Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
“What the fuck are you playing at bringing lawyers into the house?” he barks.
I roll my eyes. I could never explain. “You’ll never guess who just walked into the club.”
Muffled sounds come down the line, probably Danny removing himself from his wife’s vicinity. “I’m assuming they’re not Russian or Mexican or I’d be hearing gunfire,” he whispers.
“Not even men.”
“If you say Amber—”
“She’s dead.”
“There’s no body, Brad.”
I laugh with no humor at all. “It’s not Amber.” Shit, that’s a bitch of a situation. No one wants proof that Amber is actually dead because proof will also provide evidence that Rose did it.
“Spit it out,” Danny presses, impatient. “Rose is at the table wondering who I’m talking to and why.”
“Elsa Dove.”
“Who?”
“Pink Flamingo.”
“Ohhhh,” he breathes. “And what the fuck does she want?”
“What does anyone who comes to us want?” I ask. “Let me give you a clue. The answer begins with pro and ends with tection.”
“You’re a fucking dick sometimes.”
For once, I agree with him. “She said she has information.”
“I’m on my way.”
16
DANNY
* * *
Fuck my life, we’ve not long arrived. I look through the window into the restaurant and see Rose at the table. She’s looking this way, watching me as I hang up to Brad. Worried. I can’t say I was looking forward to telling her the man who raped her and haunted her for years is still alive. That I didn’t kill him. That I lied to her. But it needs to be done.
Things are about to change around here again, and she needs to understand why. I dial Brad back, taking the handle of the door and pulling it open. “Can it wait an hour?”
“What? No, it can’t wait. Allison’s turned up too. I’m outnumbered.”
Dick. What was he thinking inviting a woman back to the house? And not just a woman, but a fucking lawyer. “Brad,” I say quietly, stopping by the door. Rose sits up in her chair, her wine halfway to her lips, her expression apprehensive. Hopeful. It fucking kills me. I give her a small, reassuring smile. She returns it. “I’m looking at my wife’s face across the restaurant right now wondering how the fuck I tell her I didn’t kill Sandy.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.” I blow out my cheeks, once again amused by the fact that there is nothing in this world that terrifies me more than my wife. Will she get up and walk out? Leave me? Throw a drink in my face? Yell at me, hit me? All will be actions resulting from fear. I vowed she would never be scared again.
“Take your time,” Brad says, soft and understanding. “And a heads-up.”
“What?”
“Elsa Dove’s obviously a woman who gets what she wants.”
I smile. “A flirt?”
“Massive.”
“It’s a good job you’re not married then, eh?”
“Tell that to Allison,” he mutters. “She and Elsa haven’t exactly hit it off.”
I laugh, hanging up, and slip my phone into my pocket, taking a deep breath and bracing myself. Rose’s eyes follow me the entire way to the table and down when I lower to the seat. I take the bottle of wine and top us both up, smiling when the waiter arrives at the table. “Mr. Black, wonderful to have you again.”
Rose chuckles as she picks up her menu, undoubtedly thinking about the time I made a mess of a table with Gordon Blinks’s brain. I give her a wry smile. “Good to see you, Francesco.”
“Mrs. Black.” He nods to Rose.
“Francesco,” she says, smiling down at her menu. “Can you give us five minutes?”
“Sure, sure.” Hands up, he backs away, and I sink back in my chair, scissoring my fingers around the stem of my wine glass, watching my wife. Waiting for the questions. But while I wait, I don’t mind just sitting here and admiring her. She reaches back and pulls her hair over one shoulder, running her fingers through the ends while she reads the menu, lips pouting in contemplation. I smile to myself. She’s pretending she’s not curious about me leaving the table to take Brad’s call. Pretending she’s not worried. My eyes drop down her front to the black silk blouse that’s tucked into black leather pants. Black to disguise any leakage. Pants to hold her tummy in. She has no tummy, she’s just being self-conscious. She’s a walking sex bomb. I just can’t have sex with her right now and, can’t lie, it’s killing me. I won’t pretend I was hopeful tonight would be the night to break the drought. Not when I’m breaking bad news. The last thing I’m expecting after ruining date night is sex.
“Is everything okay?” she asks her menu, sounding blasé.
I take some liquid courage. “Not really, baby.”
She looks up sharply, her blue eyes anxious. “What’s happened?” she asks with a wobbly voice.
I glance around the busy restaurant, counting the number of spectators we’ll have when Rose flies off the handle. Too many. Reaching up, I rub into the corner of my eye. Here we go. “Before I tell you, I want you to remember something.”