Six of Hearts

By L.H. Cosway

Step right up and meet Jay Fields: Illusionist. Mentalist. Trickster.

I think in triangles. You think in straight lines.

I show you a table and make you believe it’s a chair.

Smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand, misdirection. I trick and deceive.

But most of all, I put on a good show.

The world thinks I killed a man, but I didn’t. Bear with me. It’s all a part of the plan.

Revenge is what I want. I want it for me and I want it for her.
I want it for all six of us.

She doesn’t remember me, but she’s the reason for everything. She’ll be my prize at the end of all this – if I can hold onto my willpower, that is. Maybe I’ll slip up a little, have a taste, just a small one.

So go ahead and pick a card. Come inside and see the show. Look at my hands, look so closely that you can’t see what’s happening while you’re so focused on looking. I’ll be destroying your world from right here in the spotlight.

You’ll never see me coming until it’s too late.

I’ve only got one heart, and after I’ve pulled off my grand deception I’ll hand it right to her.

So, sit back, relax, and let my girl tell you our story. You’re in for one hell of a ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.H. Cosway
• Release date: Jul 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310757051

L.H. Cosway

L.H. Cosway has a BA in English Literature and Greek and Roman Civilisation and an MA in Postcolonial Literature. She lives in Dublin city. Her inspiration to write comes from music. Her favourite things in life include writing stories, vintage clothing, dark cabaret music, food, musical comedy, and of course, books.She thinks that imperfect people are the most interesting kind. They tell the best stories.

Book preview

Prologue

1998.

Jason ’ s neighbours ’ house was much nicer than his own. At home all he ever heard was shouting, crying, or silence. All he ever felt was the pain of his father ’ s fists colliding with some part of his body.

One day while outside in their adjoining back gardens, he ’ d befriended the neighbours ’ daughter. She was the prettiest girl he ’ d ever seen. He liked being around her because she was always smiling, a smile full of happiness and perfect white teeth. He wanted to capture that emotion, steal a little piece of it for himself.

Sometimes, on the days when his father was away at work, he felt something like happiness. It would just be him, Mum, and his brother Jack. He loved them both so much that he felt he would do anything for them. They would laugh and play in the garden, and for a time forget that in just a few hours the violence his dad always brought would return.

The neighbour girl would give him and his little brother food. She must have sensed their hunger, somehow known his father tightly rationed everything and his mother was powerless to stop him. He was big and strong, and his mother was small and weak. That was the way his dad liked it.

His favourite thing about his neighbours ’ house, though, was the television. They weren ’ t allowed to watch TV in his house. It was against his dad ’ s rules. He would only ever hear it on at night time when he and his brother had been sent to bed and his father was home from work. At his neighbours ’ house, he could watch endless television. There were no rules about that.

He ’ d been waiting in the old shed in the garden that night, knowing his father had been out drinking and would likely return home in a temper. Jason planned to stop him this time. He would do whatever was in his power to keep him from hurting his brother and mother, even if it meant taking the beating himself.

To pass the time in the shed, and to keep his mind from the pain he would soon endure, he brought some marbles and a deck of playing cards, practicing various tricks he ’ d made up. He always enjoyed doing tricks for people, seeing the look of wonder on their faces as he dazzled them with his skills.

At school he and his best friend Jessie would make a killing. Jessie would take the bets, and Jay would wager with his classmates that he could figure out which card they had without ever seeing it. It was one of the simplest tricks, but he was always challenging himself to think bigger. To master tricks that would impress people and gain their respect.

It was past midnight when he heard his dad come in. The front door slammed shut, and his father ’ s feet pounded on the steps as he went up the stairs. He knew that his absence would distract his dad. He would go looking for Jason, and that would keep him away from Jack and his mother.

As he peered out the window, he saw the light come on in his parents ’ bedroom. There was some quiet talking, and then the light went off again. Silence. Jason let out a long breath. Perhaps this would be one of the rare times when his dad wasn ’ t in need of a punching bag.

He decided to wait for twenty minutes before going back inside. His dad would be asleep by then and wouldn ’ t hear him sneaking in. As he waited, he heard muffled voices coming from somewhere nearby. Peeking out the window again, he watched as three men dressed in dark clothes approached the back door. They were encased in shadow, so Jason couldn ’ t see their faces.

Frozen in place, he saw one of them bash in the glass part of the door. Then he reached in and opened it from the other side. Jason ’ s heart pounded. These were bad men, perhaps even worse than his own dad. He could feel it. They were breaking into his house, and he had to stop them.

Racing for the door, he entered the kitchen to find two of the hooded men staring at him, while the other walked around the room, pouring petrol over everything.

Fuck! It ’ s McCabe ’ s kid, the tallest of the three swore.

Take care of him, said the one with the petrol gruffly before moving into the next room.

The tall one grabbed Jason, but he struggled, biting and kicking at the man. Just as he started to scream, the man stuffed a balled-up dishcloth in his mouth, preventing him from making a sound. He continued to struggle and then felt a mind-numbing pain crash into the back of his skull.

That was the last thing he remembered before he woke up, smoke and flames blurring his vision. His house was on fire, and his whole family was still sleeping upstairs. He stumbled to his feet, preparing to go and wake them up, but then he heard someone shouting at him not to move. A fireman grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder. He struggled, but the man holding him was too strong. Seconds later he was outside, the fireman setting him down on a stretcher in an ambulance.

My family! I have to wake them up! he protested hysterically, but a medic held him down. He felt bile rise in his throat, nausea overtaking him as he vomited into a bucket.

He ’ s got a concussion, he vaguely heard someone say.

He ’ d never felt more helpless in his life, staring up at his house as the fire overtook it. He tried so hard to remember what those three men looked like, but their faces were just shadowy blurs in his mind.

At the hospital, a female doctor with pretty, concerned eyes looked him over. She frowned when she saw the bruises on his ribs, asking where he ’ d gotten them from.

He told her that he ’ d fallen off his bike.

She didn ’ t look like she believed him.

Time was either moving too fast or too slow; he couldn ’ t seem to tell. Whenever he asked about his mother and Jack, nobody would tell him anything. Then a bald man with glasses came and sat down with him in the room where he ’ d been placed. It was full of toys for little children, but at twelve years of age, Jason decided he had no interest in toys anymore.

Jason could see in the bald man ’ s eyes that he wasn ’ t bringing him good news, and that made him lash out. He picked up a bunch of toy cars and began throwing them around the room. He didn ’ t want to hear what the man had to say; he knew he couldn ’ t handle it.

A few hours later he was told that his uncle from America was on his way to come and take him to live with him. Jason had heard of this uncle, his mother ’ s eccentric brother, but had never actually met him.

In the interim, his neighbours came to take care of him. They filled the doorway of the room in the hospital: mum, dad, and daughter. She had the biggest blue eyes, his favourite eyes. They were the perfect family, and his own didn ’ t exist anymore.

His purpose was gone now. What was the point of his life if it wasn ’ t to protect Mum and Jack?

His body started to shake as tears fell down his face. The girl rushed to his side, throwing her small arms around his neck and hugging him tight. She whispered that everything would be okay and that he was going to come and stay with them for the next few days until his uncle got there.

It took him a long time to stop crying, but when he did, he went home with his neighbours. At their house he spent the saddest three days of his life.

Then his uncle arrived and told him unsympathetically that his family were dead. He took him away to a world that was nothing and everything like the one he left behind. Each day Jason thought about those hooded men, about his mother and brother, whom he couldn ’ t keep safe in the end, and with those thoughts came one unchanging theme.

Revenge.

One

Present day.

Matilda.

Sometimes in life you just have to laugh.

These last couple of weeks I ’ ve been making my debut into the hazardous world of online dating, and right now I ’ m staring at my computer screen, trying to figure out if this latest suitor is serious or just seriously taking the piss. What does he look like? I hear you ask? Well, I know he ’ s got a really nice set of particularly shiny abs, or he Googled a picture of a really nice set of particularly shiny abs and used it as his profile image. Is that supposed to be oil or sweat? I can ’ t tell.

Anyway, his message reads as follows:

Hey, pretty lady,

Dayum, I am agog! Your picture caught my attention as soon as I spied it. You are soooo flipping beautiful. I really hope we can get to know each other better. Please check out my profile and write me back. If you don ’ t, I might just have to cry.

Steve.

xxxxxxx.

There are so many things wrong with this, I don ’ t even know where to start. First of all, I have to whip out the dictionary on my office shelf to check the meaning of the word agog. Its definition is in a state of eager desire, or highly excited by eagerness, curiosity, or anticipation.

Right.

Steve ’ s use of the word agog makes me the opposite of agog. In fact, I find myself in an eager state of desire to delete his message from my inbox. Then there ’ s his use of dayum. His profile states he ’ s twenty-seven years old and was born and raised in North County Dublin, where nobody uses the word dayum. And if they do, they need a good firm talking to. Somebody ’ s been watching too much MTV. And the mention of crying? I have no words.

In any case, my reaction to his wooing endeavours is a big, fat no thanks. This is mainly because his message smacks of a copy and paste job, hence the use of pretty lady instead of my actual name.

I can imagine he ’ s been sending this bad boy out to every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the site. Or should I say every Tomasina, Dickina, and Harriet, waiting all agog for some unsuspecting woman to write back and be tricked into cybersex. I bet Steve only waits about ten seconds before inundating his victims with dick pics.

We really do live in a world full of perverts.

Also, I apologise to any woman whose parents were cruel enough to name her Dickina.

A quick glance at my watch tells me it ’ s eight forty-five. Only fifteen more minutes before the office officially opens, so I quickly log out of the pit of despair, otherwise known as my online dating site, and check to make sure I have all the day ’ s appointments prepared for.

Brandon Solicitors is my dad ’ s law practice, which can be found in a small three-room office space in Dublin city centre. Ever since I finished school, I ’ ve been working here full-time as his legal secretary. We mostly deal with small claims. You know, people who want to sue their local supermarket because they slipped and fell on a wet floor. Or people who want to sue their local supermarket because they slipped and fell on a wet floor.

Please don ’ t overlook my use of sarcasm on that last sentence.

Basically, we ’ re not exactly the high flyers of the law world around here, but we get by.

The entrance door to the office swings open, and my dad, Hugh, limps his way into the room. His limp is particularly noticeable today, and it makes me frown. He must not be getting as much rest as usual.

When I was just eight years old, our house was broken into by a group of thugs, and they beat my father so badly that he now walks with a permanent limp in his left leg. That ’ s not the worst of what they did, though. One of them shot my mother when she made an attempt to call the police. When I became hysterical at the sight of my dead parent, the shooter threw me into a mirror. The glass shattered and I got badly cut, leaving me with a permanent scar that runs from just below my ear, down the side of my neck, and under my jawline. Mum died that night, leaving me and Dad all alone. They never caught the burglars.

I was only a child when it happened, but my heart remembers my mother, and I miss her every day. Dad never mentions it, but I know he does, too. She was the love of his life, and he never quite found it in himself to move on to someone else.

Morning, Matilda, says Dad. Could you get me a coffee from the place down the street? Our machine is broken again.

Will do, I reply cheerily in an effort to block out the horrific memory that had just been flitting through my head. How have you been sleeping?

He grimaces and glances down. I suppose you noticed the leg?

Yeah, you need to rest it more often, I say, grabbing my handbag from under my desk.

I was up half the night working on the O ’ Connell case, he explains.

Right, well, get an early night tonight, okay? I urge, walking over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. He replies that he will, and I duck out of the office. I can be particularly protective of my dad ’ s health, because we ’ re really all the other has left in the world.

Making my way down the narrow staircase that leads out of the building and onto the street, I bump into a tall man with golden-brown hair. I wouldn ’ t normally notice a man ’ s hair so specifically, but this guy has some serious style going on. It ’ s cut tight at the sides and left long on the top, kind of like a sexy villain in a movie set in the 1920s. I stare up at him, wide-eyed. He ’ s wearing a very nice navy suit with a leather satchel bag slung over his shoulder. Even though it was the first thing I noticed, his hair pales in comparison to the wonder that is his face. I don ’ t think I ’ ve ever been up close to such a handsome example of the male species in my life.

Why can ’ t men like this write to me online? I ponder dejectedly.

Because men like this don ’ t even know the meaning of the term " socially awkward , " my brain answers.

My five-foot-something stares up at his six-foot-whatever, and I think to myself, what ’ s a prize like you doing in a dive like this? Actually, now that I ’ m looking at him, he does seem vaguely familiar, but I can ’ t put my finger on where I ’ ve seen him before.

Probably on the pages of a fashion magazine, if his looks are anything to go by.

If it hasn ’ t already been deduced from the fact that I can ’ t even find a date using the romantic connection slut that is the Internet, then I ’ ll spell it out. I ’ m useless with men, and I ’ m talking all men. Even the nice approachable fellows. And I ’ m not looking at a nice approachable fellow right now. I ’ m looking at a chew you up and spit you out tiger.

Rawr.

Since the entrance to the building is so narrow, we have to skirt around each other. I give him a hesitant smile and a shrug. His eyes sparkle with some kind of hidden knowledge as he lets me pass, like beautiful people know the meaning of the universe and are amused by us ordinary folks who have to bumble along in the dark.

I ’ m just about to step out the door when the tiger starts to speak. I ’ m looking for Brandon Solicitors. Do you know if I have the right place?

I step back inside.

He sounds like Mark Wahlberg when he ’ s letting his Southie roots all hang out. His deep American accent makes me want to close my eyes and savour the sound. But I don ’ t do that – because I ’ m not a complete psycho.

Yeah, this is the place. I work here, actually. I ’ m the secretary slash receptionist slash general dogsbody. It ’ s my dad ’ s firm, I reply. Too much information, Matilda. Too. Much. Information.

The tiger smiles, making him better-looking, if that ’ s even possible. And thankfully, he doesn ’ t comment on my fluster. I have an appointment with Hugh Brandon at nine. I ’ m Jay, he says, and takes a step closer to hold his hand out to me. My back hits the wall, his tall frame dwarfing mine. I don ’ t think he realises just how narrow this space is, and now I can smell his cologne. Wow, it ’ s not often that I get close enough to a man to smell him. And Jay Fields smells indecently good.

Ah, right. Jay Fields. Yeah, I have you pencilled in. You can go on upstairs, and Dad will take care of you, I reply, shaking his hand and letting go quickly so that he doesn ’ t notice my sweatacular palms. I ’ ve got an errand to run.

He stares at me for a long moment, like his eyes are trying to take in my every feature, but that can ’ t be right. When he finally responds, it ’ s a simple, I won ’ t keep you, then, Matilda.

God. Why does the way he says keep you in that deep voice have to make my heart flutter? It ’ s been literally thirty seconds, and I ’ m already well on my way to developing a crush.

He makes some keen eye contact with me, then turns and continues up the stairs to the office. I ’ m already on the street when I realise I hadn ’ t offered my name, and yet he knew it. Perhaps he ’ d been browsing our website. Our offices might be shoddy, but I always make sure to keep our online presence up to scratch. There ’ s a picture of me, Dad, and Will, the other solicitor who works for the practice, on the About Us page.

So if he knew who I was already, why did he ask if he had the right place?

Miracle of all miracles, was he actually, like, chatting me up or something? Be still my beating heart. Or is he just the friendly, chatty type? I consider these questions as I walk inside the caf é three buildings down from our office and order two lattes to go. I briefly think about ordering something for the tiger, aka Jay Fields, but he might be one of those picky coffee drinkers, so I don ’ t.

When I get back, I find Dad ’ s shut himself inside his office with Jay, and the next appointment is already waiting to be seen. She ’ s a middle-aged woman wearing a neck brace. I haven ’ t had the chance to look at her information, but I can imagine what she ’ s here for. Some sort of accident claim.

What I really want to know is what Jay ’ s here for. Yep, I ’ m already wondering about this man way too much. I remember him calling up last week to make the appointment, and somehow I neglected to ask him what kind of a claim he wanted to make. It ’ s weird, too, because I have my set spiel for appointments, and I never forget to ask for all the information I need. It ’ s almost like my subconscious knew I was speaking with a gorgeous man, thus rendering me double F-ed : frazzled and forgetful.

Knowing Dad will want his caffeine fix as soon as possible, I knock lightly on the door and wait to be let in. Dad calls for me to enter and I do, opening the door with the paper coffee cup in my hand. Jay ’ s sitting in the seat in front of Dad ’ s desk, his hands clasped together over his head as he lounges back, casual as you please. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk to Dad and give him his beverage. He seems a little out of sorts, so I put a hand on his shoulder and ask, Everything okay?

Dad looks lost in his own head for a minute, and I have to repeat the question a second time to get him to answer me.

What? Oh, yes, everything ’ s fine. Thanks for the coffee, chicken, he mutters.

It might be me who ’ s the problem, Jays puts in. I just presented your old man with a case he ’ s not sure he wants to take.

I look at Jay now, my brow furrowing. Who the hell is this guy? What he ’ s said has piqued my curiosity, though, so I close the door and fold my arms. Unless I ’ m needed to take notes, I don ’ t normally sit in on meetings with clients, but Dad ’ s demeanour has put me on edge, my protective instincts kicking into gear.

Jay grins in a way that makes me think he ’ s pleased with my attention. Oh, now she ’ s curious.

Okay, this man might be beautiful, but he ’ s also kind of strange.

Did you want to make a claim against someone? I ask, because Dad still isn ’ t talking. I suppose he ’ s still considering whatever Jay ’ s case is.

Nope. I want to sue someone, says Jay, all matter-of-fact.

For what?

Defamation of character, he answers before pulling a newspaper out of his bag. He flips through it, folds it open to the page he ’ s looking for, and hands it to me. I glance down at the tabloid, scanning the bold headline that reads, Illusionist Jay Fields Causes Death of Volunteer. I let my eyes drift briefly over the article, which features a promotional picture of Jay holding up a six of hearts card. Oh . Now I remember where I know him from.

A couple of weeks ago The Daily Post broke a story about an Irish-American illusionist with a new show coming to RT É . He was filming an upcoming episode when a tragic accident hit. I scan the article before me, recalling the details. A couple of hours after wrapping up the filming of an episode where Jay was paying homage to Houdini by re-creating a version of his Buried Alive stunt, the volunteer who ’ d taken part had died of a heart attack.

What Jay proposed to do was to put the volunteer, David Murphy, into a hypnotic state whereby he would only breathe in very little air, allowing him to be buried for twenty-four hours in an empty grave and not suffocate in the process. An impossible feat, many would say. The volunteer was given a panic button, and if anything went wrong, he could press it, and he ’ d be immediately dug up. In the end the panic button wasn ’ t needed, and he miraculously managed to survive the entire twenty-four hours underground. However, when he went to bed that night, he suffered a fatal heart attack and died.

Needless to say, the tabloids caught on to the story and began posing questions about whether or not Jay ’ s stunt had somehow caused David Murphy to have his heart attack. After all, being buried alive is quite the traumatic experience.

The piece before me, written by a well-known crime journalist named Una Harris, who was the one to break the initial story about Jay, is certainly extreme. It delves into Jay ’ s background in America, where she claims he spent a year in a juvenile detention facility for assaulting a man on the street. Before that he ’ d been a runaway, squatting in derelict buildings in Boston.

Harris poses questions about Jay ’ s less than squeaky-clean background. She wonders how a man who spent time in prison, even if it was a young offenders ’ prison, would be given permission to carry out dangerous stunts as he had been doing in his show. She also wonders why Jay, who had been performing some very successful live shows in Las Vegas, would give all that up to move to such a small pond as Ireland to film a series that would only reach a tiny audience in comparison to the States.

Overall, she basically out and out claims that Jay had shady motives for coming here, and perhaps he even intended for David Murphy to die. He did, after all, almost beat a man to death when he was just fifteen. Perhaps he ’ s simply come up with a more elaborate way to feed his need to harm people, Harris muses.

Whoa, this woman really doesn ’ t pull any punches with her insinuations. It ’ s almost like she ’ s begging for a lawsuit. I mean, I ’ ve worked with my dad long enough to know that you should always have hard evidence before you publicly make claims about people that could be construed as libellous. And aside from a few hazy pieces of information about Jay ’ s teenage years, Una Harris has zero evidence.

I draw my attention away from the newspaper to find that my dad and Jay had been having a conversation while I was lost in the article.

Don ’ t get me wrong, says Dad. The thought of taking on such a case excites me. I haven ’ t worked on anything like this in years, but at the same time I need to be selfless and tell you that there are far better solicitors out there for the job. I can even give you a few names to contact. You do actually want to win this case, I presume?

Jay uncrosses his legs and folds his arms. Hell, yeah, I want to win it. And I know you ’ re the man for the job, Hugh, no matter how much you try to convince me otherwise.

I silently hand him back the newspaper and he takes it, his fingertips brushing mine. The contact makes my skin tingle. Stupid handsome bastard.

Dad stares at Jay, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants to say yes — he just doesn ’ t have the confidence to do it. In all honesty, I ’ m hoping he continues to say no. I know how stressful the kind of case Jay is proposing can be, and I don ’ t want Dad going through all that. He just turned sixty last month. The landmark birthday only functioned to make me more aware of how many years he might have left.

I ’ m sorry, Mr Fields, but I ’ m going to have to stick to my guns on his one, Dad says apologetically. Taking on a journalist is one thing, but suing a newspaper is going to require a top-notch firm. As you can probably see, we ’ re not that.

Oh. Jay wants to sue the actual newspaper? I ’ m impressed. That takes some serious balls.

Okay, Matilda, stop thinking about the man ’ s balls.

Jay lets out a long sigh and turns his head to the window. A second later he gets up from his seat and thrusts his hand out at Dad. Well, if there ’ s no way I can convince you, he replies, and the two men shake hands. Thanks for your time anyway.

Jay goes to walk out the door but then turns back for a second, an impish gleam in his eye. Oh, before I go, can you recommend anywhere I might be able to rent a place close to the city? I ’ ve had to move out of the apartment I ’ d been staying in.

I take in a quick breath as Dad ’ s eyes light up. A couple of weeks ago he got it into his head to renovate the spare bedroom in our house so that he could take on a lodger and make a little extra money. I haven ’ t been too keen on the idea, since I don ’ t really want to share my living space with a stranger, but once Dad settled on the idea, there was no deterring him.

I certainly don ’ t want to share my living space with Jay Fields. Not because of his supposed history mapped out by Una Harris, but because I wouldn ’ t be able to relax around him. He has this magnetic energy that makes me feel anxious and excited all at once.

It ’ s funny you should ask, says Dad. I ’ ve been planning on renting out our spare room — if you ’ re interested, of course. It ’ s got an en-suite, newly refurbished.

I squeeze my fists tight and walk back out to the reception area, taking a seat at my desk and slugging back a gulp of my coffee. I don ’ t like how rapidly my heart beats at the thought of Jay moving into that room, so I leave before I hear his answer. Please, please, please let him say no.

My Dad ’ s raucous laughter streams out from the office; Jay ’ s obviously in there charming the pants off him. I silently curse my father for being such an easily charmed hussy.

No more than a minute later, both Dad and Jay leave his office. I can see Jay looking at me out of the corner of my eye, but I continue typing into the computer in front of me, feeling like if I look directly at him, he ’ ll somehow be able to tell how attractive I find him.

Matilda, could you do me a huge favour and bring Jay out to the house on your lunch break to see the room? I ’ d do it myself, only I have a meeting to go to.

Oh, Dad. You have no idea how you ’ re torturing me right now. It takes me several beats to answer. When I finally do, my voice is quiet. Yeah, okay.

What I really want to say is hell, no , but that would make me look like a bitch. And I ’ m not a bitch. Well, outside my own inner dialogue, I ’ m not.

Great, says Dad before turning to the waiting neck-brace woman. Ah, Mrs Kelly. You can come on in now.

Mrs Kelly follows Dad into his office, leaving me alone with Jay.

What time do you have lunch? he asks in a low voice, stepping closer to my desk.

One o ’ clock. We ’ ll have to get a taxi, because I need to be back here by two.

That ’ s okay. I can drive us, says Jay, and I bite my lip, looking up at him now. Wow, his eyes are kind of mesmerising, not quite brown, not quite green. We stare at one another for a long moment, and there ’ s a faint smile on his perfectly sculpted lips.

All right. See you at one, I tell him breezily, and then my eyes return to the screen in front of me as he leaves. On the outside I ’ m all business. On the inside I ’ m a nervous wreck. How in the hell am I going to act like a normal human being while spending at least an hour in his company? He really doesn ’ t know what he ’ s in for.

I wager I ’ ll last about five minutes before I blurt out something stupid, thus rendering the following fifty-five minutes an awkward delight. And when I say delight, I mean nightmare.

Just as I ’ m simultaneously organising files on my computer and agonising over my impending social doom, Will walks in the door, his wisp of brown hair a windswept mess atop his head. He was in court this morning, which is why he ’ s late to the office. Unlike most men, I get along with Will just fine. That ’ s probably because I find him about as sexually appealing as a pair of oversized granny knickers. So, when I said I ’ m crap with all men, I suppose I should adjust that statement. I ’ m just crap with all men that I fancy.

Sure, I can be their friend. But their girlfriend? Well, that just never seems to pan out. My one and only boyfriend from several years ago unceremoniously dumped me by text, and that just says it all. I ’ m still scarred from the experience.

Morning, Will, I greet my colleague as a folder slides out of his half-open briefcase. He bends over to pick it up, and I ’ m greeted with his unimpressive rear end. Two flat fried eggs in a hanky.

What? I said my inner dialogue was a bitch. The important thing is that I ’ d never actually say something so mean out loud. We all have thoughts that we would never, ever vocalise. And people who say they don ’ t are liars.

Hi, Matilda, could you be a love and make me a cup of tea? I ’ m parched.

Sure, I reply. It ’ s a good thing you ’ re a tea man, because the coffee machine ’ s on the outs again.

He shakes his head. That machine is broken more often than it ’ s functioning. I think it ’ s time to retire the poor old dear.

I let out a mock gasp. Don ’ t ever let Dad hear you say that. You know he never throws anything out until it ’ s well and truly dead.

Will laughs and walks into his office. I register the next couple of appointments as they arrive and spend the hours before lunch carrying out my usual mundane administrative tasks. I ’ d much rather be at home working at my sewing machine.

By day I might be a legal secretary, but by night I ’ m a dress designer extraordinaire. I design and make my own creations, and sell them through Etsy. It doesn ’ t make me enough money to be a proper wage, though, which is why I work here.

Before she died, my mother was a seamstress, and one of my earliest memories was of her teaching me how to sew. The hobby stuck with me, and now it ’ s my true escape. I find it wonderfully therapeutic to lose myself in a new design. In fact, it ’ s one of the only ways that I can still feel close to my mum.

When I glance at the clock and see it ’ s almost one, I make a quick run to the bathroom to fix my hair and the little makeup I put on this morning, staring at my face in the mirror. If I ’ d known I ’ d be meeting someone like Jay Fields today, I would ’ ve made more of an effort.

My friend Michelle tells me I have great lips and that I should try to enhance my best features. Actually, her exact words were blowjob lips, and I blushed like a maniac. I tend to get along with people who are the opposite of me. Confident girls who take to men and sex like ducks to water. They paddle through the lake of dating without a care in the world. Michelle is one of those girls, and I admire that about her. There ’ s a certain bravery in not giving a crap what other people think and simply grabbing what

Reviews for Six of Hearts

[tacmyers · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this book. There were parts of it that easy to figure out, but other parts kept me guessing until the end.

[Nic · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really liked how every part of this book was based on the theme of misdirection. The payoff here is that the journey is entertaining, but the book becomes even more satisfying once one understands everything that's going on and sees the overall purpose served by different events and actions. I found Six of Hearts entertaining on a lot of levels and enjoyed it as much as I have other works by LH Cosway.

[tonifgmamtc · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I went into this book blind. I didn't even read the blurb. I had a couple of book friends say it was a top read for them so I thought I'd give it a go. I'm super glad that I did.

Immediately I knew the female lead was my kinda girl. Often I like the guy but not the chick. For awhile during this story, I was more about her than him. She's just so everyday in a realistic way, someone I could picture friending in real life.

It didn't take long for me to fall for him too. He's just very on about everything, extremely manly without being over the top. The magic scenes were extra cool. Before reading this book, I never though of illusionists as being mega sexy.

The meeting back up with a person from your past has been done before, but the mixing of his profession, her profession and a foreign setting meshed quite well to make the story unique. Also, I really like the writing voice. I'll definitely be reading more from this author.

[olongbourn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Four Stars. GoodReads defines four stars as "I really liked it", and I do. This is the first L H Cosway books I have read and it was interesting through and through.

Something must be said about the right cover for a book. Though we know we shouldn't judge a book by its cover, the cover arrested my attention. The summary blurb set a hook in me. The prologue tugged at my heart. Written from Matilda's POV was perfect!

So long for now... I'm moving on to other Cosway books!!! Still Life with Strings and Painted Faces.