Silk Queen: Book Two

By GJ Walker-Smith

Book 8 in #1 bestselling Wishes Series
To a wannabe princess like Fiona Black, Jean-Luc Décarie is storybook perfect.
He's incredibly handsome, worldly and wealthy beyond measure.
Best of all, he loves her.
At first, her dreams of a fairy-tale ending with her Prince Charming seem to be back in her grasp, but she soon realises that all that glitters is not gold.
The Décarie name is mud... and through no fault of his own, Jean-Luc's crown is rusty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Walker-Smith
• Release date: Aug 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9780994376091

GJ Walker-Smith

Wife, mother, writer, wanderer. Lives near the beach in Western Australia. Author of YA novels The Wishes Series. Saving Wishes (book 1) iBooks Best Of 2013 Breakout Book Of The Year AU & NZ.

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Silk Queen

Silk Queen

Book

Two

G. J. Walker-Smith

Copyright © 2017 by G. J. Walker-Smith

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

Silk Queen

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

Diary of Fiona Black

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

Diary of Fiona Black

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

Diary of Fiona Black

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

Diary of Fiona Black

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

Diary of Fiona Black

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

Diary of Fiona Black

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

Diary of Fiona Black

Epilogue

Diary of Fiona Décarie

Stone Roses

Also by G.J. Walker-Smith

Contact the author:

Silk Queen

Book

Two

By G.J. Walker-Smith

Chapter

1

Jean

-

Luc

When I started university in London, I wanted the whole experience, and that meant stepping out of my

comfort

zone

.

I’m not a gregarious, outgoing person. Sharing a place with a couple of random flatmates was supposed to change that, but after living with them for over a year I had to concede that I was no further along in my quest.

My choice of roommates probably had something to do with it. Describing them as odd would’ve been an understatement. Dmitry was a Russian exchange student, studying for a degree in molecular biology. By all accounts, he was a brilliant man – he just didn’t act like it. He rarely left his room, and when he did, it was only to check if the phone was bugged. I once asked why, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Eventually, they will find us, he gravely warned. Be ready.

To this day, I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but if they ever do show up, I pray that they kidnap him and return him to his home planet.

My other roommate was just as eccentric, but marginally easier to deal with. By day, Gordon was a thirty-something mild-mannered accountant. By night, he was Rhiannon, the leading cabaret act at the Fizzy Oyster nightclub.

Gordon wore grey suits and wide plaid ties. Rhiannon favoured corsets and fishnet stockings, which was perfectly fine unless they were left airing in the bathroom.

It wasn’t an ideal living arrangement, but I was slowly getting used to it. I like structure and rules, and to stop ourselves from killing each other, we’d implemented many. Most of the time, things ran smoothly, and when they didn’t we’d call a meeting and sort

it

out

.

Historically, the act of calling a house meeting was reserved only for emergencies – like our inability to deal with the horror of finding Rhiannon’s false eyelashes stuck to the soap – but my reason for calling that day’s meeting was no one’s emergency but

my

own

.

It had been nearly a week since my impromptu lunch date with enchanting Fiona Black. I read her diary from cover to cover more times than I was willing to admit, but to say I understood her better would be a lie. From what I could tell, she was incredibly smart but not the least bit studious. Fiona was naïve to the point of silliness, and yet wise beyond her years. She didn’t suffer fools, but had come dangerously close to marrying one, and she had a penchant for using the word ‘dead’ when describing

something

good

.

I was confounded, and unusually intrigued, which meant the only option I had was to follow through with her wild suggestion of heading to Manchester to

find

her

.

As far as spontaneity goes, that’s where it ended. The rest of the plan would require serious organisation and an awkward conversation with my flatmates.

Dmitry arrived right on time. He slipped out of his bedroom, quickly checked the phone for bugs and then sat down at the table.

I knew better than to question why he was wearing a sheet of tin foil on his head, and I tried my best not to stare. With a stiff nod, I thanked him for coming.

The flat’s only communal living space was the small dining room next to the kitchen. A more casual setting might’ve made house meetings more tolerable, but as things stood, I was stuck sitting opposite a Russian madman.

I have travelled very far to be here, Dmitry claimed in a monotone voice.

I could see his bedroom door from where I sat. I didn’t question that either. I appreciate the effort,

I

said

.

After a long wait, Rhiannon finally burst through the door. I would have much preferred to deal with Gordon, but as she explained, it was rehearsal day at the Fizzy Oyster.

Rehearsal ran late, she said, dumping her huge bag on the table. But I’m here now. What’s this all about?

I’ve met someone, I announced, getting straight to the point. And I’d like to invite her to stay here for a while.

Dmitry leaned closer to me, making his foil hat crackle. To monitor us? he asked.

No, I replied. "To spend time

with

me

."

When? asked Rhiannon.

"I

don’t

know

."

She shrugged. Well, how long will she be staying?

"I

don’t

know

."

You’re very light on details, Jean-Luc, she replied. "It seems dodgy

to

me

."

Quite the opposite was true. I had plenty of details about the girl in question, but I wasn’t willing to share them. All I needed from them was permission to have her visit.

Dmitry turned to Rhiannon. She is mail order bride, he said knowingly. Very common in Russia.

Rhiannon stared me down from across the table, slowly shaking her head. He wouldn’t order a wife, she speculated. A prostitute, maybe.

Unsure who to direct my outrage toward, my eyes darted between both of them. She’s just a friend, I snapped. "And I didn’t pay a cent

for

her

."

Settle down, Napoleon, said Rhiannon. There’s no need to get all French about it. We’re just curious.

As much as it pained me, I needed them on side so I didn’t bite back. Instead, I pulled in a calming breath and gave them a very short run down of our chance meeting and impromptu

lunch

date

.

Rhiannon seemed far more interested than Dmitry.

Love at first sight? she asked.

I shook my head. There is no such thing.

Her thick green eye makeup creased as she smiled. It’s a very real phenomenon, Jean-Luc, she insisted. Sweaty palms, rapid heartbeat and a skip in your step. Those are the signs.

Dmitry pulled a tissue from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth. It could also be a virus, he said jumping to his feet. You should be quarantined.

Before he bolted to his bedroom, I asked an important question. Do I have your blessing to bring Fiona here, Dmitry?

Yes. He flapped his hand at me. But make sure she’s clean.

His door slammed shut and Rhiannon rose to her feet. You have my blessing too, she said, slinging the end of her feather boa over her shoulder. "And for your sake, I hope she’s a little bit dirty. All work and no play makes Napoleon a very

dull

boy

."

Chapter

2

Jean

-

Luc

Perhaps I was losing my mind. Given the current state of my grades, missing classes in favour of a mid-week jaunt up north was reckless and irresponsible, but I barely hesitated. Armed with nothing more than a tattered diary and a dose of bravado, I boarded a train to Manchester and headed into the proverbial unknown.

Playing detective wasn’t my strongpoint but after a quick search of the Yellow Pages I managed to track down the address of the haberdashery shop owned by Fiona’s mother.

I picked up a cab and headed straight over there but as I stood on the pavement looking up at the sign above the door, urgency began to slip. I had no idea if Fiona would be there, or what I would say to her if she was, but with no option but to forge ahead, I took a deep breath and went inside.

The second the bell at the top of the door jingled, a gruff woman snapped at me. We’re closing. It’s six o’clock.

I’m not here to purchase anything, Madame, I replied.

No hawkers. She picked up a broom thrust it forward as if she was trying to sweep me out of the door. "On

yer

way

."

I’m looking for Fiona Black, I quickly explained. "Is

she

here

?"

The woman relaxed her grip on the broom. Fiona is my daughter.

It was a revelation that brought me comfort and terror in equal measure. I’d successfully tracked Fiona down, but on the downside, her mother was a broom-wielding tyrant.

Is she here? I asked hopefully.

No.

My hands settled in my pockets. "Well, do you know where I might

find

her

?"

Yes.

I was getting nowhere incredibly fast. I tried to soften her by introducing myself but she cut me off in an instant.

I know who you are, she grumbled. You’re the French boy she met in London. She leaned her weapon against the wall and stood behind the counter. What are you doing here? she asked. "Is Fiona

expecting

you

?"

I wanted to say yes but I had to admit that I’d arrived on a whim. I’d like to invite her to come to London for a while, with your permission of course.

She huffed out a sharp laugh as if the notion was absurd. My daughter is twenty-years-old, she reminded me. What kind of mother would let her run off with a strange man she knows nothing about?

I’m not strange, I declared, hand on heart. I have the utmost respect for your daughter.

I knew it was an impossible sell. Reading Fiona’s diary had given me valuable insight regarding her family dynamics. Mrs Black kept tight reins on her daughter, and she wasn’t likely to loosen her grip any

time

soon

.

The crotchety woman grabbed a bolt of fabric off the counter and placed it on a nearby shelf. Fiona hasn’t stopped talking about you in days, she revealed. She thinks you’re some sort of wealthy prince charming.

I wanted to smile but thought better of it. I have no royal connections.

Her eyes narrowed. "Did you lie about being

wealthy

too

?"

I frowned. I haven’t lied about anything.

Mrs Black turned around and hoisted a large roll of blue fabric off the shelf. This is dupioni silk. It hit the counter with a thud. "My daughter is convinced that all of her dresses will be made of this

one

day

."

Is that a problem? I asked, confused.

It’s ten quid a yard, she replied staring straight at me. So it’s not likely to happen.

I shrugged, unwilling to speak until I knew where she was heading.

"I couldn’t care less whether