Page 7 of Rapture's Edge (Night Prowler 3)
“So my lack of a penis is the only problem here?” The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable, and surprising. Eliana stood and drew on her gloves, all the while shaking her head and making little noises of disgust. “My entire life I’ve had to deal with that crap from my family. I will not tolerate it from my business associates.”
She looked at him and drew herself up to her full height, which, for a woman, was substantial. At six foot three, he didn’t tower over her nearly as much as he did everyone else.
“Thank you for all your help in the past, Gregor. I wish you the best. Good-bye.”
She briskly began to roll up the oil painting still laid flat on his desk.
He leaned over and grabbed her hands. She lifted her gaze to his, all cold fury and steel, and he met her steely look with one of his own.
“Nay, girl, I’ll not have you walkin’ out on me in such a snit.”
Whenever he was really emotional, his speech always reverted to the cadence of his childhood, rolling r’s and dropped g’s and the slow, musical lilt of a native Scotsman. Because he lived in France where everyone looked down on him because of his country accent, even the housemaids, he’d improved with years of practice but couldn’t be bothered to concentrate on the properness of his speech at times like these.
“If it’s guns you’re needin’ it’s guns you’ll have, but I’m tellin’ you I don’t like it, and if you get into trouble I need you to promise me you’ll let me know so I can help.”
She recoiled against his grip with a sinewy strength that surprised him for one that looked so delicate, but he pulled back and refused to let her go until she relented. “Promise me, princess,” he insisted, his voice very low in his throat.
Finally, after long moments of staring at him in livid, unblinking silence, she quietly said, “I like you, Gregor. I always have. But if you don’t take your hands off me in the next five seconds, you’re going to see a very ugly side of me. A side I can’t guarantee you’ll survive seeing.”
Then she murmured something in Latin, which he understood, because the Catholic mass his mother dragged him to every Sunday when he was a child had always been in Latin.
“Nec mala te amicum. Placered non faciunt me.”
Translated: “I don’t want to hurt you, old friend. Please don’t make me.”
She lowered her head a fraction of an inch, and he imagined her eyes silvered against the light, like a cat’s. A tingle of fear—something Gregor had not felt in many, many years—raised the hair on the back of his neck. Before he could form a reply, there came a loud knock on his closed office door. He and Eliana broke apart as the door swung open to reveal his girlfriend, Céline, clasping her teacup Yorkie to her ample chest.
As it always did when it caught sight of Eliana, the dog began first to growl, then to tremble violently in Céline’s arms. She shushed it and sashayed toward them, weaving across the rug in a slinky red Dior dress she looked sewn into and a pair of Louboutin sandals he knew had cost him an arm and a leg. The monthly bill for her black American Express card was more than the GDP of some small countries.
“Daddy, I want to go out!” she implored him in pouty French. She gave Eliana a quick, sour once-over, which Eliana wholeheartedly returned, and then turned her attention back to him and tossed her long, platinum blonde extensions over one shoulder with a practiced flick of her wrist. “How much longer are you going to be?”
“We’re actually done here,” said Eliana flatly, her face drained of emotion. She turned and moved to the door, abandoning the painting on his desk.
“Eliana,” Gregor entreated.
He wanted so badly to say, “Don’t go,” or “Please stay,” or some version thereof, but under the shrewd, watchful eye of Céline, he didn’t dare. He might have been the gangster in the room, but between these two goddamn women he was as helpless as a newborn kitten. Each of them had one of his testicles gripped firmly in a delicate, ruthless hand.
At the door Eliana paused. She looked back at him over her shoulder, and something in her face softened. She glanced down at the painting she’d left on his desk, and he realized she’d done it on purpose, as an offering. If she’d taken it with her, he’d never have seen her again.
“Gregor,” she said.
His heart leapt at the unexpected softness in her voice, and he held his breath, waiting. She smiled, and Gregor thought he’d never seen anything quite so sad in his entire life.
“I’ll send the courier by for the…” She trailed off and glanced at Céline, then back at him. “Packages. Does next Monday give you enough time?”
He nodded, and she nodded back. She glanced down at the carpet and then quickly back to his face. Her expression now was unreadable, her voice cool, but he imagined both held the palest echo of relief. “Thank you.”
Then she turned and disappeared through the door, leaving him with a curious emptiness resounding through his chest.
“There’s something so bizarre about that girl,” snapped Céline when she was gone. She cooed at the still-terrified dog, stroking its little bearlike head until it stopped trembling and licked her hand. “Even Gigi can tell. I wish you wouldn’t let her come around anymore. She really gets under my skin.”
Mine, too, Gregor thought as he stared at the empty doorway. Mine, too.
“He’s getting worse, Constantine.”
It was a statement of fact, not an accusation, but for Constantine the two were indistinguishable when the subject was Demetrius. Guilt made him hyperaware of every nuance of voice; even the most innocuous comment regarding their brother Demetrius—universally called D—set him on edge.
“He’ll be fine,” Constantine snapped, folding massive arms across a broad chest. “He’s just having a bad day.”
