Page 49 of Tide of Treason
Kayla gave the clutter a cursory sweep with those dark eyes of hers, propped a hip against the counter, then pulled out lipstick to reapply it in the microwave’s reflection.
“You wish. I’m only here because Viviana will never set foot in this place, and Mamma said it would be rude not to at least pretend you have a wife.” She dangled the bag between us. “So, congratulations.” A glint of mockery in her eyes. “Now your penthouse has throw pillows.”
“Oh,” was all I managed. The world had a messed up sense of humor.
Vargas paused by the door, mouth twitching like even he wasn’t immune. He’d gone toe-to-toe with cartel soldiers, buried bodies in four states, and yet he was seconds away from making her a drink and offering her his last name. Pathetic. I shot him a look that said I wouldn’t just fire him—I’d gut him with a melon baller if his eyes didn’t stop tracking her ass.
He got the message.
Kayla capped the tube with a sharpclick, met my stare through the glass. “You’re welcome.”
I gestured at the Bloomingdale’s bag. “By all means, tell me you brought matching doilies too.”
“Sarcasm’s clearly not your best sport. You’re new to the whole ‘domestic bliss’ thing, aren’t you?”
“Bite me.”
She smirked.
The half-packed penthouse had an open floor plan, which meant I had a straight shot of the front door—and the figure now standing in it. A tiny, wrinkled woman sipping something neon pink out of a souvenir cup shaped like a flamingo. She had one of those rich people tans, the kind that said I winter in Aruba and summer in the Hamptons, and there wasn’t a single ounce of hesitation on her heavily Botoxed face as she took a step inside.
“Oh, sweetheart, you must be my new neighbor.”
I blinked.
The old lady adjusted the flamingo cup in her grip. “Marilyn Dubois. Unit 17A.”
I did what any sane man would do when confronted with an aging woman standing in his penthouse uninvited. I turned to Vargas.
“Why,” a pulse crackled behind my teeth, “is she in my house?”
He cleared his throat. “You left the door open, boss.”
Hmm. Rookie mistake.
The relic smiled, unbothered. “You know, I was watching from my terrace this morning, and I said to myself, ‘Marilyn, you must meet the man who just moved in acrossfrom that lovely woman with the little girl.’” She paused, gaze flicking over me. “In fact, since you’re new to the building, and I am simply dying to hear about what you do for a living”—a wink—“why don’t you come by my place for a drink?”
“I’ll pass.”
She pouted. “Oh, don’t be such a bore. You’re already halfway there.” Her yellowed finger aimed at the cigarette smoldering in my hand. “And the ladies would love to meet you.”
I paused, tasting opportunity. “Ladies?”
Kayla’s eyes darkened.
“Book club, sweetheart. We meet every Tuesday.” Marilyn smiled warmly. “You read, don’t you?”
The penthouse’s communityroom smelled like stale Chanel No. 5 and the ghosts of a thousand polite conversations. Across from me, the ladies of Unit 17’s “literary society” assembled in a semicircle of orthopedic upholstery.
Lieve slept on my chest. Tiny, warm, soft as hell. She had one fist curled in my t-shirt and a faint hint of juice still on her breath. Marisol had given me exactly one rule when she dropped her off:do not give her sugar before bed. Not only had I failed spectacularly, but I’d done it in a room full of witnesses who had absolutely zero sense of self-preservation and would definitely bring it up the next time they saw Marisol at theelevator.
Fuck.
I cleared my throat, the sound rough and useless in the pink-plastered room.
Marilyn beamed.
“Our new friend agreed to read tonight’s selection aloud,” she chirped, passing me a pale-pink paperback.
