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until midnight
heartstrings dating agency
book one
ChaShiree M.
M.K. Moore
Breeding Nation Publishing
Copyright © 2024 by ChaShiree M. & M.K. Moore
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.
Created with Vellum
 contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Epilogue

About the Authors

chapter
one
Millicent Huxley

Meeting Gladis Horner has been… interesting to say the least. We met over a year ago at a charity function for the Savannah
Group Home and we’ve had coffee at least once a week since then. I’ve even had dinner with her and her family several times.
I love how her husband, Henry, loves her so freaking much. He hides nothing. He’s always finding ways to touch her or kiss her
no matter who is in the room. She’s one of my best friends even though she’s thirty years older than me.
“Come on dear. You have to let me fix you up,” she says, just like she always does. Gladis owns the HeartStrings Dating
Service. She claims to have a nearly perfect record. When it comes to matchmaking, Gladis is the best of the best. I have no
reason to doubt her skills, but I’m focused on my career right now. My family owns Huxley Studios, headquartered in Atlanta,
but I don’t spend a lot of time there. I’m in the Children and Family programming in Savannah, but I’m beyond ready to move
on to more adult content. I love rom-coms and love stories in general, but my father, the current CEO, still treats me like a little
girl. Despite being twenty-three, he doesn’t even want me to go to premieres of those kinds of movies.
“Oh, Gladis, you know I’m not ready to date,” I tell her. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never even been kissed, so
obviously I’m still a virgin. Currently, my parents are pushing for me to marry Connor Forsythe which I would never do.
Before meeting Gladis, I would have done whatever they told me to do. As a people pleaser, it’s hard to say no to people but
now I have the courage to do some things. If only I could assert myself in the boardroom, I’d be okay.
“I’ll keep trying, girl. You don’t need a man to succeed in life, but trust me, they make things better.”
I laugh because what else can I do?
After another thirty minutes in the coffee shop, I head to my parent’s house, for our obligatory Saturday lunch, because they
are just too social to schedule family dinners. The vibe in the house is weird as soon as Molly, the housekeeper, lets me in.
Molly, the jolliest person, I know, loses her smile the instant she sees me.
“Oh, Millie.”
“Oh, no. What is it Molly?” Molly and I used to hang out every day after school from kindergarten until I graduated from
high school while my parents worked, and my brothers were in college or already working.
“He’s here.”
“He, who?”
“That Forsythe cad.” Molly is from London, and I think she thinks it's 1813. I groan and roll my eyes.
“Why are they pushing this hard?”
“I don’t know Millie, but you can’t marry than man,” she whispers as she takes my purse. I kiss her cheek and thank her
before taking a deep breath, trying to clear my head. I can already tell this is going to suck. The thing about my family is that we
all appear cold and distant. The press paints us this way. While it’s true in business, our family life is much different. My
parents Virgil and Margene, are completely in love. They’ve been married for twenty-five years but together for thirty-one. My
oldest brother Michael is thirty. He’s followed by Stephen who is twenty-eight. I’m the youngest at twenty-two. Both of my
brothers are happily married with three kids each. My parents arranged their marriages with other production studio families,
and they are trying to do the same for me. I know they think I’d be happy with Connor like my brothers are happy with their
wives, but I know I won’t be. Connor gives me the freaking creeps.
Michael, and his wife Sasha, are expecting their fourth child. She’s barely showing. I can hear them whispering in the front
closet. It’s a huge room where we store coats during parties. It’s dark, but I’m about to greet them when I realize my brother is
fucking her against the furthest wall. I shake my head in disgust and back away. I continue further into the house. Stephen and
Becky have all six kids in the family room. They are playing charades. I wave and sit down on the couch. Immediately, six
kids, aged 10 to 3, pile drive me into the couch.
“Aunt Millie!” They squeal and giggle in unison. I hug and kiss them all before they go back to their game. Becky is sitting
on Stephen’s lap, off in their own little world. Sure, I want that one day, but I want to be in love when I get married, not pray
that I fall after the fact.
They ignore me, but I don’t expect anything less when they are like this.
Molly calls everyone to the table and sure enough Connor is there.
I greet my parents, getting big hugs from them before turning back to the table. While I was getting my hugs, the table filled
up.
Adjusting my glasses, I sit down in the only free chair. Of course, it’s right by Connor. Thanks, Mama. To say that I hate this
man would be an understatement.
“How are you doing, Hilly Milly?” he asks, calling me by the nickname the football team gave me in high school. See, I’ve
always been a bigger girl. I, personally, love the way I look, but pretty much everyone in school tried to make me feel like shit
about it. The more I ignored them the more they did it, but I wasn’t about to appear weak just because my thighs touch and tits
are huge.
“Don’t fucking call me that, Connor,” I seethe. I hate, hate, hate this man.
“Don’t be like that, Mills. When you’re my wife you’ll learn to speak with better manners,” he says squeezing my knee
painfully under the table. I grab his wrist, bending it backward just like my brothers taught me to do.
“Don’t touch me, asshat.”
“I can’t wait to break you in, Mills. Just you wait.”
For the rest of the meal, I say nothing to him. After lunch, my dad calls me into his study. He likes to intimidate people, so
there are no chairs across from his desk for people to sit in. Every time I come in here, I feel like a little girl about to be
grounded because I didn’t finish my green beans. I stand there for a long time. He’s shuffling through papers, basically ignoring
me. I know whatever he’s about to say, I’m going to hate it.
“You wanted to see me, Dad?” I finally ask after five minutes of shuffling my feet.
“Your mother and I are announcing your engagement on January 10th at the stockholder’s meeting.”
“To Connor?” I sputter, indignantly. My mind is racing. I have to get out of here. Where can I run to so that I don’t have to
marry this man?
“Of course. Who else are we merging with, if not the Forsythe’s.”
“But I don’t want to marry him,” I say.
“You’ll do this for your family, Millicent May Huxley. We need this merger.”
“So you’re pimping me out to that walking STD?”
“Don’t be so dramatic and crass, Millie. You’ll learn to love him.”
“I don’t want to learn to love someone. I want to fall in love, and I want to be the only woman in my husband’s bed. I won’t
get that with him,” I spit.
“Grow up, Millie. Men stray.”
“Bullshit,” I say, cursing in front of him for the first time. “You don’t. Mikey and Steve don’t. Do you hate me or
something?”
“Of course not, princess. I love you, of course I do. Your mother does too.” I didn’t want to cry, but I can’t seem to help the
tears that are coursing down my cheeks.
“They why are you punishing me? Connor will stray before the ink dries on our marriage license.”
“He’s assured me that he won’t.”
“You’re more gullible than I am if you believe that, dad.”
With that, I turn and leave the room. Molly is waiting by the front door with my purse and a handful of tissues.
Silently, I kiss her cheek again, take my stuff, and walk out to my car. As soon as I’m inside, I pull my phone out and call
Gladis before I change my mind. If I have to marry that asshole, there is no way in hell I’m going into that a virgin, not that I’d
ever sleep with him, but I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t stray from my marriage, even if I didn’t want it. Why can’t I tell my parents
to fuck off like I know I need to?
“Hey, girlie. What’s up?”
“Go ahead and set me up,” I say, sniffling.
“What’s wrong? Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
“It’s done. Give me a couple of hours.”
We hang up and I pray that I didn’t just make a huge mistake.
chapter
two
Malcolm Porter

Dear God help me. “Are you listening to me, Malcolm?” My mom’s screeching voice makes me sit up like she is in the room
with me. No matter how much money I amass and how successful I am, my mom can make me feel like a little kid.
“Yes, Mother. I hear you.”
“Well good, because your father and I are not getting any younger and we would like grandchildren. Preferably ones with
good breeding on both sides.” Rolling my eyes, I look up and grab the bridge of my nose, annoyed and unable to do anything.
“Now, there is a nice young lady…” And this is where I stop her.
“Stop. Do not say another word, Mother.” She gasps audibly at my tone, and I immediately feel regret, but I cannot let this
become another bridal parade. “I love you and you know it. But, I am a grown man and I do not and will not abide by you
sending throes of women, ones that have nothing to offer me, I might add in front of my face. I will find a wife. If I want one
and when I want one. Do we have an understanding Mother?” silence greets me before she clears her throat.
“I should say we do. Good day, Malcolm.” She hangs up swiftly and my gut begins to ache. I hate disappointing her, but
enough is enough.
“Mr. Porter, John is on line 1.”
“Thank you, Gwynn.”
“John. What a surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I mean that lightly. Nothing is ever pleasurable about talking to
him. John is a member of our board of directors. He came up in this company with my father. He and two others are the sole
remaining original members and because their share is so vast, every decision I make is run through them. My father started this
company and he set it up that way. Checks and balances and all of that. When my father semi-retired, he left me in charge as his
only male heir. He made me into the CEO and bequeathed me most of his remaining shares which is equal to fifty percent with
him holding one percent as a tie-breaker should I need it.
John is the one who always holds out, trying to coax more from me or make me follow his lead. It will never happen, but he
tries, and I can’t stand him. “Malcolm, my boy, I understand there is a party at your folks place in a couple of days.”
“There is indeed. An announcement of sorts.” My father has decided to invest in a production company. He is going to be
the new majority shareholder and he wants to make a formal announcement along with a party. My parents will do anything for
a party.
“I see. Can’t wait. The reason for my call dear boy is because my granddaughter will be here that weekend and I would
love for her to attend. Perhaps you can escort her…” Are you fucking serious?
“I have a date already, John. Sorry. Now if you will excuse me.” Unbelievable. I am getting it from everywhere. Knock.
Knock. “Enter.” When my dad walks in, I curse under my breath. I can't get a damn break.
“Son.”
“Father.”
“First of all, I don’t care much for anyone making my wife cry.” His face is stern as he scolds me, but I can't stop myself
from rolling my eyes. Like hell she was crying. That woman is made of steel.
“I will apologize dad. Now how can I help you?” For fucks sake can I get some peace?
“I came here to give you this.” He drops a business card on my desk.
“Gladis Horner. Relationship matchmaker to the elite and the every day.” I repeat the slogan on the card. “A matchmaker?”
He smirks and nods his head.
“You bet your ass. She’s the best. Look her up.” He smiles and walks out the door. I sit back in my chair and take a second.
Seriously? But, I find myself looking the business up and wow, talk about impressive. The list of names of Hollywood couples
she has paired up is nothing short of downright, amazing.
Before I can stop myself I am shooting an email. What the hell can it hurt? At this rate, I need to find someone so everyone
will get off my back. Knock Knock. It is fucking grand central station in here. “Come in.”
“Sir, I just wanted to see if you needed anything before I took my lunch?” Gwynn's question is normal. A question she asks
me every day, but today, there is something else hidden in it.
“No. I am fine. Enjoy.” She hesitates at the door and looks at me. “Is there something else, Gwynn?”
 “No, sir,” she whispers the last part before walking out, looking over her shoulder and closing the door. What the hell?
Maybe I do need a wife. It seems to be open season around here.
chapter
three
Millicent

“I’m so glad you let me do this. Trust me when I say I found the perfect man for you. He’s uniquely able to understand the
pressures you are under,” Gladis says, and I feel guilty. Swallowing thickly, I shake those thoughts from my head.
“Thank you, Gladis. I really appreciate this, more than you know.” I can’t tell her why I want this, but hopefully, she won’t
be pissed when she finds out I’m using her and this great guy she found for me. Maybe I shouldn’t do this, I hesitate, but forget
about that when she speaks again.
“No problem darling. Malcolm will meet you at Mannheim’s at twelve-forty-five,” she says. “No, Henry, not that one.” I
hear Henry grunt something in response. I laugh as they have a little more back and forth. I’m used to it though. “The
reservation is under his name,” she says, letting me know she’s back to me now.
“Perfect,” I say checking my watch. I have a little over an hour before I have to drive downtown, not that there’s much of a
downtown, but that’s where the restaurant is.
We hang up and I spring into action. I’ve dated some, all blind dates set up by my mother. Those setups came complete with
coordinated outfits to wear. This is the first date I have ever been on that was all up to me. Inside my closet, I slide my dresses
down the rod and pull out a white blouse. Grabbing a pair of jeans, a black body suit, and a pair of heeled black boots, I get
dressed quickly but pay special attention to my makeup and hair. The drive over to the restaurant was uneventful and I used the
time to calm down and gather my thoughts.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I get to the restaurant, but Malcolm Porter wasn’t it. Ridiculously hot Malcolm
Porter. The Malcolm Porter who dates supermodels and other beautiful women. I realize my mouth is hanging open, so I snap it
shut.
“Millicent?” he asks, extending his hand to me. I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. He’s looking at me intently, but I can’t
get a read on his thoughts.
“Millie, but yes, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you, Malcolm,” I say, taking his hand. The second that I do, I resist the urge to
snatch my hand back. After what seems like forever, he releases me and pulls my chair out for me. He joins me across the
table.
After barely ten minutes of easy conversation, I realize that I could like this man, but I can’t. This is just to have a memory I
can live off for the rest of my life. It alarms me how many times I have to remind myself of that. Malcolm’s not at all like the
media portrays him and I know something about that. They call me cold and calculating, but I’m anything but. He’s so genuine.
He doesn’t try to control the conversation and really listens to what I have to say. He orders a large meal, despite this being a
lunch date so I don’t feel weird ordering what I want too.
“I have to attend a party in two days' time. It’s black tie. Would you accompany me?” he asks as we linger over coffee. It’s
like neither one of us wants this date to end. I know that I don’t. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m both hot and cold. Achy.
“Your parent’s annual New Year’s Eve Party?”
“Yes. I’d rather not go at all, but my mother insists, besides it’s for a good cause” he says, rolling his sleeves up. I feel my
eyes widen when I see his sexy tattoos. They cover both arms and I find myself wanting to trace them with my tongue. Is he
covered in them? God, I want to find out. I’ve always wanted a tasteful tattoo, but I’ve always been too scared to get one
because what would society say about me? My mother’s voice rings in my head every time I even think about getting one.
“Like what you see?” he asks, making me snap my eyes up to his. I feel my blush rising at being caught staring… again.
“Yes,” I whisper after clearing my throat. He just grins at me and I forget how to breathe.
“I’m already going, but I’d love to go with you,” I tell him, giggling a little. Since when am I a giggler? He smiles at me
again and I swear my panties catch on fire. He pays the check, and we wait outside of the restaurant while our cars are brought
up by the valet. Again, the conversation is easy. I’ve talked more to this man than I’ve ever spoken to a man who wasn’t in my
employ. Gah, I like him. Not only is he hot, but he’s nicer than I thought he would be.
After the valet hands me my keys and I tip him, I am surprised by the soft kiss Malcolm places on my lips. I shouldn’t have
been. We’d been building up to it all afternoon. It’s the best, sweetest kiss of my life. I don’t have many to compare it to, but
it’s amazing.
“I’ll pick you up at seven at your place.” We exchange numbers and I text him my address. I still live with my parents. I
will until I get married. I hardly ever see them. They spend a lot of their time in Atlanta.
“Sounds good,” I say, more dazed than I would have liked.
I get into my car and drive away. The further I get from him, the more it feels like I can’t breathe.
For something that’s not supposed to mean anything, it really freaking does. Maybe I should cancel? No, I’m doing this. I
want him and I’m going to get that one delicious memory that will carry me through the rest of my life.
For the first time though, I wonder if one taste will ever be enough…
chapter
four
Malcolm
Two Days Later
Fuck. I can’t stop shaking. My blood is pumping through me like a damn oil well that sprung a leak. I have been practically
jacked up on something since the moment I laid eyes on my Millie. Calling her mine is a stretch since she only agreed to
accompany me to my parent's party, but I can’t help it. Everything inside of me is telling me she is mine. Hell, I have fucking
jacked off to a memory of her plump lips for days and the idea that I get to feel them for real has got me on a high. Thank fuck I
am not driving and was smart enough to hire a car for the night. “I have the door.” I tell the driver, getting out.
Standing outside, I check the buttons of my tux, lord forbid my parents do anything that is not formal. Rubbing my hands
down my pants, I wipe the sweat from them and swallow. Crap. She has me all tied up like I am in high school. Before I can
touch the doorbell, the door opens. “You must be Malcolm,” says an older distinguished gentleman. I can see where she gets
her eyes from.
“I am, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Holding out my hand, I am silently praying he can’t tell by how clammy my hands
are, what I plan to do with his daughter tonight.
“Porter. You wouldn’t by any chance be Virgil Porter’s boy?” Shit.
“Yes, I am.” His eyes glint a bit.
“I see. So I suppose you and my daughter are going to the party your parents are throwing to announce the investment in my
production company?” Damn. I think of it from this angle once I figured out who she was. I don’t know much about my father’s
involvement in this. Was it wanted/ Did he strong-arm his way inside the company?
“Yes, Sir.” Then it occurs to me he isn’t dressed. “Are you not attending as well?” Surely my father sent an invite.
“My wife is under the weather, and I don’t attend events like this without my wife. Millicent will be a suitable
representative of our family.” My teeth grind together at the word ‘suitable. Like she is a fucking stand-in for a more prominent
star. Utter bullshit. She is the goddamn star. Hell, she is the damn moon and sun. I can feel my shoulders tensing up and I have
to mentally calm myself. “So how did you meet Millicent?” His questions sound curious but there is something in the tone I
can’t pinpoint. Not to mention from the moment he opened the door he has been staring at me like I am in his way.
He clears his throat waiting for an answer, but then I hear wind chimes in my ears. “Malcolm.” I hear from behind the door.
Squaring with her father, I push the door back and standing in an emerald green dress, with see-through sleeves and what I can
gather is a thigh-high slit, is my angel.
“You look ravishing, Millie,” I tell her, whispering because my throat is clogged with any number of emotions I don’t want
to convey in front of her father. The blush that coats her face, runs down her neck and to my supreme disappointment cannot be
followed to her chest, since she is completely covered.
“Why thank you, Malcolm. You look very dashing.” My chest puffs out with her compliment. She grabs her coat from the
hanger. Reaching past her father who is still lingering and doing something akin to pissing on his stoop, I grab her coat from her
and walk closer to her, pushing her father out of the way. Well… making him move himself.
“Turn around,” I tell her, motioning for her to let me help her into it. The moment it is on her, I turn her back facing me and
begin buttoning her coat. She gasps at first, shocked by my actions. Shit. So am I. I have never felt this level of ownership or
possessiveness before.
“I can button my own coat, Malcolm.” I look up and see she is hiding a smile. Cheeky little angel.
“I know, angel. But what kind of man would I be if I didn't make sure you were warm?” I can see the glow in her eyes, my
words making her feel something. Good. There is more where that comes from. Making sure she is set; she grabs her purse and
I give her my arm. “Let’s go.” She nods before turning to her father.
“Goodnight, Daddy.” He simply looks at her.
“Millicent.” How did someone so cold, produce this warm, beautiful angel? Questions unanswered but not critical, we
make it to the car. The driver gets out to open it for her, but my inner beast wants no one doing anything for his angel.
“I will open it,” I tell him. His hands go up and he backs away. She covers her mouth, but it doesn’t hide the giggle. “Find
that funny do you, angel?” I whisper in her ear while helping her get inside. Shit. I shouldn’t have done that. Her scent, warm
honey, and strawberry flows through my nose and now my cock is fucking panting.
The drive over is quiet, but not in an awkward way. It is comfortable. The moment I got in and the door was closed I
grabbed her hand and haven’t let it go. The car pulls onto the estate, and I groan inwardly looking at all the cars. “Oh wow.
Your parents sure know how to party, huh,” she says, as we pull into the curve.
“Yep.” Once again I get out of the car and open the door for her. Her hand sits in mine. I can't help feeling how perfect we
fit. Of course, there are photographers. “Miss Huxley. Miss Huxley.” I hear them shouting her name and she stops. Hand on my
waist, she turns us and poses for the camera before we continue walking in. “Have to deal with this a lot?” She shrugs.
“Part of the family business.” As soon as we are inside, we coat check and then make our way into the party. “Wow.” I nod
my head, seriously annoyed at the amount of lavishness and shameless flaunting going on in here. I recognize the governor, and
a few CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. Some starlets, actors, models, you name them they are here.
 “Millicent, darling. I didn’t know you would be here.” Hollywood madam Forlani Clitx walks around, and air kisses her.
My eyebrow goes up, realizing for the first time, she might actually be more recognized than me and I don’t fucking like it. Not
because I am an egomaniac, but because I want her attention on me. Period.
“Lani, hi. It has been so long.” Her friend looks at me and smiles.
“Who’s your friend?” she asks, licking her lips. Millie smiles and introduces us. “Wow. What a hunk.” Her hand slides
down my chest. I look at Millie panicked and in need of assistance, but she is getting a kick out of this and giggling.
“Lani, leave him alone. I don’t think he is ready for you.” Jesus.
“Pity. I could make some serious money off him. Call me.” She slips her card into my suit pocket, and I damn near choke on
air.
“What the hell?” I say to her, guiding her to the other side of the room.
“There you are.” I hear my mother's exasperated voice and turn, pulling Millie further into my side.
“Mother.” She looks at my arms, giving me a questioning gaze before turning her attention to my angel.
“Apparently I raised an unpolished menace. Excuse my son. You are?” For fucks sake.
“Forgive me, mother. This is Millicent. Millicent, this my mother Hana Porter.” Millicent holds her hand out.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Porter.” They shake hands.
“Anyone who has my son clinging to them like his favorite playground snack is definitely my pleasure to meet.” Dear lord,
I never know what the hell is going to leave her mouth. Millie giggles and that fucking sound is going to put me to bed every
night. “Well, you two mingle and we will catch up. I have to continue to host.” She kisses my cheek and then walks away.
“I am so sorry about her,” I say escorting her through the room.
“She is no different than my mom. I am used to it.” Thank God.
For what seems like forever we mingle, dance, and talk to everyone, most of whom want to talk to my angel. I know she has
a job as a producer and she is well-known by the networks, but I am not fucking dumb. These men see her, her purity and
sunshine and they want it for themselves. “Millicent.” See what the fuck I mean. We both turn to see Connor Forsythe walking
toward us. My arm has not left her back since we have been here, so I feel her body become rigid and it sets me on alert.
“Connor,” I say, stopping him from moving any closer.
“Porter.” His voice is stern, but he is all piss and no vinegar.
“How can we help you?” I ask him, making sure to say ‘we’. His eyes haven’t left my angel though and it is pissing me off.
“I would like to know why my Millie is here on your arm like she belongs to you.” What the hell did he just say to me? I
step toward him, ready to show him something, but a small hand on my chest stops me.
“Calm down big boy. I got this.” Her sultry voice, giving me a fucking nickname, cools some of the ire but not enough.
Turning to Connor, she says in a low voice. “I belong to myself, Connor. Nothing has been decided, despite what the hell our
parents say. We will discuss this later.” His nostrils begin to flare. I know he wants to say something else, but he thinks better
of it and walks away.
Not sure I can control myself; I pull her into a dark corner. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, angel. Why does that
womanizing piece of shit think you belong to him?” I growl into her ear, before kissing her shoulder and neck. She moans,
moving her head giving me more access. “Answer me, baby.” My tongue trails up her neck, toward her ear.
“Our-our parents are trying to arrange a business merger that starts with us getting married.” A roar I didn’t know I had in
me emerges. I am damn glad the band is playing. I swear to fuck I hear glasses shatter at the vibration moving through me.
“It’s not happening. Do you hear me, angel? You will never be his wife. Tell me you know that.” She mewls a little and that
is when I realize I have her leg hiked up around my waist, rubbing my full-mast cock against her middle. “I can’t hear you,
angel. Say it.”
“It-it won’t happen. Please Malcolm.” That’s right, Connor. She’s begging for me, and I am going to give her all of it.
chapter
five
Millicent

Malcolm all but drags me out of his parent’s house and to the car and I let him.
“Stay with me,” he says as he kisses my neck.
“Just until midnight,” I tell him. I’m not sure why… it’s only nine, but I know that if I stay the night, I’ll never want to leave.
I can do this. I can give this god among men my virginity and walk away unscathed. I can be a modern woman, taking what I
need and going home. Easy peasy.
“I’ll never make it to my place and yours is out,” he says, alternatively kissing, licking, and sucking my neck. It feels soooo
good. Nothing has ever felt so… real… so right. “Take us to the Tavish, Marshall,” he tells his driver before rolling the
partition back up. The driver doesn’t answer, but the car lurches into motion.
“Malcolm,” I whine, not exactly sure what I’m whining for.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Millie. Tell me you know that don’t you?” I don’t actually, so I don’t answer, I just run my
hands over the massive expanse of his back. “This fucking dress has been driving me crazy all night. All those men drooling
over you. I fucking hated it, but you left on my arm. They all saw,” he growls, sounding like a caveman. Why do I love that so
much?
We hurry inside his building. He punches in an elevator code and we’re off. Once inside the elevator, he kisses me with so
much passion, that my knees almost give out. “I got you, angel,” he says, and I get goosebumps. The elevator opens straight into
the living room. I was so nervous and excited I didn’t realize he owns the penthouse. Of course he does though. He’s Malcolm
Porter.
The next thing I know, I'm pinned to the wall to the left of the elevator. Both of my hands are locked in just one of his larger
hands above my head. He runs his hand up my leg through the slit in the side of my dress. His thick, surprisingly calloused
fingers caress my thigh. He groans when he moves my panties to the side and runs his fingers through my wetness. I moan long
and loud.
“You're so wet, angel. I'm gonna destroy this pussy for any other man,” he says pulling his fingers from me. I nod like an
idiot, but in this moment, I can already tell that is the truth. My lips devour his. His deft fingers find the eye hook above my
zipper, and he opens it, then slides the zipper down. My dress pools at my feet. He pulls away from my mouth, leaning away
from me. I lift one heeled foot, then the other, kicking away the dress. I’m still in my forest green bra and panties. He’s looking
at me like he wants to eat me and God, do I want him to…
With my arms still up on the wall, my ass is popped out, making it look bigger than it already is. His alluring green eyes
roam up and down my body. Once he sees the garters hanging down on my thick thighs, he mumbles something, but I can't
understand what he's saying. I'm pretty sure I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, anything else is impossible to hear. He
pulls the cups of my bra down, my nipples instantly hardening in the cool air of the room. He sucks in a breath but doesn’t say
anything. He stares for a long time until I can’t take it anymore. I’m squirming under his gaze. My wetness is dripping down my
thighs. I need something. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I drop them and take my bra off, leaving me in just my
garters and panties.
“What?” I ask, praying he doesn’t stop this.
“Christmas was last week. I must have been really good this year to get you as a present,” he growls before his lips find
mine. I have to touch him, so I help him shrug his tux jacket to the floor. I unknot his tie and toss it too. Leaning back from him, I
unbutton his shirt and toss it next. His undershirt goes too.
“Why do have so many layers on,” I moan, frustrated.
“Patience,” he says. “We’ve got all night.”
“Just until midnight,” I remind him.
“We’ll see,” he says as I get his belt open. His pants hit the floor with a metallic clank and my pussy clenches at the sound.
Reaching into his boxers, I find his hard cock.
“Oh, shit,” I gasp. It’s huge.
“Look your fill, angel, because like I said, I’m going to destroy you.” He is. I know he is. He leans down and takes my
nipple into his mouth. I hiss. He sucks and bites it until I’m a writhing mess. He moves to the other one and gives it the same
treatment. He moves his tongue down my belly, stopping to run his fingers reverently over the lace edge of my panties. He
drops to his knees and hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides them down my legs.
“Step,” he demands, and I do so immediately. He places biting kisses on my thighs before his tongue swipes through my
folds. I cry out as I grip his hair so hard. He dips his tongue back into my pussy. Lifting one of my legs over his shoulder, he
devours me. It doesn’t take long until I’m coming, screaming his name like a possessed banshee. He stands, licking my juices
off of his lips. “You taste so fucking good.”
“It’s my turn to taste you now,” I say, stepping out of my heels. I lose the garter belt too before dropping to my knees in front
of him.
“Fuck, angel. You look so beautiful on your knees ready to take my cock,” he says as I tug his boxers down his legs until
they pool at his ankles.
“Step,” I say, and he kicks them away. I look up at him and lick my lips. He groans. When I wrap my lips around the angry
head of his shaft, that groan turns into a moan. I moan too as his precum hits my tastebuds. He tastes so good. He tastes like he’s
mine. No, don’t think like that.
He’s too big to fit in my mouth, so I use my fists to stroke him off while I take him as deep as I can. When he hits the back of
my throat, he shouts my name and grips my hair, using my head as leverage to fuck my mouth. I love it.
I whine when he abruptly pulls me off of his cock. “Hey!” I say, giggling as he all but runs, dragging me along with him,
toward the big bedroom in the back of the room. The giant bed looks so soft, but I’m thrown on it before I get the chance to say
anything. He’s between my spread thighs so fast, that I haven’t even taken a breath yet.
“I’m not coming anywhere but in that cunt, angel.” I want that so badly; I don’t think to tell him to put a condom on or that
I’ve never done this before… He slams his cock into me, taking my cherry with such force, my boobs hit me in the face.
“Ahhh,” I scream. The pain is instant but just as quick as it started, it ebbs into an intense full feeling. I’m being stretched
and it feels… amazing. He stops mid-thrust. I’ll never forget the stunned look on his face that quickly turns into awe and
something primal I can’t quite identify.
“Fuck, angel. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have…” he begins, but I cut him off. My palm touches his cheek, and he
leans into it after kissing it.
“It’s perfect, Malcolm. Move, please. I need more. Give me everything,” I demand, and he begins to move again.
“You’re mine, Millicent. Mine. This pussy is mine.”
“I know,” I admit. No matter what happens tomorrow, I’ll never be able to do this with another man. Never.
He fucks me so hard; I have no choice but to meet him thrust for thrust. It feels so good. I come as soon as he rubs my clit.
He shouts my name as he comes inside me. He drops down on me, exhausted, and I wrap my arms around him. His cock is still
inside me. He kisses my lips, my neck, my chest, everywhere he can reach.
“Fuck, Millie. That was amazing. You’re so tight. I’ve never felt anything like you before.”
“I know. It was for me too,” I say kissing him back.
After three more mind-blowing orgasms, he’s fast asleep. The clock on the nightstand says 11:59 and I know it’s time to go.
I don’t want to, but I know that I need to. Using the notepad I found by the phone in the kitchen, I write him a note, crying the
entire time. I dress in silence, his snores occasionally ringing out. Still crying, I walk out of the hotel and wait for my Uber. My
phone rings for the fifth time since I’ve been outside. I suck up my tears and answer.
“Hi, Mama,” I say.
“Finally. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year. How are you feeling.”
“The flu is no joke, but Calvin Forsyth called your father. They want your answer now. They would like an April
wedding.” April, as in four months from now? No. No way. Not possible.
“I need time, Mama. Please. I need to think about it.”
“Alright baby doll. I’ll just tell your daddy I couldn’t reach you. You’ll let me know?”
“Yes,” I say, sniffling.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine,” I lie. I’m not fine, I think as I get into the Uber. The further I get from Malcolm the more I know I’ll never
be fine again. He made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. He made me love him and I walked away. Burning,
bitter regret courses through my veins.
No matter what happens now, I know that I won’t be marrying Connor, merger be damned.
chapter
six
Malcolm
The Next Day
Hmmm. My dreams were amazing. Filled with my angel and how she felt wrapped around my cock in my arms. The way her
delicate breath dragged across my skin while she moaned, keened, and whined for her next orgasm. Hell, the sound of the hitch
in her voice right before she screamed my name over and over, begging me to stop, but wrapping her legs around tighter to
keep me inside of her. No matter how many times through the night I turned to her, she welcomed me, thighs and arms spread,
opening for me like I belonged inside of her. I do. Speaking of…
Moving my arm to the side, I turn my head when I feel cold sheets. “What the hell?” I get out of bed, naked, searching the
entire room. When I don't find her in my bedroom or bathroom, I grab some sweats and rush downstairs. “What the fuck?” She
is nowhere. “Damn it!” I yell, smacking my hand into the counter and then I see it. A note. Tentatively, I pick up knowing
whatever it says is going to rip my heart out.

Malcolm,
What can I say? I am a coward. I want you to know that last night was amazing. It
exceeded all of my expectations and to be honest, so did you. However, my life is changing quite
rapidly, and I don’t know if I have room for a relationship and I don’t think I want one. Not
yet anyway, when there are so many obstacles I have to overcome. So I am asking you not to
come after me, Malcolm. Please. I don’t think I would have the strength to resist you. I need
time to think, make decisions, and find my place within my family’s business, and you, big boy,
are a distraction. I won’t be home so don’t bother looking for me there. My number is also being
changed as I write this.
I won’t forget our night, Malcolm. I know this is going to upset you but remember our
agreement. It was just until midnight.
Millie
My ass hits the breakfast stool and the paper falls from my hands. Never have I had something come back and bite me in the
ass as swiftly and as painful as this. Even when we made that ridiculous agreement last night, my mind was protesting it. I want
forever and I thought I could convince her in the morning, after taking her once more over breakfast. “Fuuuuck.” I shove
everything off the counter and scream at my own stupidity.
Everything is running through my head. The party, fucking Conner the douche, and even her father who rubbed me the wrong
way. The fucked up thing is, what do I do? Every fiber in my body wants to go to her and demand she admit there is no turning
back. I want her to say she belongs to me, and I will do the same. But, didn’t she ask me for space? She said she had things to
take care of. And what the hell did she mean she won’t be home? Like ever? Is she moving? Where is she going? Then a
thought crosses my mind and I have to fight myself to make it go away, but she is not marrying Conner the douche. Right? Then
it clicks.
Picking up my phone I dial the one number I know can call and probably knows everything. “Good morning Mr. Porter.
How are you?”
“Gladis, good morning. I am...flustered.” I tell her the truth walking through my house and realizing how empty it feels now.
She was only here for hours, taking up space in my bed, space I no longer want to feel empty and already I know I won’t be
able to sleep without her.
“Did last night not go as planned?”
“It went exactly as planned.” I grumble thinking about that stupid deal.
“Then may I ask why you are ringing me?”
“I would like to know if you know her new number?”
“Ah. I see. Yes. I do know it.” Thank fuck.
“Excellent. May I have it please?”
“No.” What did she just say?
“No?”
“No. All of my clients sign a confidentiality as well as a nondisclosure agreement when they use my services and it extends
to the person I match them with, unless they chose to disclose certain…information.” Son of a bitch.
“Fuck!” The curse is par for the course, at this point. I get what she is saying, but I don't fucking like it.
“My suggestion, Mr. Porter, is to start from the beginning and make it count.” Her parting words before she hangs up lead
me to believe she has spoken to her in the last few hours, and she knows of our agreement. Dumb ass. I am such a dumbass.
I turn and look at my bed, back in my room and the red spot, proving to me she was here and that her innocence was
breached by me, makes my cock hard and angry. “Damn it!” My phone is going off and I know it is work. I just…I don’t care. I
might be a dumbass, but she still belongs to me. I will give her time, but only so much. Eventually, she will be back in my arms
and bed, where she belongs.
chapter
seven
Millicent

“No, Gladis. I don’t want to see him again,” I say, elated that he’s asked her about me. What is wrong with me? I’m thankful
she let me stay at her house, but it’s just temporary. Changing my number was impulsive, but what’s done is done.
“Alright, darling. I told him I’d relay the message. Now tell me what happened.” Her patient voice is soothing to my raw
nerves. I know I did this shit to myself, but it still hurts.
I tell Gladis, my friend, not Gladis the matchmaker, everything that happened last night. She listens to me quietly, letting me
get it all out. It comes out jumbled but she doesn’t ask me any questions, used to the over-excited way I explain things.
“And then I left,” I finish, begging myself not to start crying again, but it’s no use. Tears well up in my eyes and spill over.
Love is ridiculous, love at first sight is even freaking worse.
“Oh Millie, you’re an idiot,” she says bluntly.
“Excuse me?” I ask indignantly, but I know she’s not wrong.
“Look, I’m a professional, but that man has got it bad for you. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
“Our one night was perfect as it was,” I say.
“I’m sure it was, but do you really want to deprive yourself of a lifetime of nights like that, for what? A misguided sense
that you don’t deserve him.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Love is the most complicated thing there is. It’s also the thing that makes life worth living.”
“I know you’re right, but I can’t right now. I need to talk to my parents. He’ll move on. Men like him always do,” I say, but
even as I say that, it sounds wrong. My heart breaks a little bit more. Soon, there will be nothing left.
Later that night, I walk into my house, catching my parents at dinner. I sit down with them but decline to eat, having eaten at
Gladis and Henry’s. I do take the glass of white wine Molly hands me.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “You look better, Mama.”
“I feel so much better,” she says taking a bite of her soup.
“I’m glad. We need to talk.”
“You’re not marrying Connor Forsythe are you?” Daddy asks.
“I’m not.”
“I caught him in the janitor’s closet at work yesterday with one of my undersecretaries.”
“I’m honestly not surprised by that,” I say.
“I should have listened to you.”
“Well, I may have been harsh with the pimping out thing, but I stand by everything else I said. He would have made my life
miserable on top of making me a laughingstock in the industry. Speaking of, I’m a grown woman now. There needs to be some
changes in my job description to reflect that.”
“Changes?”
“I don’t want to do children’s programming anymore. I want to work exclusively on romance.” I pull my briefcase up onto
the table and pull out two presentation packets, sliding one to each of them. “I have tons of ideas, including a separate division
called Amour. The television shows and movies we produce under the Amour banner are designed for the romantic at heart.
The programming is to be controlled solely by me and Mama. This is what I want to do, and I know it will bring Huxley
Productions up from the number five slot.” Daddy looks over the materials, not saying anything. I look over at Mama, she’s
beaming at me. After a few minutes, I can’t take the silence. “What do you think, Daddy?”
“Have you selected a script to produce? We need an example to show the board that this will be lucrative.”
“I have,” I say reaching into my briefcase again and pulling out a script for The Duke’s Wife, a period drama. It’s smutty
goodness that will light up the big screen. Period dramas are so in right now. I loved the book and when I saw the author was
selling a script for it, I bought it, using my own money.
“Alright, we’ll test it out,” he says, smiling at me.
Finally. He sees me as more than a little girl. Now, I just hope I can pull this off.
Four Weeks Later
I’m in my little office trailer on the set of The Duke’s Wife. The lead actress, Camilla Rhodes, threw a temper tantrum so
the director called for an hour break. I’ve been feeling like shit for a few days now, and I missed my period. I took a pregnancy
test and now I’m looking at the bright pink plus sign staring back at me. I should have known Malcolm would leave a little
piece of himself behind. My hands go to cradle my stomach and I smile. He left a piece of himself behind.
Immediately, I make a doctor's appointment to confirm. She can fit me in this afternoon. We are on location in Macon, so I
get into my car and drive back to Savannah, making it just in time. Doctor Sanders confirms that I’m pregnant. As soon as I’m
back in my car, tears of joy course down my face. I’m going to be a mother and Malcolm is the father. I should have known this
would happen. He took me so many times bare. I just never thought I’d get so lucky the first time I had sex. I stare at the
sonogram photo, proof of the baby growing inside of me, for a long time before driving to my Savannah office. I was due here
tomorrow anyway for a meeting about my next project, so I decide to stay in town rather than driving back down to Macon
tonight.
At home, I think of the best way to tell Malcolm he’s going to be a father. I decide to tell him after filming wraps up so that
I can take some time off before the next project starts filming. I keep quiet about it because I want him to be the first person to
know. This is the best and hardest secret I’ll ever keep.
chapter
eight
Malcolm

Four suck ass weeks have passed, and I am losing my mind. Within days I knew where she was and had her new number
without the help of Gladis thanks to a contact I met years ago named Hagen Jorgensen. I had decided to give it a week. Give
her a week to get acclimated to her new positions and to come to terms with us, then I was going to go to her and take her.
Instead, I got an emergency call from an investor in Bangkok, who wanted my company to join them in a hotel venture, but our
lack of a real estate portfolio was making them nervous, and I needed to go in person and assure them. As anyone who has done
business in Asia knows, they do it differently there. So, it took two and a half weeks, numerous outings, and lots of schmoozing
to prove we had the balls for this. Weeks that took me away from my woman and making her mine one hundred percent.
Now, I am stuck at this family dinner, with my parents and two sisters, and my mind is anywhere but here. Evidence.
“Booker, are you listening?” And here we go. My little sister, Lola, still calls me by the nickname she gave me when she was
little. As the oldest, I was always busy with some sort of activity. I am 10 years older than Lola and 11 years older than Darcy.
Well, when Lola was six, she lost a tooth and couldn’t say brother. It sounded like Booker. My parents thought it was adorable
and the girls got a kick out of it so now, that is what they call me. “You seem awfully distracted.” She continues to say.
“I’m sorry. I am a bit distracted, Lo. There is somewhere else I need to be right now, but it is also the same place I
shouldn't go.”
“Ooooo. Sounds like girl trouble.” Darcy laughs like she is making a joke but the grimace on my face shows her how
serious I am. “Wait. Is it seriously girl trouble?” she asks. She tries to whisper but considering the fact that everyone stops
talking and doing what they are doing to turn around and listen, I would say she wasn’t successful.
“Was it the young lady you brought to the party?” My mom asks, sipping her mimosa.
“Yes, mom. She is your future daughter in law and the mother of your grandchildren.” I answer being serious as fuck.
“She was Virgil Huxley’s daughter, wasn’t she?” My father is finally weighing in.
“She is.”
“Wait! Are you talking about Millicent Huxley? The movie producer turned writer?” I nod my head tired of answering the
same question over again.
“Isn’t she supposed to marry…”
“No one but me!” I answer in no uncertain terms. My sister steps back, startled by the drum in my voice but I can’t help it.
The mere thought of her with another man is going to set me off.
“Well, shit.” Lola says, covering her mouth.
“Language,” Mom hisses.
“So, what's the problem?” Dad asks, finishing up the food on the grill.
“Not really sure. She said she needed time to get her life in order and get control of her life. She said I would be a
distraction. The thing is, I get all of that, I do, I just…”
“You need her.” My father finishes my sentence, but his eyes are on my mom.
“Exactly.”
“Well, damn big bro, seems to me you need to just go for it and don’t stop until you get what you want. Be the man most
men won’t be. Honest, vulnerable and willing to fight. Dirty if you have too.” Lola says, staring off into space. There is
something in her voice I cannot pinpoint but whatever it is, she seems, sad.
Lola has had it rough. She is the youngest and as a child, she was diagnosed with childhood cancer in her chest. It affected
her heart and as you can imagine, my entire family was devastated. We rallied around her and did what we could. Me, less than
most considering how busy I always was with school and such, but when I was home, I helped.
My parents had to keep her inside most days, not able to risk her being exposed to germs and bacteria. The hope was that
her treatment and a careful environment would eliminate a heart transplant being necessary and it worked. The unfortunate side
effect was she spent a lot of time at home and less time around people. Hell, she was even homeschooled for most of her life.
Even now, I can see my parents still fuss over her and I think it is finally taking its toll.
I pull her into my arms and hug her, whispering in her ear. “If you need to talk brat, I am here.” I kiss her forehead and pull
back. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but she nods and walks out of the room. “Anyone want to tell me what is going on
with her?” I ask. My parents look at one another and then then at me and Darcy. I can see she is just as confused and concerned
as me.
“She’s just…wandering,” Mom says unconvincingly. I am not fooled and if the eye-roll from Darcy is any indication,
neither is she. Something is going on, but right now, I have to focus on getting my girl back. Lola’s advice rings in my mind. I
am done waiting. Kissing my mom and dad on their cheeks, I walk out phone to my ear.
“Lawrence, I need a ticket to Atlanta, leaving tonight.” I know I could drive it in three hours, but I need the time on the
plane, to plan and plot and use my hands to make those plans come to fruition.
“Certainly sir. Returning..?”
“Not sure yet. I will let you know.”
“Certainly.” Hanging up knowing the ticket will be in my email in minutes, I pull up to my house and run inside. In the door,
locking it, I am stopped in my tracks.
“What the fuck?” There is a trail of clothes and shoes leading from the door, up the stairs. For a brief moment, I allow
myself to get excited thinking she came back to me, but the scent is off and so is the type of clothing on the floor. “I don’t have
time for this shit,” I say to myself taking the stairs three at a time. My bedroom door is closed, which it wasn’t when I left.
Opening it, I curse when I see who is in my bed. “Gwynn, put on your motherfucking clothes and get out of my house.” Are you
kidding me? She scurries to the foot of the bed, naked and making my stomach turn. Her hand reaches for me, and I jerk back,
the thought of another woman touching me sending hives up my arm.
“But Malcolm, I have been waiting for you. Waiting for us. I am exactly what you need,” she pleads. I grab her clothes from
the floor and throw them to her.
“You are nothing to me and damn sure are not made for me. I have found my wife, and some money-hungry twit who barely
eats is not it. Now, if you are not gone in thirty fucking seconds I am going to have you arrested for breaking and entering.” She
gasps, shocked at my language. I move back as she passes me, not looking at her so she knows how fucking serious I am. “Oh,
and another thing…you’re fucking fired.” She runs out of the house, sniffling and crying.
I pull out my duffel and pack a few things. Looking at the bed, I frown knowing there is no way I am going to bring my wife
back here to a bed another woman was laying in. Shuddering, I call my mom's assistant. “Carol. Can you please order me a
new bed and have the one in my home trashed? Oh and please schedule assistant interviews for me for a week from now.
Males only.”
“Yes, Mister Porter.” Good. Now with that out of the way, I can go and bring my woman home.
chapter
nine
Millicent
Two Weeks Later
So much has happened in the last two weeks. I haven’t had a chance to do anything but deal with this production. I thought it
was all going to implode, but I got Jensen Marbury to sign a lucrative five-picture deal with us. He’s replacing the lead actor
on The Duke’s Wife. Miles Linton couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with Camilla and Jensen agreed to take over the role. It was an
easy swap out since Miles had only filmed two scenes. I went into the meeting with him prepared to beg him to take over the
role, he was the one who suggested the deal. He heard about Amour and wanted to be a part of it. I got that deal signed so
freaking fast, which is why the studio’s lawyer, is on his way up here now for a meeting to make sure all the I’s are dotted, and
the T’s are crossed. I’ve only been in my Atlanta office for about twenty minutes. I know I said I’d wait until filming was over
to tell Malcolm, but it’s eating me up inside. I feel awful keeping something like this from him. I don’t want him to think I
cheated him out of anything. Something tells me that Malcolm would want to be involved every step of the way.
“Lennon Branch to see you,” Mabel says coming through the intercom.
“Send him up,” I reply. Man, I’ve missed my cushy, super-air-conditioned, offices in Savannah and Atlanta. I look out at the
Atlanta skyline. I love it here, but Savannah is home. It’s only March but ever since I got pregnant, I’m so freaking sweaty.
Some people say it’s a pregnant woman’s glow, but it’s fucking sweat, straight up. I waft a pile of papers over my face,
creating a very much-needed breeze.
My office door is open when Lennon breezes in. My hackles raise when he closes it behind him. He’s not carrying anything.
No folders, no briefcase, nothing. I already don’t like this. I move from where I was looking out the window to behind my
desk. He advances on me, reaching me before I make it to the relative safety of having three feet of solid oak between us.
“Lennon,” I say cheerfully, though I don’t mean it. Being in this business, I’ve put up with men like this since I was a child.
It’s bullshit, but it’s a boys club and they pretty much do whatever they want until they get caught. “It’s nice to see you,” I lie.
“Your assistant said you wanted to discuss the compensation level per film for Jensen Marbury. Did you bring the contract?”
“No, doll, I didn’t.” Ugh. So predictable. If I wasn’t pregnant, I’d deck him, but I don’t know what he’d do if I did that.
“So how do you propose we go over it?” I ask, unable to hide the fact that I’m pissed off. Either he’s too dense to notice or
he doesn’t care, because he reaches out and trails a finger down my face and then further down my arm, where he grabs me in a
tight grip. My skin is actually crawling. I’m actively trying to get his hand off of me using my other hand.
“I’d say any changes we make should be made over cocktails and perhaps hotel room sheets,” he says, and I immediately
take a step back, wanting absolutely nothing to do with this fuckery. His employment is about to be terminated. You’d think a
corporate lawyer would know about sexual harassment.
“Get your fucking hands off my woman,” a hauntingly familiar voice growls after the door is pushed open. It hit the wall
behind it with such force, that it’s still reverberating. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. He looks a little more rumpled
than the last time I saw him, but no less handsome.
My thoughts are jumbled as I look at him:
He looks so good.
He looks pissed.
I missed him so much.
I love him.
My panties are instantly wet. It’s almost a Pavlovian response.
chapter
ten
Malcolm

“I am sorry sir, but she is in a meeting right now.” Some woman at the makeshift reception desk tells me. She has been saying it
for the last twenty minutes and it is really pissing me off. I did not come here to be stalled by a woman at a damn desk. “Good
morning. How can I help you?” She asks another gentleman who walks up.
“Yes. I have a meeting with Millicent Huxley. The name is Lennon Branch,” he says, winking at her. The blush on her
cheeks is ridiculous, but it is his obvious playboy vibe that has me on alert. I don't like him and something about him is
familiar. I am standing here, watching this young punk flirt with the receptionist, and as much as I want to call her out on it, I
know this is my chance.
“Of course Mr. Branch. She is waiting on you. Top floor. Suite 200.” So my baby is on the top. Good to know. I walk away
for a while, letting some time pass before walking back up to the desk.
“Is there a restroom while I wait for her to become available?”
“Yes. Last door on the left.” Excellent, right by the elevator. Nodding my head, I walk to the restroom and actually go in.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I note how disheveled I look. I chuckle and shake my head.
“My how the mighty have fallen,” I say to myself, before washing my hands and running them through my hair. Once out of
the door, I peek and see that she is distracted yet again. I don’t move until the elevator opens and I sneak on, smiling at myself. I
still got it.
The entire ride up I am questioning my decision to pop in on her like this, but as soon as I wonder if I am doing the right
thing, picturing another night without her in my arms stops me from turning back. “Go big or go home,” I say to myself. Shaking
it off, the minute the door opens, I straighten my back and walk out. I am immediately impressed by the office itself. There is
something so open and freeing about it. I know most of it can be attributed to the all-glass walls, but there is something so
simplistic about it as well.
I watch as I continue to walk, as who I presume to be the receptionist, gets up and leaves her desk. Thank fuck. Without
knocking, I forget she is in a meeting and walk into her office. Apparently just in time.
Playboy from downstairs has his hand on her arm. “I’d say any changes we make should be made over cocktails and
perhaps hotel room sheets.” My Millie steps back a little but keeps her composure. Good for her because I’m not.
“Get your fucking hands off my woman,” I growl at him, walking further into the room.
“Malcolm. What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Apparently, saving you from this piece of shit.”
“I don’t need…” She tries to argue which is cute, but dipshit interrupts her.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks, buttoning his jacket.
“Her fiancé. Now I won't say it again. Walk away from her and get the fuck out. Now.” It’s almost comical when he stands
straighter and walks around to my side of the desk.
“I don’t think I will get out. The lady hasn’t asked me to leave.” He smirks like he thinks this is going to end any other way.
“Actually,” Millie starts saying. “I was in the middle of a...”
“Ah, shit!” He yelps when my fist meets his face. I know she was about to give me some bullshit, but seriously, I need this
fuck out of her office before I end up in jail.
“Malcolm! What the hell are you doing?” She yells at me running to the table to grab a napkin.
“You hit me,” he cries like fucking bitch, holding his nose.
“No shit. There is plenty more where that came from.” She is giving me the kill switch face and I smile at how fucking cute
she is. He walks to the door, nose swelling and bleeding.
“I am going to sue you,” he says like some parting shot.
“Here. My lawyer’s number.” I throw the card at him before locking the door behind him. I know she is talking behind me,
but right now all I hear is water running in my ears. I’m so fucking amped up right now, sirens are going off in my head,
warning me to take a deep breath and count.
“Are you listening to me, Malcolm? You cannot come into my office, assault my…” I turn around at the word assault and
stalk towards her slowly. Gulping, she stops talking and begins back away from me. Smart woman.
 “That was hardly an assault, angel. That was a man staking his claim and getting rid of all threats.” Her back is to the wall.
Her chest is rising and falling so quickly, that I can hear every inhale and exhale. I lean closer to her, looking her in the eyes.
When I am inches from her mouth, I lick over her lips before moving to her ear and taking a second to smell the scent I have
been missing. “The real assault, baby, is what I am going to be doing to this pussy right on your desk, right now.” With my
mouth slanted over hers, I wait for the protest, and when it doesn’t come, I know I have her where I want her. With me.
chapter
eleven
Millicent

One second my skin is crawling, and the next Malcolm is licking every inch of me. I’m on my back on my desk. My skirt is
hiked up around my waist and I have no idea where my panties are. His hard cock is drilling into me, and I love it.
“I’m going to breed this pussy and tie you to me forever,” he growls, continuing to thrust into me. There is nothing but
pleasure this time. He owns me, body and soul. Nothing has ever felt so right as it does when he’s inside me.
“Too late,” I moan without thinking. He pauses, looking down at me. In a panic, I open my eyes and stare at him.
“What angel?” he asks, his fingers caressing my cheek.
“I’m already pregnant,” I mewl, needing him to move more than I need my next breath.
“Are you telling me I knocked you up on our first try?” I can hear the awe in his voice.
“Yes,” I whisper. I can see it in his eyes the second he realizes I’ve been keeping this from him. They darken for a split
second.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks harshly. His cock is still hard inside of me. My pussy clenches around him and
he growls. “Don’t tease me, angel. Answer me.” He moves to pull out of me, but I wrap my legs around his waist tighter.
“Yes. I swear I was. Don’t be mad at me,” I say, tears threatening to spill.
“Ah, shit. Don’t cry, Millie baby. I’m not mad,” he says blessedly thrusting into me again. He’s not gentle, not that I want
him to be. The scrapping of the wood on the floor is loud but it’s music to my ears.
Once I come, he does too. We leave my office hand in hand and drive to the airport. Round two was the mile-high club,
rounds three and four took place in his bed. I’m sore everywhere, but it was worth it. I’m lying on his chest, ready to go again
when he asks me the inevitable question about our baby.
“When did you find out?”
“Two weeks ago,” I tell him. He’s running his fingers over my back in lazy circles. I love it. “Are you sure you’re not mad?
I should have told you I was a virgin and that I wasn’t on the pill. It was just supposed to be one night.”
“It stopped being one night when I popped your cherry, angel. You were mine before that, but after that, there would never,
could never be anyone for me but you.”
“Me either. I was scared. So scared. I was half in love with you when we went out to lunch, but by the time I left your
apartment, I was so far gone, that I didn’t know what to do.”
“You love me?” he asks, his fingers pausing. I lift my head in order to look at him.
“Yes. I love you; I don’t expect…” I begin but he cuts me off with a kiss.
“I love you too,” he says when he releases my lips. I kiss him again. “So fucking much. I was lost without you. Nothing had
any fucking meaning anymore. I had to find you.”
“How did you find me? Did Gladis tell you?”
“No, I have other methods, my love.”
“I bet you do,” I say placing light kisses all over his chest after unbuttoning his shirt. “This is new.” I run my fingers over
the one and only tattoo on his chest. My name is perfectly placed over his heart.
“I couldn't live without you. You dug your way into my soul just like any good angel would do. Marry me and make me the
happiest man on Earth.”
What? We barely know each other. Earth-shattering sex and a baby do not make a good, lasting marriage. Do they? My
mind is going a thousand miles per hour when he grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him.
God, I love him.
chapter
twelve
Malcolm

I am lying here, holding the woman I love in my arms after reminding her about the magic we shared. I am over the moon to
find out she is pregnant with my child. It worked the first fucking time. Now, I am feeling a little deflated while she stares at me
concerned and once again closed back up. “Angel, I asked you to marry me.” She is biting her lip looking on the verge of tears
and I don't get it.
“I know. I know you did, Malcolm, I just…I don't think I can.” What?
“You don’t think you can what, baby?”
“Marry you. At least not right now.” Bullshit.
“Why not?” She takes a deep breath and stands from the bed, body pink and sweaty from hours of rolling around with me,
crying and screaming my name. I should be paying attention, mind on what she is going to say, but fuck, she is standing in front
of me naked, carrying my baby in her belly, my come dripping down her thighs. Yeah. Okay. I am only a man.
“Eyes up here big boy.” When I look up, she is smirking at me, which feels much better than the worry she had a minute
ago, but something is still shading the elation we should be feeling.
“I’m sorry. Why can’t you marry me, Millie?”
“We don’t know each other, Malcolm. I mean obviously we run in the same social circles somewhat, but I know nothing
about you, and I know you don't know anything about me personally considering I make it my business to stay out of the
spotlight. I don’t want to begin like that.” I chuckle and pull up my boxers, figuring it was better to have this conversation with
at least underwear on. She must agree because she grabs the shirt I had on and puts it over her head.
“Kind of ass backwards too late, don’t you think, angel. I already bred you.” I couldn’t sound prouder. Frowning, she
places her hand on her hip.
“I know ass. That is my point. I want something to be normal.” I cross my arms and give her a little more wiggle room
around the subject.
“What did you have in mind?” Her shoulders relax and I begin to feel guilty. The last thing I want to do is cause her anxiety.
“I want to spend more time together. Get to know each other and our families. We should formally introduce our families,
maybe have family dinners. Date. Enjoy what little time we have left, considering.” Smiling, I walk over to her and pull her
into my arms. Moving her hair out of her face, I kiss her soft lips and lift her by her ass forcing her legs to wrap around my
waist.
“Alright angel. I will give you time to get to know me and plan a wedding, but on one condition.” She leans back and looks
me in the eyes.
“What’s that?”
“While we are doing all of this, you wear my ring. The way I see it, this is a done deal. You are marrying me. I am just
giving you time and letting my mom and dad and sisters have a chance to love you as much as I do. So, wearing my ring so the
world knows you are mine, shouldn’t be asking too much.” She pretends to think it over, a cheeky smile on her face, before she
nuzzles my nose and kisses me.
“Deal.”
“Good. Now, what should your punishment be for keeping me waiting?” She kisses me once more, rubbing her warm cunt
against my bulge.
“Anything you want. I belong to you now. Right?” Shit. Her sexy ass voice is about to get her pinned.
“Damn right baby.” Forever.
epilogue
Millicent
Five Months Later
I stare at my husband, remembering our wedding day. It didn’t take me long at all to fall for the man. Right now he’s grilling
steaks in our backyard like a boss, and nothing right now is really reminding me of that day, but I can’t help remembering the
vows we spoke both in front of our friends and family and privately, later that night. Our epic honeymoon consisted of flying to
Bali and never leaving our room. It was the best two weeks of my life but since we’ve been home, he’s shown me how every
day is better than the last.
“Stop staring at him like that,” Lola says, making me laugh. As soon as the laugh comes out of my mouth, Malcolm’s eyes
meet mine from across the patio.
“I can’t help it,” I tell her honestly.
“I want to fall in love,” she whispers, making me turn my head toward her. She looks so freaking sad, I just want to wrap
her up in my arms and hug her tight. She’s never said anything like that before, at least not to me. Since Malcolm and I got
married, Lola and I have gotten really close. I’d say she’s my best friend.
“What’s stopping you, Lola Bean?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Being sick as a child, almost dying, makes
your parents look at you differently. They don’t want to let her go. I get that, I think rubbing my slightly rounded belly. I haven’t
met my little one yet, and I never want to let her go.
“You know my parents stop me from doing pretty much anything but coming over here.” She’s only seventeen, but I think I
have an idea.
“My assistant is going on maternity leave next month and she’s not coming back. Come work for me after school. If you like
it, we’ll make it permanent after graduation.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. I’d do anything for you. We’re sisters and besties. We’ll get you out in the world, where the men are.”
“What men?” Malcolm asks, coming over to the table with a platter of steaks.
“Single ones, Bub,” Lola says, making me snicker.
“I don’t think I want to know anymore.”
“That’s probably best,” I tell him.
After we eat. Lola heads home and Malcolm and I head straight for our shower.
“God, I’m a lucky fucking man,” he says with his hands on my ass. He says it’s unsafe for us to do anything in here, but he
more than makes up for it by washing my body for me. He gets me so worked up that I am more than ready to fall on his cock as
soon as he’s dried us off and takes me to bed.
He knows I’m wet with the way that I’m squirming on the bed.
“You want this cock don’t you?” he asks, jerking his hard, angry-looking cock with his fist while looking down at me. The
feral look in his eyes excites me beyond belief.
“Yes. You know I do. I’ve always wanted your cock, husband. Please, give it to me.”
“You know I love it when you beg for my cum wife,” he grunts as he slides into me slowly.
When he bottoms out inside of me, he pulls out and slams back in. Over and over, he drives me wild with his cock until I
fall over the edge. He’s not too far behind me. He bellows my name as he fills me with his seed. Loving Malcolm Porter was
the easiest decision I ever made. Even when I ran from him, I knew he’d find me again. Deep down, I knew I was made for
him. His love is all I need to survive this world.
Who knew that just until midnight would turn into forever?
Another random document with
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which you sent the cipher message you had jotted down some
references to anthems, mattins, and so on, which helped me
ultimately to trace the crime to you. You also found a coupon for a
sleeping-carriage; that, too, you did not destroy, but you altered the
dates, because your quick brain saw that a sleeping-carriage coupon
for Tuesday would not have been held by a man travelling in the
later train, the 4.50.
“Then you took the living body and heaved it out of the carriage-
window, over the viaduct. That was just as the train started, or when
it had already started; it was a moment later that you saw you had
left the dead man’s hat in the rack, and threw that over too. One
thing you allowed to fall over without meaning to—the stick with
which you inflicted the first wound; it slipped, I suppose, from your
hand: certainly it was found just on the edge of the viaduct, a few
feet down the embankment. When you reached Binver you came
straight back to us, and were careful to tell us that you had come
back by the three o’clock train.
“You have had some bad moments since then—when I sliced my
drive into the osiers, and found the body, and you had to look at your
victim; when your superstitious fears made you think that a
photograph had come to life; when you saw on my shelves, and
stole from them, the very copy of Momerie’s Immortality which you
had given to Brotherhood: when, finally, you came into my room last
night, and saw in front of you the stick with which the crime was
committed. But what should have caused you more horror is the fact
than an Innocent man, Davenant, is awaiting trial on the charge of
murder, and you have taken no steps, so far, to exculpate him. That I
cannot understand, but I hope you meant to do so; certainly you will
have to do so.
“I want you to write out a full confession of these facts, and to
bring it to my room to sign it; I will witness it, and Gordon, to whom
the facts themselves are already known. After that, you are free to
go where you will. Respect for your cloth and for our friendship
makes this the only possible course for us. Your confession will not
be made public unless that is the only way of saving Davenant from
execution or a life sentence. Of course, we are taking a considerable
risk ourselves——”
 The door of the steward’s office swung open, and Carmichael
came in, saying as he turned the corner, “Hullo, Reeves, have you
heard that Davenant has confessed? Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you were
telephoning.”
 Chapter XXIII.
Marryatt breaks the Pledge
Mordaunt Reeves looked up in a dazed way, still holding the tube.
“What was that you said?”
“I said, Davenant’s confessed. It’s an extraordinary thing, you
know, the way we use ambiguous expressions, and expect the other
man to interpret them in the right sense. Davenant, now, is a
Catholic, and therefore it’s absurd for me to say ‘Davenant’s
confessed’ as if I were to rush into the room and say ‘Davenant’s
shaved.’ But when I say ‘Davenant’s confessed,’ I mean, and expect
you to understand me as meaning, Davenant has confessed to the
police that he murdered Brotherhood.”
“Marryatt, Marryatt!” Reeves held his ear to the tube, but no
answer came. “Excuse me one moment, Carmichael; I must just go
up and see Marryatt.”
“Ambiguity again; do you mean upstairs, or up to London?”
“Upstairs, of course, why——”
“In that case, I’d better tell you that I met Marryatt, five minutes
ago or thereabouts, running violently in the direction of the station.”
“Running?”
“Yes. It was my conjecture that he intended to catch the 10.30,
and had not very much time to do it in.”
“Good Lord, this is awful! I say, have you seen Gordon?”
“He is just outside. He wanted me to do a round with him, but I
found myself unable to comply. The fact is, my wife returns to-day,
and I have to go down to the house to prepare for her—just see that
the servants are not intoxicated, and that kind of thing. If you want a
round, Gordon is your man.”
 “Thanks, I think that’s just what I do want. Hullo, Gordon, you
going out? Just let me get my clubs, and I’m with you.”
It was not till they were walking together along the fairway from the
first tee that Reeves opened his griefs. “I say, have you heard this
about Davenant?”
“Yes, most inconsiderate of him to confess just when you’d
arranged to clap the darbies on another man. Lucky for you you
hadn’t said anything to Marryatt about it.”
“Well, the fact is, I had.”
“You had?”
“Yes, I’ve just been talking to him from the steward’s office,
through that confounded metaphone thing. I told him the whole story,
as we had put it together——”
“I pass the we.”
“And I told him he must own up. He had no chance of saying
anything down the tube, of course, and now it seems he has bolted
for London.”
“Bolted! Why, of course, that was why he was making streaks for
the station at about sixty miles an hour. Good Lord, Reeves, you
have done it? I believe you’ve convinced Marryatt, by sheer logic,
that he’s a murderer, when he’s nothing of the kind.”
“No, but I say, do you really think he’s bolted?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it? Very much like the old story of the man
who telegraphed to the Bishop to say ‘All is discovered; fly at once.’
Poor old Marryatt must have a guilty conscience about something,
mustn’t he? I wonder if he’s been embezzling the collections? I
should think it would be worth about a fortnight in quod, embezzling
the Paston Oatvile collections. My ball, I think.”
“I wish you’d take this thing seriously.”
“I’m doing my best; it was a beast of a lie.”
“I don’t mean the game, you fool, I mean Marryatt clearing off like
this. What happens if he really tries to disappear? How am I to get at
him? And what’s it all about, anyhow?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s all about. But if you ask me, I
don’t believe Marryatt has bolted for good. He wasn’t taking his clubs
with him.”
“You think he’ll come back this evening?”
 “I should think almost certainly.”
“But look here, what the deuce am I to say to him when he does?”
“Oh, leave all that to me. I’ll calm his fevered brow. I told you
yesterday there were one or two little things I wanted Marryatt to
explain, and you wouldn’t let me. This time, I’m going to have it my
own way.”
“It’s awfully good of you if you . . . Oh, Lord, right over the green,
as usual . . . But, I say, tell me about Davenant. How did you hear?”
“The head waiter was the source of the information, but I gather it
is on good authority. According to the gossip of Binver, the police
were trying to incriminate your friend Miss Rendall-Smith, and that’s
how they got Davenant to own up. Dirty dodge, rather, I think.”
“Trying to incriminate her? Then, of course, it was the police who
were shadowing her! She told me yesterday she thought she was
being watched.”
“That would be it, I suppose.”
“But then, how did Davenant explain all the things that have been
puzzling us all this time?”
“I don’t think he’s been interviewed by the Daily Mail yet. But if you
mean how he explained the difficulty about the two trains, that’s very
simple. It wasn’t done from a train at all.”
“Not from a train?”
“No. He was walking with Brotherhood along the railway line in the
fog, and he lost his temper and pitched him over. At least, that’s the
story they’re telling down at Binver.”
“Oh, I see. That being so, this for the hole.”
They went round again that afternoon. There was really nothing
else to be done; but Reeves was in a pitiable state of suspense all
the time, and the hours travelled slowly. The 3.47 put down its
generous toll of passengers at Paston Oatvile, but no Marryatt
among them. Two more trains came in, and still no Marryatt
appeared: his place was empty at the dinner-table. Reeves was in
terror that he might come back in the middle; in terror that he might
not come back at all. At last, as they went out from dinner, they
caught sight of his face, looking white and haggard, in the entrance
hall. Reeves bounded upstairs, full of relief, while Gordon marked
down his man.
 “Hullo, Marryatt? Had dinner? Good; come and sit in the lounge for
a bit. I’d been wanting to see you.”
There was only one way to open the conversation. “Have a small
something in the whisky line,” he suggested.
“No, thanks. Knocked off.”
“Knocked off! Why on earth? Are you going to start a Band of
Hope? I’m sorry, Marryatt, but I’m afraid you won’t get many
members to join.”
“No. It’s nothing of that sort. Doctor’s orders, you know.”
“First time I ever heard of Beazly prescribing that.”
“It wasn’t Beazly. I’ve just been up to London, you know; I went to
see a specialist.”
“I say, I’m awfully sorry; what’s wrong? Heart?”
“Well, it was a sort of nerve man I went to. Didn’t seem to be much
use. He talked to me for about half an hour about French cathedrals,
and then told me to knock off drinking and smoking.”
“Yes, but dash it all, what were your symptoms?”
“I say, Gordon, do you believe in—well, in ghosts and things?”
“Not more than’s good for me. Why? You been seeing spooks?”
“Look here, I wanted to tell somebody about it. You know, of
course, that I preached about Brotherhood last night. I wasn’t quite
sure whether it was the thing to do—it seemed a bit unfair at the
time. Anyhow, I felt I ought to. Then at dinner, if you remember, you
and Carmichael were ragging about it—wondering what would
happen if old Brotherhood came back.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, of course that may have preyed on my nerves a bit.
Anyhow, I went upstairs to my room, and found my pipe chocked up
—you know.”
“Yes, it’s funny the way they do get chocked up.”
“So I went along to Reeves’ room to bag one of his pipe-cleaners.
It was dark and he wasn’t in, so I turned on the light. And there, right
in front of me, I saw old Brotherhood’s oak stick—the one he used to
carry with him. I remember, when he preached on the village green. I
remember his quoting Johnson’s refutation of Berkeley—you know
the thing—and banging that stick on the ground. That was the stick I
saw.”
 “In Reeves’ room?”
“Yes, by the side of his arm-chair. And—I didn’t exactly see
anything, you know, only it looked exactly as if Brotherhood himself
were sitting in the chair, invisible, with his hand resting on the stick. I
was just telling myself I was a fool, when—he breathed.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know. There was nobody in the room—nobody visible, I
mean. That was too much for me, I’m afraid. I went to my room and
locked myself in. You see, I’m psychic, rather. Always have been,
from a kid.”
“And was that all your trouble?”
“No. I had half thought about seeing a man about it while I was up
in London anyhow. And then, just as I was starting for the train, that
beastly metaphone thing in my room whistled. So I went and said
‘Who’s speaking?’—and—I may be an awful fool, you know, but I
thought the thing said ‘It’s Brotherhood.’ And at that I fairly dropped
the tube and raced for the train. Then in London I went to see this
fool of a specialist, and of course he told me I’d been overdoing it.”
Gordon’s eyes twinkled. “You’d have saved yourself a couple of
guineas at least,” he said, “if you’d talked to me earlier.”
“Oh! Why, what’s the point?”
“Well—that stick. It had a perfect right to be in Reeves’ room. He
found it yesterday afternoon on the railway line; Brotherhood must
have dropped it when—he fell. So of course Reeves brought it back
here, and it was standing up against his chair last night. There was
nobody sitting there.”
“But hang it all, I swear I heard somebody breathing.”
“You did. That was just bad luck. The fact is, Reeves and I were
fooling about inside that secret passage, and saw you come in. And
the breathing was done by Reeves, off.”
“Good Lord! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, you didn’t give us much chance, did you, going and locking
yourself up in your room like that? And then this morning Reeves
’phoned you up from the steward’s office to tell you the news.”
“What news?”
“That the mystery about Brotherhood’s murder was solved.”
 “Oh, yes—Davenant did it, didn’t he? They were telling me about it
at the station.”
“Well, you see, Reeves must have started by saying ‘About
Brotherhood,’ or something like that. And then, like a fool, you
dropped the tube and legged it for London.”
“Well, upon my word! Do you know, Gordon, now I come to think
of it, I don’t mind if I do.”
 Chapter XXIV.
Gordon offers the Consolation of
Philosophy¹
Gordon fell into Reeves’ other arm-chair and shouted with
laughter. Nothing could be more disagreeable to nerves already
jangled. Reeves almost shook him into position, demanding
explanations.
“It’s all right,” he said at last. “You get all the luck, Reeves.
Marryatt wasn’t listening at the other end of the metaphone. And all
the time you were talking through it, it was just a soliloquy.”
“Thank God for that! But how did you explain it all? What did you
tell him?”
“Oh, I just told him the truth—part of the truth. And you must really
get out of that habit of wheezing, because it was your wheezing
behind the secret panel that made Marryatt think it was
Brotherhood’s ghost sitting in your room last night!”
“You mean that’s what frightened Marryatt? Why did he run away
this morning, then?”
“He thought it was Brotherhood telephoning to him. Lord, what a
day!”
“And you’ve explained everything to him?”
“Yes, I’ve explained it all; I’d have explained it yesterday, if you’d
let me.”
“Come now, don’t try and persuade me you didn’t think yourself
that Marryatt was guilty?”
“Guilty of murder? Not for a single, solitary moment. I did think
there was something wrong with him—so there was, he was hag-
ridden with nightmare about Brotherhood. But I never agreed with
you about Marryatt being a murderer, and, to do me justice, I never
said so.”
“That’s all very well, but you never showed me where I was wrong
in my interpretation of the whole thing.”
“I know; it was no good showing you where you were wrong,
because you were so confoundedly ingenious at devising fresh
explanations. Honestly, I did put one or two difficulties to you, but in
a second you’d persuaded yourself to believe that they were no
difficulties at all. And of course there were heaps more.”
“Such as?”
“Well, you persisted in regarding the whole thing as a deliberate,
carefully planned murder. But if you come to think of it, the
circumstances that favoured the murder were just the sort of
circumstances that couldn’t have been foreseen. How could a man
like Marryatt know that Brotherhood was due to go bankrupt? He
knows no more about the City than you do. And the fog—look how
the fog played up all through! How was Marryatt to know there was
going to be a fog on the very day on which his attempt would be
made? Yet, without a fog, the attempt would have been perfectly
desperate.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“And it wasn’t merely the general setting, it was the details. How
could Marryatt know that the train would be held up by signals just
there? How could he tell that Brotherhood would get into the part of
the train which hadn’t got a corridor, and that he would get into an
empty carriage? What would he have been able to do, if Brotherhood
had happened to come back as he always did—did, in fact, come
back on Tuesday—in a crowded train like the 3.47? How could he be
certain that nobody had seen Brotherhood get into the three o’clock?
That nobody had noticed him at Weighford? Alternately, don’t you
see, you make your man take the most superhumanly cunning
precautions, and then trust to blind chance. But those are all
objections of detail. I didn’t mention them because, as I say, you’d
have found some sort of answer for each. My real objection was
much deeper.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me about that?”
 “Because you wouldn’t have begun to understand it. It’s
concerned, you see, with people, not with things. It’s simply that
Davenant is the kind of person who would kill a man, and Marryatt
isn’t.”
“You mean because Marryatt’s a parson? But, dash it all,
Davenant goes to church.”
“Davenant goes to church, but he isn’t the sort of person who goes
to church. With Protestants, I mean, it’s ordinarily safe to assume
that if people do go to church they are of a church-going type; they
belong to the ‘unco’ guid.’ That isn’t a safe assumption to make
about Catholics; they seem to go to church whether they’re ‘unco’
guid’ or not. I don’t mean that Davenant’s a stage villain, but he’s just
an ordinary sort of person, and he’s got red blood in him, whereas
Marryatt hasn’t—I hope it’s not unkind to say so. He wouldn’t kill a
man; you may almost say he couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t morally, you mean, or couldn’t physically?”
“I don’t mean either. ‘Couldn’t psychically’ would be nearer the
mark. For one thing, Davenant’s fought in the war, and killed people,
I expect—he was a bombing officer, wasn’t he? Well, you know, I
think to most people that makes an enormous difference. I suppose
that’s why there’s generally a ‘crime-wave’ after wars—part of the
reason, anyhow. People have got accustomed to killing, and it isn’t
easy to murder people till you’ve done that.”
“And Marryatt, you mean, really couldn’t kill a man?”
“Physically he could—he’s rather strong. Morally he could—
morally any of us could do anything. Or so they taught us when we
were small. But there’s a third difficulty you’ve got to get over, if you
want to murder people; a sort of nervous repugnance to the job. I
don’t say that if Marryatt went to the bad, he mightn’t screw himself
up to the point of shoving poison into somebody’s tea. But he
couldn’t kill a man with his hands.”
“I know; it doesn’t sound probable. And yet, I suppose a person
with a fixed idea isn’t much different from a madman, is he? And my
argument was that Marryatt had a sort of fixed idea about religion.”
“Yes; but, don’t you see, he hasn’t. Marryatt’s a very good chap,
and he thinks all the doctrines he preaches are more probable than
not, but his religion doesn’t sweep him off his feet: the man who
denies it doesn’t seem to him something less than human. That was
another reason against your theory. Psychologically, Marryatt hasn’t
got the apparatus to do what you thought he did. Morally, he hasn’t
got the motive to act as you thought he did.”
“Well, I seem to have made a pretty good ass of myself all round. I
wonder if anybody in the world has ever been so led astray by a
theory?”
“Anybody ever? Why, my dear Reeves, you’re in exactly the same
position there as about three-quarters of the modern world: they are
all led astray by theories. Only you were at least led astray by your
own theory, not by one you’d borrowed at second-hand.”
“What, you mean scientific theories in medicine and so on? Taking
the doctors’ word for it that it’s a good thing to be vaccinated, and
that kind of thing?”
“No, hang it all, it would be unfair to complain of that. It’s better for
the doctors to have a false theory than no theory at all. They make
mistakes, but sooner or later they find out they were wrong. It’s bad
luck on all the people who happen to have died from getting the
wrong treatment, but still, we did our best. No, I don’t mean the
guess-work by which we live from day to day, and which is
necessary to living: I mean the theories learned people propound to
us about the past, about the meaning of human history.”
“Darwin, and all that?”
“No, not exactly. I grant you that does illustrate my point. Evolution
is only a theory, and the relationship of the monkey to the man not
even a plausible theory; and yet they have gone on so long without
being positively disproved that everybody talks as if they were
proved. The scientist still treats evolution as a theory, the
educationalist treats it as a fact. There’s a curious sort of statute of
limitations in the learned world which makes it impossible to call a
man a liar if he has gone on lying successfully for fifty years. But,
after all, there’s something to be said for the Evolutionists. They did
set out to explain a real problem, why there should be more than one
kind of thing in the world; and they don’t even profess to have
explained it. The theorizers I mean are people who create problems
where none exist—as you did, Reeves, when you insisted on
regarding it as an open question who murdered Brotherhood. They
are people who trust circumstantial evidence in the face of all
common human probability, as you did, Reeves, when you wanted to
convict a chump like Marryatt of murder on the strength of a chain of
silly coincidences.”
“All this comes out of your diary, I suppose?”
“No, I haven’t written it up yet. I’m going to write it up, about half
an hour from now, that’s why you’re getting all this thrown at you.
You see, when I think of you talking through that metaphone, it
strikes me as a splendid allegory of the whole historical method in
criticism—or rather, that abuse of the historical method which
commonly usurps the title. The man who has theories about history
is usually just that—a man talking down the metaphone, making a
series of false statements to a person who isn’t there, and defying
him to disprove them.”
“Gordon, I believe you’re going to solve the problem of my
vocation. I’ve always hankered after being an amateur detective, but
it seems to me the job is less attractive than I supposed—facts will
keep coming in. But, by your way of it, it sounds as if I might be a
success in one of the learned professions.”
“Certainly. Be an anthropologist, Reeves. Fish up a lot of facts,
alleged on very doubtful authority, about primitive man—his marriage
ceremonies, his burial customs, his system of land tenure. Look at
the whole mass of facts squint-eyed until you can see a theory in it.
Embrace the theory; trot out all the facts which support your theory;
write a long appendix on all the facts which contradict your theory,
showing them to be insignificant or irrelevant (you’d do that all right)
and there you are. You’ll do quite as good anthropological research
as——”
“Is there money in it?”
“I thought you were all right for money. No, if you’re out for that, I
should take to psycho-analysis. The system’s the same, generally
speaking, only instead of dealing with primitive man, whom you can
disregard because he isn’t there, you are dealing with a living man,
who will probably tell you that you are a liar. Then you tell him that he
is losing his temper, which is the sign of a strong inhibition
somewhere, and that’s just what you were saying all along. The
beauty of psycho-analysis is that it’s all ‘Heads-I-win-tails-you-lose.’
In medicine, your diagnosis of fever is a trifle disconcerted if the
patient’s temperature is sub-normal. In psychoanalysis you say, ‘Ah,
that just proves what I was saying.’ ”
“It seems to me that I have been neglecting all these openings for
our young men.”
“Well, I don’t know, the psycho-business is getting a bit over-
crowded nowadays. But there are still plenty of openings in the
historical line. You can read what theories you like into history, as
long as you are careful to neglect human probabilities, and take your
evidence entirely from a selection of external facts. There is danger
in it, of course; any day some fool may dig up a great chunk of Livy,
and all your theories go wrong. Still, the obvious remedy for that is to
say that Livy was lying on purpose, leaving false clues about
deliberately, like Marryatt, you know, on the railway line. All
documents, you see, which don’t happen to support your point of
view, thereby give themselves away as being late and
untrustworthy.”
“But I don’t think I know any history much.”
“That doesn’t matter; it’s quite easy to read your stuff up if you
confine yourself to a particular period or a particular kind of history.
For the beginner, Church history may be confidently recommended.
Public interest in the subject is so small that it is very unlikely any
one will take the trouble to contradict you. If the worst comes to the
worst, you can always fall back upon literary criticism, and there you
are on perfectly safe ground. A man with a documentary hypothesis
can defy the rudest assaults of common sense.”
“How does one do that, exactly?”
“You have to start out by saying, ‘This document consists of three
parts. One part is genuine, one part is spurious, the third part is
faked evidence put in to make the spurious stuff look as if it was
genuine!’ Then, you see, you are on velvet. You reject altogether the
parts of the document which you don’t like. Then you take the
remaining part, and find that it still contains a certain sort of dross—
evidence which still conflicts with your theory. That dross you purge
away by calling it a deliberate fake. The watch says 4.54—that is
proof positive that, in the first place, the murder took place at 3.54,
and, in the second place, the murderer tried to pretend it didn’t. You
see the idea? Now, the more of that business you do, the more
ingenious your theory becomes, and the more ingenious your theory
becomes, the more easily will people accept it as true. Half the
statements which we regard as facts in history and criticism are
statements made by critics, which are so ingenious that nobody has
the heart to doubt them. And so the silly old world goes on. What if
our forefathers are misjudged? We keep our mouths, not our ears, to
the metaphone, and the honourable gentlemen get no opportunity to
reply: and it doesn’t matter much to them, because, like sensible
people, they’ve dropped their end of the tube, and left us to talk into
empty air.”
“Do you know, Gordon, I believe you talk an awful lot of rot.”
“I know. But it isn’t all rot. Well, what are you proposing to do?”
“I am proposing to devote myself in future to the Game—the
Game, the whole Game, and nothing but the Game.”
 Chapter XXV.
The Dull Facts
The Dormy-house,
Paston Oatvile,
Binver
My dear Gordon,
Reeves has just been in to inform me that Davenant has been
hung. A laughable misconception, of course; he has not been hung,
he has been hanged.
I write as you asked me to write, to supply what information I can
about the actual course of events in connection with what is locally
called the Links Mystery. I have put it together with some difficulty;
part of it, of course, came out at the trial; part I had from Miss
Rendall-Smith, part from the priest at Paston Bridge, upon whom I
called specially for the purpose. A not unintelligent man, who
seemed to me to know more about the neighbourhood and the
people who live here than Marryatt will ever know. He was, of
course, debarred by professional scruples from telling me one or two
things about which my curiosity prompted me to ask, but he did not
appear to be unduly distressed about Davenant. “Depend upon it,
Mr. Carmichael,” he said, “there’s others do worse and never get
found out. A nice, clean death he’ll make of it. Goes to Communion
every morning, you know—an example to all of us.” I told him, of
course, that I was not narrow-minded, and could see good in all
religions.
Well, the outlines of the thing seem to have been very simple
indeed. Davenant saw that Brotherhood meant to persecute the lady
because of the money, and determined to try and dissuade him.
Brotherhood was just leaving the office when Davenant reached it;
Davenant hailed a taxi, and followed him. Brotherhood did not go
straight to the station; he went to a flat somewhere out Chelsea way
—no doubt this was where he used to spend his weekends. No
doubt he had decided that this double life must come to an end, now
that it was necessary for him to live on his wife’s money, and
therefore wanted to collect all his personal effects. He came out in
about ten minutes’ time, cramming an old-fashioned watch into his
waistcoat pocket—presumably, in the hurry of the moment, he
wound up this watch, which had been left about in the flat, mistiming
it by an hour. With the help of the taximan he managed to get an
enormous trunk on to the cab and then set out for the station. He
was nipping pretty freely from a flask in his pocket. Davenant
shadowed him all the way at a distance: he could not have kept up
with him if he had not heard his orders to the taxi-driver.
When he got to the station, Brotherhood bought a third-class
ticket, and crammed it in his waistcoat pocket. The purpose of this
appeared when he was having his trunk labelled—it was cheaper
than paying excess luggage. He had his season-ticket in his great-
coat pocket. By the way, why did we not question ourselves more
over the singular fact that Brotherhood’s body was found without
umbrella or great-coat, on such an inclement day? He got into a first-
class carriage, already occupied; and Davenant, seeing that there
was no chance of a personal interview, travelled third himself, always
hoping that something would turn up.
At Paston Oatvile something did turn up—Brotherhood got out of
the train decidedly the worse for drink. Davenant, it is clear, had up
to this time no sinister intentions, for he talked to one of the porters
when he alighted, and then went up to Brotherhood and hailed him
as an acquaintance. Brotherhood was far too muzzy to be afraid of
him; he hailed him as good old Davenant, and suggested that they
should have a drink between trains at the inn opposite the station.
Davenant knew that drinks were not served at that hour, but he
accompanied him willingly enough; they wasted a little time trying the
door, and then saw the train for Paston Whitchurch steaming out of
the station. You will observe that Brotherhood was by now artificially
deprived of his luggage. His box went on to Binver, so did his great-
coat (with the season-ticket in it) which he had thrown into the 4.50
from the platform. Both were afterwards recovered by the police, but
were of little use to them.
Had Brotherhood been sober, he would have gone back to the
station, no doubt, so as to telegraph to Binver about his things. As it
was, he willingly fell in with Davenant’s suggestion that they should
walk across to Paston Whitchurch by the field path, crossing the
valley by the railway viaduct. They walked, then, through the fog, not
much behind the train; perhaps Davenant may even have suggested
the possibly of overtaking it if it were held up by the signals. They did
not, in fact, overtake it. Davenant began to commiserate with
Brotherhood upon his bankruptcy, at which Brotherhood became
extremely cheerful, and explained that he had a wife, a deuced fine
woman, who had got a lot of his money in her own name, and he
was going back to her. Davenant expostulated, threatened, implored;
nothing would disturb the drunkard’s irritating good temper. Finally,
Brotherhood became lyrical over the charms of his wife just as they
began to cross the viaduct. It was too much for Davenant; in a fit of
disgusted rage, he turned and threw his gross companion over the
edge of the slope. There was one startled cry, and then nothing but
silence and the fog.
Up to that moment Davenant had no plans; he had not thought of
murder even as a contingency. It is true, he had to confess to having
sent the cipher warning: but this, he insisted, had been a mere
threat; he was anxious to prevent Brotherhood doing anything before
he could have a talk with him. By the way, Brotherhood was at home
the week-end before his death, contrary to his usual custom. Mrs.
Bramston does not abide our question, otherwise we might have
elicited the fact from her. Davenant travelled up in the same train
with him, and saw him beginning Momerie’s Immortality—that was
on the Monday morning; he bought a copy himself at the bookstall
and sent the cipher to him, thinking he would probably be still
reading the same book the next day. The whole idea of the cipher,
he says, was a mere foolish whim on his part.
He now found himself in urgent need of plans. He did not know
whether his victim was dead: yet it would be risky to go right down
into the valley, and perhaps find that a corpse had already been
discovered. He determined to go and hide until he got more news
about this. Meanwhile, the fog prevented him from seeing whether
he had made a clean job of it. He searched a little, and found
Brotherhood’s hat a little way down the slope; that meant that he had
not fallen sheer—he might have left his stick behind too as he fell.
This, however, Davenant could not see in the fog. He took the hat to
the point at which the viaduct railing began, and a little further,
secure that this, at any rate, would fall clear. He then measured a
few yards back, and dropped a golf-ball to mark the spot. He
thought, you see, that he might want to go back there in better
weather and look for the stick. Then he turned back along the line
and took the path down to the dormy-house. The fog was beginning
to lift, but he met nobody. He knew the secret passage from his
boyhood, and thanked his stars that he had never mentioned its
existence to any one in the Club. He had a confederate, of course,
among the Club servants—Miss Rendall-Smith says she thinks it
was an old servant of his family’s; and this man, whose name has
never appeared, helped him to hide in the passage and brought him,
by arrangement with Sullivan, the necessities of living.
It was from our own conversation—a singular thought!—that he
got most of his news. His confinement, by the way, was not very
irksome, since he knew the habits of the members so well. He used
to shave in the Club washing-room, for example; and got pickings
from the food that went down to the kitchen. More than once, when
he knew there was no danger of interruption, he came out into the
billiard-room and played a game, right against left. He could keep in
touch with all that went on, and it was his intention, I gather, to come
out of his hiding-place in any case on the Saturday afternoon, play a
round in the evening, and go back to the Hatcheries that night as if
nothing had happened. That was, of course, when the verdict of
suicide at the inquest made it seem as if he was free from all
suspicion.
But our proceedings bothered him badly. Especially the
photograph; he guessed from our talk that it must be Miss Rendall-
Smith’s, and knew that it was likely to direct attention to her. He did
not hope to steal it, because the loss would be too obvious, but he
could not resist putting his arm through the sliding panel while we
were playing Bridge and just taking a look at it. He had himself a
photograph of Miss Rendall-Smith in his pocket, taken at the same
sitting: when he first heard us talking about photographs, he pulled
this out to make sure he had not lost it; and when he had the second
photograph in his hands he switched on his electric torch for an
instant (a risky thing to do) and compared them. Then, in the dark,
he put back the wrong one by mistake.
Why he was so anxious to get back the copy of the cipher, he did
not explain. I fancy when he first contemplated the idea he imagined
that we had the original; and to that, as we shall see, he did attach
importance. But he did not think he took much risk when he
purloined the cipher and put it back again on finding it useless, or
when he came out at night to see what souvenirs of Brotherhood
Reeves had got. I think he was afraid of some fresh clue which might
inculpate Miss Rendall-Smith; and he imagined, of course, that the
watch at the door was the only thing he had to be frightened of.
It was only next morning that he found some of my chewing gum
on his trousers, and guessed that a trap had been laid for him. As
soon as he heard our movements upstairs he stepped out into the
billiard-room, and got his confederate to hide him somewhere in the
servants’ quarters. It was when news was brought to him that the
police were investigating the cellar entrance that he really took
alarm, and decided to bolt for it. Even then he kept his head, and if
Reeves had been a little less close on his trail he would have come
back quietly to Paston Whitchurch on that slow train, and it would
have been very difficult to incriminate him. As it was, it was only a
stiff door-handle that gave him away.
It was Miss Rendall-Smith who explained to me the mysterious
writing on the back of the cipher. The words were, of course,
explained by what was written on the other half-sheet before the
sheet was torn in two. Miss Rendall-Smith showed me the full text of
the thing, and I confess that at first it meant nothing to me; you, no
doubt, would have taken the point with more readiness. Here it is,
anyhow.

S O
C R
H aS socks