Page 98 of Forbidden Dark Vows

“That’s what I thought till I heard it from the horse’s mouth.”

I gape at him. “She-she confessed?”

“Not in so many words. Thought she could get her away from you, keep her in Chicago to take care of Graham. She wouldn’t have killed her.”

I’m not listening. The whisky has added clarity to my thoughts, and I’m one step ahead, trying to figure out my next move.

33

RUBY

Two days before the wedding,I’m making pizza for dinner in Harry’s apartment and singing along to a Fleetwood Mac song playing on the radio. “You can go your own waaaay.” I fling an arm as I’m singing, tomato puree hurtling from the spatula across the marble wall tiles.

I’m getting clumsier by the day. Yesterday, I knocked the lamp off the nightstand in the bedroom with my elbow and broke it—I still haven’t mentioned this to Harry—and this morning, I walked into the coffee table, spilled coffee all over the shaggy white rug underneath, and cut my knee.

Wedding jitters.

It’s happening to both of us.

A couple of days ago I found Harry searching for his cufflinks in the refrigerator, and before he left for work this morning, he added salt to my coffee instead of sugar.

I wipe the tiles clean and finish adding the toppings to the pizza. Pepperoni, ham, red onion slices, red and green peppers, and chilis. I take a tin from the cupboard: pineapple. The finishingtouch, a reminder of the night we had a picnic on the floor of the Drake Hotel in Chicago. Even though I still believe it’s wrong, pineapple on pizza.

I want to see Harry smile again. I know it’s only pre-wedding nerves, but he has been working so hard the last six weeks that I can barely remember the Harry who dragged me into a cave on a Scottish beach and turned it into a sexy memory. He has had a lot on his plate, but I can’t wait to board the plane heading to our secret honeymoon destination and see him relax.

I open the tin and scrape my knuckle on the jagged metal. “Shit!” It stings like crazy, and as I squeeze my finger, a huge ruby droplet wells on the surface of my skin and drips onto the counter, barely missing the pizza. The sight of it there, so close to the food, makes me feel nauseous.

The dishcloth is close by, but as I reach for it, my fingers feel wet, and I instinctively lick the blood away. Big mistake. The instant I taste the tang of iron on my tongue, I start retching and I barely make it to the bathroom in time.

When the nausea passes, I sit back and rest my head against the cool tiles. Memories of being rushed to the hospital doubled up in pain come flooding back, making my pulse race, but I’m not in any pain right now. It’s a weird sensation. And now that I’ve been sick, I realize how hungry I am.

I rinse my face with cold water, pat it dry with a fluffy towel, and peer at my reflection in the mirror. “You’re fine,” I tell myself. “You’re not going to get sick again. You’re getting married next week, and it’s going to be perfect.”

With a nod to myself in the mirror, I wrap a Band-Aid around my finger, my gaze turned away from the blood, and head back to the kitchen. The phone rings. Harry.

“What time will you be home?” I ask. “You’re going to love what I’ve made you for dinner tonight.”

Pause. My stomach twists.

“Damn! Will it keep till tomorrow? I have to fly to Vegas tonight with Carlos.”

Tears well in my eyes like he just told me the wedding was cancelled. It isn’t the first time he has had to stay away on business, and it has never bothered me before, but tonight, the news has tipped the scales into an emotional meltdown.

I wipe my damp face with my fingertips and sniff loudly.

“Ruby? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “I cut my finger on a tin of pineapple.”

I can almost see the smile at the other end of the line. “I can cancel my meeting, Ruby. It’s fine.”

It doesn’t sound fine though; I can hear the reluctance in his voice, and I know how important this new project is to him, to the future of Weiss Petroleum.

“No, don’t do that. I’m just being a wimp. When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be back tomorrow no matter what.”

In the kitchen, I scrape the uncooked pizza into the trash can. My blood clings to the jagged edge of the lid, and I toss thatinto the trash can too, catching a waft of pineapple juice from the open tin. I grab a fork from the drawer and spear a chunk of fruit.

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