I took another shower, because what the hell… massaging showerhead… and dried my hair into a more or less glorious shower of curls that didn’t frizz too much, and put on makeup. Why? Hell if I know, except that the worse I feel, the better I want to look. After applying all the disguise, I put on a light bra and a kickin’ peau de soie blouse, and contemplated my choices for things that wouldn’t press agonizingly against the bruise on my back. The low-rise panties and blue jeans seemed the only possible choice, other than walking around half-naked…
I flipped on the sleek little flat-screen TV that had come with my new bedroom suite, a luxury I’d never even considered before, and tuned to WXTV. Just to see.
They were finishing up the news portion of the morning show and moving to the weather. They had a new Weather Girl, I saw immediately, and hey, I felt just a little bit bitter about it for a second, because she was stunningly pretty and had a lovely smile and was well dressed in a blue jacket and silk blouse and tailored slacks, and what the hell?
The anchors were laughing. She was forecasting a storm for later today.
The camera pulled back, and back…
… and there was Marvin. Squeezed into a foam rubber cloud suit, with little silver drops hanging off of him, sweating like a pig and glaring like a pit bull. Red with fury.
“Sorry,” the new Weather Girl said, “but you out there know that Marvin always puts his integrity first, and today, he’s paying off a bet to Joanne, our former meteorological assistant. Love the outfit, Marv. So what’s today going to be like out there?”
“Cloudy,” he snapped. “Severe storms. And—”
Water. Lots of it. Dumped from way up high. He gasped, jumped, and they cut his mike before he got more than the first syllable of the curse out, but the camera itself was shaking from the force of the laughter on the set.
Son of a bitch.
It was probably evil of me to feel so good about watching him dance around dripping and cursing, but, well… I was at peace with it.
I was feeling almost happy when I walked out into the living room, heading for the kitchen. It was still dark outside—cloudy, with muttering and lightning continuing over the ocean—so I didn’t immediately see my sister’s new boyfriend until he flicked on the light next to the couch.
He was sitting on one end, sprawled gracefully, head leaning back against the thick leather tufted back. Sarah was curled on her side with her head resting on his thigh. She was wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe that gaped at the top, showing the inside slopes of her breasts. She looked exhausted and vulnerable, and he looked down at her with a careful expression, and touched her very gently. Fingertips tracing her cheek.
I knew that touch. That was the way David touched me.
That was regret, and love.
She didn’t move, even with the light blazing down, and continued to breathe deeply and steadily. Deeply asleep. Eamon’s long, elegant fingers threaded through her frosted hair and stroked the curve of her head in long, soothing motions, as if he couldn’t bear to stop touching her.
I wondered for a second if he even knew I was there, and then he said, “Good morning.” He looked up. “Did you enjoy the new bed?”
“Yeah.” I paused, watching him, trying to figure out how they’d ended up on the couch like this when Sarah should have gone straight to her room, tired as she was. Also, when and how Eamon had found his way into the apartment. Sarah had probably given him a key already. She was like that. “Did you guys sleep out here?”
“I haven’t slept at all,” he said, and it struck me that he was speaking in a normal tone of voice, not keeping his voice down. That was odd.
Then he shifted a little, and Sarah’s head rolled off his leg, limp as a rag doll.
Too limp. Her eyelids didn’t even flutter.
“Sarah?” I asked. No reaction. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with her?”
Eamon didn’t answer. He readjusted her to put her head back in his lap, stroking her hair, the curve of her face. A lover’s slow, steady touch.
I could not understand what I was seeing in his expression. “Eamon? Is there something wrong with her?”
“No,” he said. “Nothing that won’t wear off in a few hours. She may have a few side effects; most likely some mild nausea and a dull headache.” His eyes remained fixed on me.
I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t honestly fathomit. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I injected your sister with a drug—nothing too addictive, don’t worry—and I put her to sleep for a while.” His tone was changing, moving away from the kind, slow, gentle cadence I was used to and toward something more clipped and cold. Not the eyes, though. Or the caresses of Sarah’s skin. Those stayed gentle. “Don’t fuss, Joanne, it’s not the first time. I like my women a little less talkative and more compliant, in general. Sarah thought it was a bit strange, too, when I asked, but she’s willing to try new things. I find that truly sexy, don’t you? She’s exceptional, your sister.”
I took a step toward him, bruises forgotten. I was going to killthis son of a bitch.
His hand instantly slid from stroking her hair to fasten around the pale white column of her throat. “I wouldn’t,” he said. Now there was a feverish hint of cruelty in his face. “It only takes about one second to crush a trachea. I’d rather not do it. I honestly do like her. So relax. Let’s be friends. We’ve been friends up till now; there’s no reason we can’t go on being civil to one another.”
I knew nothing about crushing tracheas, except that it would kill her and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I froze where I was. His hands, although long and soft and elegant, also looked strong and very capable.
And the expression in his eyes was deadly serious now.
“Go on,” he invited. “I know you want to ask questions. I’ll oblige.”
“Fine. What do you want, Eamon? If that’s even your name.”
“It is, actually.” He didn’t move his hand from her throat, but he let it relax a little. His fingertips trailed over her skin in a random, soothing pattern. I wasn’t sure he even knew he was doing it. “I didn’t lie about that, although of course the last name isn’t the one on my passport. Then again, the one on my passport may not be right, either. You follow?”
“You’re a criminal.”
“Good girl. I’m a criminal. I’m a bad, evil man, and I came here for one reason. Not your sister, although I have to say that I’d never have imagined meeting someone so… lovely. It’s quite a benefit.” Those fingers strayed, curving over the skin revealed by the parted terrycloth robe. I shivered all over with the urge to kill him really, really dead, but those eyes were constantly focused on me, assessing. Too careful. “I came here for you, Joanne.”
“Get your hands off her.”
“I don’t think I can.” His smile was gentle and sad, a little-boy smile begging to be understood and forgiven, no matter what he did. Women probably forgave him anything. Gave him everything. Even now, sitting there staring at me, I couldn’t wrap my head around the unmistakable fact that he was a very, very bad man, because very, very bad men don’t have such a soothing, gentle touch, do they?
Sarah loved him. Oh, God, Sarah loved him. That turned my stomach.
I must have let my revulsion show, because he lost the smile, and his eyes turned colder. “Are you afraid I’ll molest her in front of you?”
“You are molesting her in front of me, asshole!”
“No.” There was now no trace at all of warmth in his tone, and even his hands had gone still. “Not yet. Why, do you want me to? You’ll have to ask nicely, in that case.”
“Keep your fucking hands off my sister!”
He lost that last tinge of humor, and without it, Eamon was something very different indeed. Very cold and focused and scary. “Don’t tell me what to do, petal. I don’t care for it. And every time you do it, I’m going to leave a mark on Sarah, to remind you.”