Page 98 of Going Deep
Henry led the way back down the hall, tail wagging. Music filled the air, so Anna was probably in the kitchen. She liked music when she cooked. Or baked, Michael realized after sniffing the air. Sugar and vanilla filled his nostrils.
Grant walked into the kitchen, where Henrry had already posted himself by the counter. “Hey, babe, look who stopped by?”
In any other mood, the look on Anna’s face would have made Michael laugh. Anger, shock, annoyance, and guilt all flickered over her pretty face before she schooled her features to a careful blankness.
“How lovely,” she said, sounding like she’d swallowed a live goldfish, and turned her back to pull a cookie sheet full of snickerdoodles out of the wall oven. Henry followed the action with his big brown eyes.
Grant grinned at her back. “Sweetheart, aren’t you going to offer Michael a cookie?”
The look on her face said she’d rather offer him a mickey. “Oh, of course,” she said, her voice cloyingly—and unconvincingly—sweet. She set the cookie sheet on the counter with a bang. “But these are too hot. I wouldn’t want Michael to burn himself.”
Bullshit. You’d like to pour hot oil over my head.
“They’ll cool off.” So saying, Grant reached for a snickerdoodle, then blinked in shock as Anna twisted her wrist and sent every last cookie sailing to the floor.
“Oh, how clumsy of me.”
Grant glared at his wife while Henry helped himself to the spoils. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
Michael saw the first flicker of unease in Anna’s eyes. Of course, she had, but the D/s relationship she shared with her husband didn’t allow for lying.
She straightened her shoulders. “I certainly did. I don’t want to give him a cookie.”
Blank shock showed on Grant’s face an instant before it went stern. “You’re being deliberately rude, Anna.”
“Would you prefer I lie?” she shot back, and slapping her oven mitt onto the counter, matched her husband glare for glare. “You brought Michael into our home knowing I’m angry with him.”
Michael had to admire her for it. The girl had guts, but he figured he’d better ask what he needed to ask before the argument brewing between husband and wife took over. “Anna, I know you’re upset with me. You have every right to be.”
Anna shot him a ‘get-real-asshole’ look, and he had to smother the laugh. Obviously she recognized the tactic—confuse the enemy by identifying with them. Doms often used it to great effect when trying to pry information from a submissive, but it didn’t look like it was going to work on her.
He shifted gears. “I need to talk to Ginger, and she’s not at home or answering her phone. Can you tell me where to find her?”
The hostility in Anna’s eyes didn’t fade one iota. “No.”
“Anna,” Grant warned. “Truth.”
If looks could kill, Grant would be bleeding out. “Fine. I can tell you where to find her, but I won’t.”
“Why not, pet?” Michael asked softly, deliberately using the common Dom-to-submissive endearment in the hopes of putting her in a sharing frame of mind.
“Because you dumped her, and you were a complete dickhead about it. She cried.”
Michael’s chest went tight at her words. “I was, and I’m sorry for it. I need to tell her that.”
“Send her an email,” she snapped.
Grant was glaring at his wife with narrowed eyes. “Woman, you are way out of line.”
“I don’t care,” she shot back. “Ginger is my friend, and my loyalty is to her. Bottoms before bosses.”
Grant threw up his hands. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m not telling him shit.”
Michael shook his head. “You’re right, Anna. I shouldn’t ask you to betray a friend. I’m sorry.”
She sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest, but he saw her relax minutely at his apology. He was careful to keep his expression contrite. “Can you at least tell me if she’s all right?”
