“Is it true? What they say about the women who come here?” Fingernails dipped in shiny red polish trailed along Lucian de Vincent’s stomach, dragging the front of his shirt free. “That they . . . go insane?”

Lucian arched a brow.

“Because I feel a little insane. I feel a little out of control. I’ve wanted you for so long.” Lips the same color of those nails stirred the shorter hair around his ear. “But you never looked my way. Not until tonight.”

“Now that’s not true,” he drawled, reaching for the bottle of Old Rip. He’d looked at her more than once. Probably checked her out quite a bit. With all that blond hair and that body in that low-cut dress, he most definitely had, along with half the patrons of the Red Stallion. Hell, probably around ninety percent of them, male and female, had looked her way more than once, and she was very aware of that fact.

“But you were always so focused elsewhere,” she continued, and he could hear the pout forming on those pretty red lips.

He poured himself a drink of the twenty-year-old bourbon, trying to figure out exactly who else he could’ve been paying attention to. The options were limitless, but he was never focused on anyone in particular. Truth was, he wasn’t even fully paying attention to the woman behind him, not even as she pressed what felt like wonderful breasts against his back and slipped her hand under his shirt. She made this sound, a throaty moan that did absolutely nothing for him as her hand flattened against the taut muscles of his lower stomach.

There used to be a time when it took nothing but a knowing smile and a sultry voice to get him so hard he could drill his dick into a wall. And it used to take even less for him to fuck and lose himself for a little while.

Now?

Not so much.

Her sharp little teeth caught the lobe of his ear as she slipped that hand down, her nimble fingers zeroing in on his belt. “But you know what, Lucian?”

“What?” He lifted the short and heavy rocks glass to his lips, tossing back the smoky liquid without so much as a flinch. Bourbon slid down his throat and warmed his stomach as he eyed the painting above the bar. This painting wasn’t the best out there, but there was something about the flames that he liked. Reminded him of the burning glide into madness.

She pulled his belt free. “I’m going to make sure you never think of anyone else again.”

“Is that so . . . ?” He trailed off, brows lowering as he searched his memories.

Shit.

He’d forgotten her name.

Holy hell, what in the world was this woman’s name? The violet-red flames of the painting didn’t give him the answer. He dragged in a deep breath and nearly choked on her cloying perfume. It was like a bushel of strawberries threw up in his mouth.

The button on his pants popped free and then the tinny sound of a zipper filled the spacious room. No more than a second later, her hand was under the band of the boxer briefs, and right to where his cock rested.

Her hand froze for the briefest moment. She seemed to stop breathing. “Lucian?” she cooed, circling her warm fingers around the half-erect length.

The obvious lack of interest from his body had his lip curling up in disgust. What the fuck was wrong with him? He had a beautiful woman touching his dick and he was about as aroused as a schoolboy in a room full of nuns.

He was . . . hell, he was just bored. Bored with her, with himself—with all of this. This woman was usually his style. Spend a little time with her and then never see her again. He wasn’t with a woman more than once, because when you were, you started a habit, and that habit would become very hard to break. Someone caught feelings, and that someone wasn’t him, never him. But he felt . . . done with this.

The feeling of just being over it, over everything, was a malaise haunting him the last couple of months, stifling nearly every aspect of his damn life. Restlessness had dug itself under his skin and was spreading throughout his veins like the damn ivy that had taken over the exterior walls of the entire house.

He’d been feeling this long before everything turned upside down.

She trailed her other hand up under his shirt as she tightened her grip. “You’re going to make me work for this cock, aren’t you?”

He almost laughed.

Hell.

Considering where his thoughts were, she was going to have to work real hard. Lowering the glass to the bar, he let his head fall back and his eyes close, forcing his mind to clear. She was blissfully quiet as she worked him with her hand.

Now more than ever he needed this—a mindless release, and she—Clare? Clara? Something that started with a C, that much he was sure. Anyway, she knew what she was doing. He was hardening with every passing second, but his head . . . yeah, his head wasn’t in this.

Since when did his head need to be in this?

He widened his stance, giving her a little more room as he reached blindly for the several-thousand-dollar bottle of bourbon. Tonight was about losing himself, about feeling like he was actually alive. Just like every other night had been, but especially now, because he had things he had to take care of tomorrow.

But he didn’t need to think about that right now. He didn’t need to feel anything other than her hand, then her mouth, and maybe the way—

The soft, barely audible sounds of footsteps on the floor above forced his eyes open. He tilted his head to the side, thinking he was hearing things, but there it was again. Definitely footsteps.

What the hell? Reaching down, he caught her slender wrist, stopping her. She wasn’t happy with that. Her grip moved, stroking him harder and rougher. He put just enough pressure on her hand to still her.

“Lucian?” Confusion filled her tone.

He didn’t answer as he strained to hear anything. There was no way he’d heard what he had. Because there was no way anyone in the rooms upstairs could be moving around and no one else would be in those rooms.

There was no staff here during the night. They all refused to be in the de Vincent mansion once the moon was high in the sky.

Silence greeted him, so there was a good chance he was hearing things and had the damn bourbon to thank for that.

Jesus, maybe he was the one losing his mind.

Pulling her hand out of his pants, he turned around and faced the woman. She really was beautiful, he thought as he studied her upturned face, but he discovered a long time ago that beauty was a fickle gift given without thought. In most cases, it truly was only skin deep, and half the time it wasn’t even real. It was doctored and altered by skilled fingers.

Curving his hand around the nape of her neck, he wondered how deep her beauty ran and exactly where it turned ugly. He pressed his thumb against her pulse, interested when the beat sped up.

Her lips parted as heavy lashes lowered, shielding eyes the color of the native irises that had just bloomed all over Louisiana. He bet she had a crown or two stashed at home, alongside sashes declaring her one of the many pretty faces the South had to offer.

Lucian started to lower his head when his cell rang from the top of the bar. He immediately let go and turned as she let out a murmur of disappointment. Striding over to his phone, surprise flickered through him when he saw his brother’s name on the screen. It was late, and besides, the prodigal son surely was already in bed, somewhere in this very house, at this time of night. Dev wouldn’t even be with his fiancée, fucking the night away like Lucian imagined happy, normal couples did.

Then again, he had a hard time picturing the pristine Sabrina fucking anything.

There were things said about the males and the females in the de Vincent family. One seemed grossly false. Their great-great-grandmother once claimed that when the de Vincent men fell in love, they did so fast and hard, without reason or hesitation.

And that was absolute bullshit.

The only one out of all them that had ever fallen in love was their brother Gabe and look how that turned out? A damn mess.

“What?” Lucian answered the phone as he reached for the bottle again.

“You need to come down to father’s study now,” Dev ordered.

His brows rose as his brother hung up the phone. That was an interesting request. Slipping his phone into the pocket, he zipped up his pants and pulled his belt off, tossing it on the nearby couch. “Stay here,” he said, slipping his phone in his pocket.

“What? You’re leaving me?” she demanded, sounding as if no man had ever walked away from her once she had her hand on his dick.

Tossing a grin in her direction, he opened up the door that led to the second-floor porch. “Yes, and you’ll be waiting for me when I get back.”

Her mouth dropped open, but as he stepped out into the cool air, he knew she could get as pissed as she wanted, but she would still be there, waiting for him.

Cutting across the porch, he hit the enclosed staircase and strode into the back room of the main floor the steps emptied into. The mausoleum of a house was dimly lit and quiet, as his bare feet padded across the tile floors that graduated into hardwood.

It took a couple of minutes to reach the study as it was all the way in the right wing, squirreled away from prying eyes of those who visited the de Vincent home. It even had its own entrance and drive.

Lawrence, his father, took ensuring privacy to a whole new level.

His steps slowed as he approached the closed doors. Having no idea what was waiting for him in the study, but knowing his brother wouldn’t call him at this time of the night for nothing, he prepared himself for anything.

The heavy oak doors swung open noiselessly, and Lucian came to a complete stop as he stepped into the brightly lit room. “What the fuck?”

Two legs swayed slightly, the Brooks Brothers alligator loafers several feet from the floor. There was a small puddle. The putrid stench in the room told him what it was.

“This is why I called you,” Dev stated from somewhere in the room, tone bland.

Lucian dragged his gaze over the dark trousers that were damp all along the inner thighs. Up over the askew robin-egg blue dress shirt, half tucked in and half yanked out. Hands and arms were lax at the sides and shoulders slumped. The neck rested at an unnatural angle.

Probably had something to do with the belt around the neck.

The belt that was wrapped around the ceiling fan that was imported from India and installed a little over a month ago. Each time the body swayed, the ceiling fixture ticked like a grandfather’s clock.

“Jesus Christ,” Lucian grunted, hands dropping to his sides as his gaze rapidly flickered around the room. The pool of piss was spreading toward the beige-and-gold antique Persian rug.

If his mother were alive, she’d be clutching her glossy pearls in horror.

A wry grin twisted up the corner of his lips at the thought. God, he missed his mother every damn day since she’d left him—left them all—that stormy, suffocating humid night. Mom had liked things to be beautiful, ageless, and unmarred. It was fitting in a sad sort of way that she’d left this earth that way.

Troubled more by those thoughts than the death that clung to the room, he prowled to the right, dropping into the leather chair. The same one he’d spent many hours perched rigidly in as a child, quietly listening to one of the many, many examples of why he was such a crowning disappointment. Now he was more sprawled in it than sitting, thighs spread. He didn’t need a mirror to know his hair, blond while his brothers’ was dark, looked like a dozen hands had run through it. He didn’t need to breathe too deeply to catch the damn fruity scent of perfume that clung to his clothes.

If Lawrence saw him like this, his lip would be curled in a way that would suggest he’d scented something deeply unpleasing. However, Lawrence would never look upon him in such a way again, considering he was now hanging from the ceiling fan like meat on a butcher hook.

“Did anyone call the police?” he asked, tapping long fingers on the arm of the chair.

“I sure hope so,” drawled Gabriel. He leaned against the well-polished, cherry oak credenza. Crystal glasses clinked together. The decanters of brandy and fine whiskey barely moved.

Gabe, considered to be the more normal brother of the de Vincent horde, appeared still half asleep. Dressed only in a pair of sweats, he rubbed idly at his jaw as he eyed the swaying legs. His face was drawn and pale.

Then again, those who held that opinion also didn’t know the real Gabriel.

“I called Troy,” Dev answered grimly from where he stood on the other side of the study. He appeared like the oldest son—the son who was now apparently in charge of the entire de Vincent dynasty—should always appear. Dark hair combed neatly, jaw clear of stubble, and not a damn wrinkle on the linen pants he slept in. Probably fucking stopped to iron them.

“I told him what happened,” Dev continued. “He’s on his way.”

Lucian glanced over at Dev. “You found him?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Got up and came down here. Saw that the light was on and this was how I found him.” Dev folded his arms across his chest. “When did you get home, Lucian?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked.

“Just answer the question.”

A slow grin of understanding tugged at his mouth. “You think I had something to do with the current state of dear, old Dad?”

Devlin said nothing. He waited. Typical Dev, though. Quiet and as cold as a freshly dug grave. He was nothing like Lucian. Nothing. It was Gabe who watched Lucian like he guessed the truth, like he knew better.

Lucian rolled his eyes. “I have no idea if he was even awake and down here when I got in. I used my own entrance and was otherwise happily engaged in other activities until you called.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Dev responded in the same tone he’d used a hundred times throughout their childhood.

“Sure as hell doesn’t sound like that.” How screwed up was that? Their father was hanging from the ceiling fan by his own six-hundred-dollar leather belt, and Dev was asking him about his whereabouts? His fingers stilled on the arm of the chair. It was then he noticed the red smudge along his pointer. He curled his fingers inward. “So, where were you two?”

Dev raised his brows.

Gabe looked away.

Shaking his head, he chuckled under his breath. “Look, I’m not a forensic expert, but it looks like he hung himself.”

“It’s an unintended death,” Gabe stated, and Lucian wondered what crime show he learned that phrase from. “They’re still going to look into it. Especially since there appears to be no . . . no letter left behind.” He gestured to the desk’s clutter-free surface with his chin. “Neither of us have really searched for one, though. Shit. I can’t believe this. . . .”

Lucian’s gaze flickered over to his father’s body. Neither could he. “You called Troy?” He focused on Dev. “He’s probably going to throw a damn party. Hell, we should be celebrating.”

“Do you have any decency?” Dev gritted out.

“Are you seriously asking me that question in reference to our father?”

Dev’s jaw tightened in the barest flicker of emotion. “Do you have any idea what people are going to say about this?”

“Does the expression on my face give any indication that I care what others think?” Lucian queried softly. “Or at any point in my life that I cared?”

“You might not care, but the last thing our family needs is to be dragged through the mud yet again.”

There were a lot of things their family didn’t need, but one more dark smear upon the family’s less than pristine reputation was the least of things to worry about.

“Perhaps our father should’ve thought about that before . . .” He trailed off, jerking his chin to where he hung.

Dev’s lips thinned, and Lucian knew it took every ounce of his brother’s self-control not to respond. After all, Dev had years of practicing restraint when it came to Lucian baiting him.

Dev said nothing, simply stepped around their father’s legs and stalked out the study, quietly closing the doors behind him.

“Did I say something?” Luc mused, arching a brow.

Gabe leveled a bland look at him. “Why do you do that?”

He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “Why not?”

“You know how he gets.”

The thing was Luc did know how Dev got, but did Gabe? He didn’t think so. Probably because Gabe didn’t want to see how Dev really got when that well-practiced control cracked just an inch.

Gabe stared at those damn legs again, his tone grim when he asked, “Do you really think our father would’ve done this?”

“Looks like it to me,” he replied as he focused on the ghastly white hands frozen in time.

“There is very little he could do that would actually surprise me, but hanging himself?” Gabe lifted a hand, dragging his fingers through his hair. “That’s not his . . . style.”

Luc had to agree. It would be very unlike Lawrence to do them a solid and leave them all in peace. “Maybe it’s the curse.”

“Are you serious?” Gabe cursed under his breath. “You’re starting to sound like Livie.”

The grin returned as he thought of their housekeeper. Mrs. Olivia Besson was like a second mother to them, as much a part of this house as the very walls and roofs, but the damn woman was as superstitious as sailors on a stormy night. The grin vanished like a dream.

A heavy silence fell between them as they both found themselves staring at their father. It was Gabe who broke it, and he spoke quietly, almost as if he worried he’d be overheard. “I woke up before Dev called me. I thought I heard someone on the top level.”

The damn air halted in Lucian’s throat.

“I went up there, but . . .” His brother’s chest rose with a heavy breath. “You know what you planned to do tomorrow? You’re not going to be able to now.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” he repeated with a shocked laughed. “You can’t leave the state the very next day after our father died.”

Lucian didn’t see a problem with it at all.

“Dev would go ape shit.”

“Dev doesn’t even know what I’m doing,” he replied. “He probably won’t even know I’m gone. I’ll be back the following morning.”

“Lucian—”

“It’s important that I do this. You know that. I don’t trust . . . I don’t trust that Dev would’ve picked the right person. There is no way I’m just going to step aside and let him handle this.” His tone brooked no room for argument. “Dev can believe all he wants that he’s the one handling this. I don’t care, but I will have a say.”

Gabe sighed wearily. A moment passed. “You better make sure your guest fully understands how important it is that she does not breathe a word of what has happened here.”

“Of course,” he murmured, rising lazily from the chair. He wasn’t at all surprised by the fact his brother knew he’d brought someone home.

This house had ears and eyes.

Gabe started toward the door. “I’ll find Dev.”

Lucian watched his brother leave and then turned back to the body of his father, searching for something, anything inside him. The shock he’d felt upon entering the room had faded before it fully formed. That was the man who raised him, hanging from the ceiling fan, and he couldn’t even find a kernel of sorrow within him. Twenty-eight years of living under this man’s thumb and there was nothing. Not even relief. Just an abyss of nothing.

He looked up at the ceiling fan again.

Did Lawrence de Vincent hang himself? The patriarch of the family would’ve outlived all of them out of pure spite.

But if it hadn’t been him, then that meant someone did it and made it look like a suicide. Wasn’t impossible. Crazier shit had happened. He thought of the footsteps he’d heard. It couldn’t be. . . .

Briefly closing his eyes, he cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long night and not in a fun way. Tomorrow was going to be even longer. As he left the room, he stooped down and lifted the edge of the rug, rolling the heavy material back from the reach of the fluid spreading across the floor.