Too Good to Be True Read Online Kristen Ashley

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Funny, Paranormal, Suspense Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 127368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
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But recently, she’d been pulling herself together.

Portia getting it together was not due to efforts from Lou. Lou wanted Portia to like her, always had from the first time we met her (that included me, but I was less of a challenge). Now, Lou was the soft touch when Portia asked for money.

No. Portia was learning to toe the line due to me being o-v-e-r over her antics.

Dad had given her that two thousand so she wouldn’t starve because he knew I’d be a hard-ass.

And hard-ass I was.

So Portia finally seemed to be pulling it together.

And now there was Daniel Alcott.

“Have you met the Alcotts?” I asked Lou.

“I know Richard,” she said in a weirdly hesitant voice.

I glanced at her again. “Well?”

“Sorry?”

“Do you know him well?”

“Not really. Met in passing at a party or a dinner here or there.”

She said this, but it sounded like a question, like I could confirm she’d met Earl Alcott at a party or dinner here or there.

I didn’t inquire further about that.

“Not Jane?” I asked.

“No,” she murmured. “I’ve never met ‘The Countess.’”

Yes.

“The Countess,” capitalized and in quotes because this was how she was known in the media.

Jane Alcott was quite the mysterious character. Ethereally gorgeous, if the rare photo of her was anything to go by, and highly reclusive. Even when she was younger. Therefore, obviously, with beauty, a title and money, she was an object of fascination, which could explain why she was reclusive.

It was not the same with Richard. Or Daniel.

And definitely not Ian.

They weren’t reclusive, and as for the two sons, they didn’t shy away from the media at all.

I couldn’t say Ian sought it like Daniel seemed to, but it sure sought Ian.

“Have you heard about the house?” I went on, hoping to shake her out of her mood.

“Everyone’s heard about the house,” she answered.

“What have you heard?”

“It’s haunted.” I knew she’d turned my way when she asked, “Have you heard that?”

“Yes,” I said. “People tend to die there.”

“It’s been around for hundreds of years,” she reminded me. “There was a fortress there during William the Conqueror’s time, so a dwelling has been there for over a millennium. It’s bound to have had a death or two.”

A death or two?

“When Portia told us things were serious with Daniel and asked us to this week at Duncroft, I looked it up,” I informed her. “Some pretender to the throne was tortured and killed in the castle that sat there in the thirteenth century. The torture was medieval, Lou, literally and brutally. Then they threw him in a pit and starved him to death. Apparently, the new house is built over that pit, and his bones are still there.”

“Why a week?”

From the subject I was talking about, I was confused by her question. “Pardon?”

“Why not invite us for a weekend? Or if she wanted more time for us to get to know Daniel and his family, a long weekend? Or, really, starting off with us all going to dinner in London? That would be easier for everybody. Why are we here from Friday to the next Sunday? That’s a long time, it’s a lot to ask, it’s a lot of pressure for everyone, and it’s strange.”

“It’s Portia.”

I heard Lou sigh.

Yes. The time suck. The drama.

All Portia.

“Then there was that earl’s daughter in the fifteenth century who wasn’t thrilled with the man her father chose for her to marry,” I continued with my theme to take us from Portia’s larks, which I found annoying and Lou had a lot more patience for, but they had to wear thin for her too. “So, on the eve of her wedding, she poisoned her fiancé, and not to leave them out, also poisoned her father, her mother and her husband-to-be’s father and mother. Not exactly the Red Wedding, but the story goes that the poison she chose made them expel everything from blood and bile to unmentionables from both ends until they died. I’d call that worse than the Red Wedding…by a lot.”

“It’s pretty gross,” Lou agreed.

“There was also that countess and her lover. I forget his name.”

“Cuthbert.”

I nearly smiled. Of course she knew about the fortress, the castle and Cuthbert. She’d looked it up too.

“Cuthbert,” I repeated. “Found in flagrante delicto with the countess by the earl. They were quite into what they were doing, didn’t know he’d come upon them. He had time to get hold of a dagger, and then he gutted old Cuthbert in his cuckold’s bed while his wife watched in horror, before he turned the dagger on her.”

“Poor Cuthbert.”

“And poor Lady Joan,” I added. “Her blood pooled with Cuthbert’s as she bled to death beside him in that bed.”

“Yes,” Lou replied. “Poor Lady Joan.”

“Four people have hung themselves in that house,” I carried on. “At least two have died in duels in the forest surrounding it, though there could be more. After that practice was outlawed, it still went on. And then there’s what happened to Dorothy Clifton in the twenties.”



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