“Did you worry about that with all the other women?”
“No. I never kept any of them around long enough. None of them meant enough to.”
“So you really haven’t had anybody either, except the women you take to bed one night at a time so you’re not alone at three a.m.”
He looked disgusted with himself. “That about covers it.”
She tugged his jaw until he met her eyes. “Are you trying to scare me away, Luke?”
“Maybe. No. Hell.” He sighed. “You’re not the only one with insecurities.”
She was beginning to understand that. “So what do we do?” she whispered.
He pulled her to him gently. “Now? We go to Mama’s. I think she’s making lamb.”
Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 12:30 p.m.
“Goddammit, that hurts,” Paul gritted.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Charles said. “I’ve barely touched you.”
“Dammit. I’ve been a cop for twenty years and never got so much as a hangnail.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Charles said, although it was more serious than that. “I’ve seen a hell of a lot worse.” On myself. He’d had to learn to mend wounds the hard way.
“And you have the scars to prove it. I know, I know,” Paul muttered.
Charles lifted his brows. “Excuse me?”
Paul dropped his eyes. “Nothing. Sorry.”
“I thought not,” Charles said, satisfied. “I’ll stitch you up. You’ll be fine.”
“Wouldn’t have happened if you’d curbed your dog,” Paul muttered, then flinched again when Charles jabbed him with the needle. “Sorry.”
Charles jabbed him again.
“Sir,” Paul added, more respectfully.
“All right. You don’t have to be jealous, Paul. Bobby is an asset. You are more.” The doorbell rang, and he scowled. “If that’s another reporter… You stay out of sight.”
It was a reporter, but a local one. “Marianne Woolf. What can I do for you, dear?”
Marianne lifted her eyes and Charles blinked. “Get inside,” he said tersely. He shut the door, then grabbed Bobby’s chin. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Seeing if this disguise would fool anyone. It fooled you, so I should be fine waltzing in and out of the Grand Hotel this afternoon for Gretchen French’s press conference.”
Charles stepped back and assessed her. “Where did you get that wig?”
“Off Marianne’s head. Her hair’s not real, but nobody ever knew it except me and Angie Delacroix.”
“But all those hair appointments,” he said. “She went every Thursday.”
“Vanity. She’s nearly bald. But her boobs are real.” Bobby patted her own breast. “Silicone bra implants. Men will be so busy looking at these, they won’t look at my face.”
“Where is Marianne?”
“Knocked out in the trunk of her car. I needed her press credentials.”
“Who did your makeup?” Charles asked.
“I did. One of the job skills of a high-priced hooker. I haven’t eaten since last night and I’m starv-” She pushed past him and came to a full stop when she got to the kitchen, staring at Paul, then back at Charles. “What the hell? I don’t understand.”
“What, that we knew each other?” Paul said irritably. “Or that I got shot doing your damn errands?”
Recovering quickly, Bobby’s chin lifted. “Is Kira Laneer dead?”
“Of course. I shot her damn head off.”
“Then your pay will buy a lot of Band-Aids.” She turned to Charles. “Why is he here?”
“Because he’s mine.”
She shook her head. “No. Paul works for me.”
“You pay him,” Charles said, “but he has always been mine. He was never yours.”
Bobby’s eyes flashed. “I found him. I formed him.”
“He found you, because I told him to. You never had him. You never had Rocky, you never had anyone. Except for Tanner, and you killed him.”
Bobby took a step back, her cheeks heating in an angry red flush. “I came to say good-bye. Now I’ll just say what I’ve always wanted to. I hate you, old man. Fuck your control. Fuck your mind games. And fuck you.”
Paul lurched to his feet, but Charles raised a hand. “Leave her. She’s failed in every way imaginable. She’s even lost her birthright, now that everyone knows who she is. You’ll never have the big house on the hill, the family name. It’s all Susannah’s now.” He met Bobby’s eyes. “You have nothing. Not even your pride.”
“I have plenty of pride, old man. I hope you choke on yours.”
The door slammed behind her, shaking the glass in the window panes.
“That went well,” Paul said dryly.
“Actually, it did. She’ll get herself into that press conference now.”
“They’ll have security. If she brings a gun, they’ll catch her.”
“Heightens the challenge, my boy. She’ll rise to the occasion.”
“She’s unraveling. You really want her in a crowded room with a loaded gun?”
Charles smiled. “Yes.”
“She’ll never leave alive.”
Charles’s smile broadened. “I know.”
Chapter Twenty
Atlanta, Sunday, February 4, 1:30 p.m.
It was controlled chaos, Susannah thought. There were people everywhere.
The women had gathered in the kitchen, the men in the living room. At first everyone had been politely curious when Luke had introduced her, even turning the sound down on the television to check her out.
But Mama had put her arm around Susannah’s shoulders and ushered her into the kitchen with the “rest of the girls.” The television in the living room went back to its ear-numbing volume and everyone just talked louder to be heard over it.
“Pop is losing his hearing,” Luke’s sister Demi confided as she chopped vegetables. As the oldest, she was second in command. Mama Papa, of course ran the show.
Mama shrugged. “Papa doesn’t think so, so it’s not so.”
Susannah had to smile. “The beauty of denial. Are you sure I can’t do anything?”
“No,” Demi said. “We’ve got a system.” Her two youngest tore through the kitchen, Darlin’ the bulldog lumbering behind them. “Stop bothering that dog,” she scolded.
“I think Luke’s just happy Darlin’s following somebody else,” Susannah said.
“He pretends to be gruff,” Mitra said, turning from the stove. “Luke’s an old softie.”
“I know,” Susannah said, and Demi looked up, eyes narrowed in speculation.
“Do you now?” she asked, then lightly smacked the hand of another child, this one about twelve. “Don’t you touch my clean vegetables with your dirty hands, young man. Go wash. Go.” She looked at Susannah, again speculatively. “Do you like kids?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been around them much.”
Mitra laughed. “She’s asking you if you plan to have children someday, Susannah.”
The women were all looking at her. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“You’re not getting any younger,” Demi said and, startled, Susannah laughed.
“Thank you.”
Demi just grinned. “I live to give advice.”
Mama looked up from her lamb. “Leave her alone, Demitra. She’s young still.”
Susannah looked at the two sisters. “Your name is Demitra?” she asked Demi.
“Yes. And so is hers,” Demi pointed to Mitra. “In Greek families, the oldest is named after the father’s father or mother. Pop’s mother was Demitra. The second child is named after the mother’s parent, and so on.”
“Mama’s mother was also Demitra,” Mitra said.
“So you can have two children in the same family with the same name?”
Mitra shrugged. “It happens more often than you’d think. I know a family where three sons are Peter. Actually the Greek names are different, but all translate to Peter.”