She put the glass and decanter on the silver tray, and stepped back. Only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath.
She let it out and took a few minutes to regulate her breathing before stripping off the latex gloves, putting them into her purse. She glanced at the marble and bronze clock on the mantel. In ten minutes, Sir Jeremy Greene would arrive, believing he’d be rendezvousing with a mysterious starlet.
There was no doubt in Kendra’s mind that he would come. She’d studied him. Profiled him. Even though he already had a mistress—a beautiful young Italian model who’d accompanied him here—he wouldn’t be able to resist the coy invitation of another. That was his pattern. And when he came, she’d serve him the claret. It would only take one sip before the effects of the poison would shut down his system and he’d collapse to the floor with multiple organ failure.
Imagining it, she felt a little sick, and wondered suddenly if she could go through with the plan. Then she heard approaching footsteps.
Too late to reconsider.
She drew in a steadying breath, and tried to reassure herself that what happened next was justice. And once it was meted out, there’d be no turning back.
The door, only partially closed, swung open. From her position, she could see Sir Jeremy’s hand, slim and elegant, wrapped around the doorknob. Kendra straightened, forcing her expression into one of subservience.
Sir Jeremy paused, and Kendra knew a moment of confusion when he took a step back from the door. Then she heard it. More footsteps.
Kendra froze. Had Sir Jeremy’s mistress followed him, suspecting his infidelity? Her eyes cut to the glass of wine. Crap. The idiot might have bad taste in men, but she didn’t deserve to die. She’d have to abandon her plan after all.
“What are you doing here?” Sir Jeremy said, his voice sharp and too loud in the silence of the hallway.
“Our last shipment was confiscated by the DEA.” The other voice was lower, masculine and faintly accented.
“I heard. You should be more careful.” Sir Jeremy’s tone was dismissive.
“We were careful. Our sources tell us that somebody talked.”
“What? Who—What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Greene’s voice rose. “Are you mad?”
There was a strange ppfftting sound, and Kendra nearly jumped out of her skin when the door suddenly flew inward, crashing against the wall. Shocked, she watched as Greene fell backward into the room, his features contorted into grooves of agony while his hands clutched at his chest. Blood seeped between his fingers. Even as her mind reeled at the implications, she looked at the man in the doorway, recognizing him instantly: the unfriendly footman from the ballroom.
Their eyes met; time stood still. Then Kendra’s gaze dropped to the gun he held deftly in his hand, a silencer elongating the barrel, and instinct took over. She raced toward the hidden passageway just as he pulled the trigger. Another ppfftt. The bullet scored the fireplace mantel, spraying chips of marble. Kendra made it to the tapestry as the blue-and-white Chinese vase shattered into a million pieces.
She’d left the panel door open a fraction—a foresight that now may have saved her life. Wrestling with the tapestry, she yanked the panel open and dove through. She pulled the door shut behind her, and was plunged into instant darkness.
It would take the killer less than a minute to figure out how to open the secret passageway, she calculated.
Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .
Blind, she stumbled up the stairs, using her hands to feel the way.
Fuck! Why was it so dark? She’d left the door at the top of the stairs open . . . but of course, it was evening, and whatever moonlight penetrated the windows in the upstairs room would be too weak to reach the stairwell. How could she have been so utterly stupid? She should’ve left the light on in the room above. But she hadn’t anticipated this. Who’d have thought that she wouldn’t be the only one after Sir Jeremy? What were the odds?
Listening for any sound that would warn her that the assassin had found the hidden doorway, Kendra attempted to hurry up the stairwell. But as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t climb the narrow, twisting stairs fast enough. The darkness was too absolute. She couldn’t even see her hands as they reached out to slide against the stairwell’s cold, damp walls. One wrong move, and she’d fall, probably breaking her neck.
Would that be better than a bullet in the head?
She could hear her breath, coming in and out in fast pants. Her skin was oily with her own sweat, and there was a sour taste filling her mouth. Fear.
Her heart raced as she climbed upward, spiraled around. She was beginning to feel claustrophobic, like there was an enormous pressure on her chest, crushing her. How many more steps?