From bestselling and award-winning author Selena Kitt - Over a Million Books Sold!
Lydia has heard the stories from her co-workers about the house at the apex of two dead end roads, but the young immigrant housekeeper isn't scared easily. Working for the strange and reserved jewelry maker Hugo Kauffman pays well, and for that, she's willing to overlook his eccentricities. But when Lydia finds a black, velvet choker in a box she's been forbidden from opening, her life is changed forever, and she finds herself suddenly bound to the strange and eccentric old man who runs the household. Will the introduction and interest of the new, young portrait painter save her from her plight?
Note: This short story originally appeared in the anthology Shivers
Related Titles
- Advent Calendar
- Hunting Season - co-authored with Blake Crouch
- Pumpkin Eater
- The Gingerbread Man
- The Laundry Chute
- The Ride
- The Velvet Choker
- SHIVERS (Anthology) - Get ALL the above stories and MORE!
EXCERPT:
"I finished it," he whispered, sitting beside her, brushing a soft blonde curl from her cheek. She nodded, smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes. Instead, there was sadness there. He wished she could speak, to reveal the mystery of herself to him. He longed to unravel her, unwrap her, find her true center.
"Do you want to see?"
Again she nodded, sitting up in bed, the sheet pooling in her lap. He'd seen her nude for a month, all day, every day, and still, the sight of her left him breathless and aching for her.
When she swung her legs over the side of the bed, he grabbed her wrist, shaking his head. "Wait." Puzzled, she stopped, cocking her head at him. He swallowed, glancing through the sheer gauze of her bed curtains at the canvas on the other side of the room. "I'm afraid."
He didn't have to hear the question. It was in her eyes. Afraid? Of what?
"I'm afraid..." It wasn't a fear of her liking or not liking it. He could care less if his art was reviewed favorably, especially by the subject. In that way, his subjects were always objects, always distant from his purpose. He slid his hand down into hers, squeezing. "I'm afraid I'm never going to see you again."
He bowed his head at the truth, his heart hammering in his chest, a weight there like anvil. It was finished, and he was leaving, and there would be no more lunches; no more furious scribbling at him and the feel of her poking his arm with her finger, look, look what I have to say; no more feeling her gaze following him everywhere, everywhere he went.
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