. It has been a
high honour to have been invited by your Excellency to dine in
company with such distinguished men and noble ladies; but I feel
that it would be an act of ingratitude on my part were I to conceal
from your Excellency proceedings which have been passing both
before and during dinner, and which have come to my knowledge
through the extraordinary gift of vision I possess, and the faculty of
perception of the acts and movements of those around me. Humble
individual as I am, I have no hesitation in declaring that the very
unusual proceedings in which certain persons in this society have
taken part might reflect, in some degree, upon all present—even
upon myself, a poor conjurer, who has been thrown into their
company—should it be known that I have associated with gentlemen
and ladies, whose conduct might be stigmatised as criminal!’
He spoke thus with such a grave countenance that even Lord
Ponsonby seemed puzzled, and thought the man was demented.
Bosco continued, ‘Your Lordship cannot but admit that the grave
charge I have put forward is not without foundation, when I declare
that in the coat pockets, or the breasts of the waistcoats, of several
of the gentlemen there will be found some of your Lordship’s silver
spoons—and the selection has not been confined to the clean
alone.’
 The guests put their hands into their pockets, from which they
extracted spoons and forks still greasy from use, salt spoons, tops of
cruets, &c. Great merriment ensued, especially on the part of the
ladies at the expense of the unfortunate men who were thus proved
to be guilty.
Then Bosco, turning to some ladies who were on the opposite
side of the table, and with whom he had been holding a lively
conversation before dinner, said, ‘That noble lady,’ indicating one,
‘ought hardly to laugh at the disclosure I have made, since it will be
found that she has secreted in the bodice of her dress the bouquet of
one of the gentlemen, who has since been making a vain search for
it, having possibly received the pretty flowers from another fair hand.’
The lady flushed up angrily; but, in searching, found the lost
bouquet concealed in the folds of her dress.
Then turning to another, he said, ‘Madame, you cannot be justified
in speaking, as it appears to me I have heard you doing, regarding
the gentlemen who took possession of his Lordship’s spoons, when
you will find, concealed in your hair, an ornament which rightfully
belongs to that lady upon whose person sparkle so many beautiful
jewels.’
The ornament in question was found fixed in the hair of the
accused.
In the evening, Bosco explained the extraordinary gift he
possessed of sleight of hand and of his being able—while calling the
attention of the person, with whom he was conversing, to some
indifferent object or otherwise distracting attention—to abstract, by
an instantaneous and almost imperceptible movement, some
ornament from their person and again to be able to place, or cast it
with precision, wherever he desired. He also explained the trick