The Blood Thief (The Fitheach Trilogy Book 2)

by Luanne Bennett

  His eyes roamed over mine. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  “Everything’s fine. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  I went back to the stove and placed the bacon on the griddle. “Breakfast is almost ready. Why don’t you sit down with the paper and I’ll bring it in.”

  Greer glanced at Sophia who was standing at the other end of the island looking back and forth between the two of us. She shrugged her shoulders as if he’d asked a question.

  “Sophia, would you mind changing the sheets on my bed?” he asked.

  My mouth dropped. “Greer, that can wait until after we eat. I’m sure Sophia is hungry, aren’t you?” I asked as my eyes went to hers.

  She shook her head and threw her hands in the air as she walked out of the kitchen, something Italian muttering from her mouth as she headed for the stairs.

  “That wasn’t very nice, Greer.” I flipped the bacon and began piling the French toast on a plate. “The woman hasn’t even had her breakfast yet.”

  His arm came from behind me as he took the spatula from my hand and turned off the burner. I could feel his breath against my skin as he turned me around and caged me against the counter, inspecting my eyes again and then the rest of my face.

  “Alex, did something happen this morning?”

  “What a vague question, Greer. You and Sophia are acting so strange, and it’s beginning to make me nervous.”

  “We’re acting strange?”

  “Yes!” My arms reached around his waist as I buried my face in the warmth of his chest. “I just want to go back to bed and start the morning over.” I pulled away and trailed my eyes up to his neck. “Why are you wearing a tie? You hate ties.” I reached for it to adjust the over-tightened knot. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wear one since our wedding.”

  His body stiffened, and then he took me by the shoulders and held me at arm’s length. The expression on his face was as awkward as I’d ever seen, and I could feel the tension balling up in the space between us.

  I’d heard of this happening. I’d been warned that newlyweds could go through rough patches where they doubted what they’d just done, and second guessed their decision to get married. It was a normal part of a newlywed’s rollercoaster of emotions, but the rejection still hurt.

  “Please don’t do that.” I pulled on his tie, drawing him back to me, snuggling back into the crook of his neck. “Tell me that you don’t regret marrying me.”

  Greer Sinclair was the only man I ever loved. If he left me, I swear I’d dive off the Brooklyn Bridge.

  My entire body breathed with his as his lungs filled and the heat of his skin radiated into mine. His arms reached around me for the first time since pinning me against the counter, and his lips met the top of my head. “No. No regrets,” he promised. “Now, let’s enjoy this beautiful breakfast you’ve made.”

  I reluctantly pushed him away, and we filled our plates and ate our breakfast on the kitchen island. He watched me silently as I chewed my food and sipped my coffee. It was one of those moments where words would just be clutter, and the silence served as foreplay for things to come, either after breakfast or the moment he returned home from work.

  Newlyweds were like that, always needing to touch each other and never feeling full.

  A little loving after breakfast wasn’t an option. Greer was on his way to a meeting, hence the formality of a tie, so I would have to wait out the long day until he returned.

  Before leaving, he went upstairs to talk to Sophia. I could hear the muffled conversation that I assumed was an apology for acting like an ass earlier that morning.

  Sophia’s voice occasionally rose and then lowered, and it seemed they’d come to a truce as they came back down the stairs together with matching wide grins on their faces.

  “I’ll be home by seven o’clock.” He glanced at Sophia and nodded.

  As he went to kiss me on the cheek, I turned and caught his lips with mine, a sly smile forming on my face as he pulled away. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

  The elevator door opened. Greer’s eyes lingered on mine for a moment before he stepped inside. As the door closed, Sophia announced that we were going shopping.

  When Sophia said we were going shopping, I thought she meant grocery shopping. But instead of shopping for cheeses and breads and meats, we ended up at a store I’d only seen from the outside.

  When I was a child, my mother and I used to stroll along Fifth Avenue every December to see the amazing windows of Lord and Taylor, Saks Fifth Avenue, and of course, Bergdorf Goodman.

  As we walked through the elaborate entrance, I felt that familiar sense of being an impostor, a stranger in a strange land, a flea on an inoculated dog. Even with Greer’s line of credit, I couldn’t imagine being able to buy anything my heart desired within the walls of Bergdorf Goodman.

  “Mr. Sinclair say I need to keep you busy today.”

  “Now, why would you need to do that? Honestly, Sophia, the two of you are acting so weird today.”

  Sophia rolled her eyes and headed for the escalator. “You want shoes?”

  We got off on the second floor and headed for the shoe department. I hadn’t met a girl yet who didn’t appreciate a beautiful pair of shoes, and since I intended to buy something special for this evening, a new pair of shoes was justified. It was difficult to think of Greer’s money as our money, but we were married now.

  The shoe salon was an Alice in Wonderland trip through the world of luxury foot adornments. An organized search was simply impossible. Each time I headed toward a pair I liked, I was detoured by another. I must have tried on fifteen pairs just to say I’d had my foot in the shoe of every designer on Fifth Avenue.

  “Do you like these?” I asked Sophia, holding up a pair for her approval.

  “Hmm,” she said, looking bored and impatient. “Is just a shoe.”

  Despite her lack of enthusiasm, I thought they were fabulous. But I was hoping to find a pair that wasn’t as expensive. I tried to like the less expensive Jimmy Choos, but the cute little heel of the Valentinos in my hand kept calling my name. I figured if I was going to spend that much money, I might as well get the pair I really wanted. Seemed like a waste to buy a pair I didn’t absolutely love just because they were five hundred dollars less.

  Sophia frowned as the sales person presented the total for the shoes. “Mr. Sinclair is going to kill you,” she mumbled as I signed the credit card slip.

  “Not when he sees what I plan to wear with them.”

  We headed for the sixth floor where I picked out a very sexy, but tasteful, lacy black bra with matching panties.

  Sophia’s brow arched as her mouth puckered like she’d just eaten a lemon.

  “What? Too much?”

  “No. Is fine if you don’t want a man to respect you.” Her Catholic ways were showing.

  “He’s my husband, Sophia. A girl has to keep it fresh.”

  “If he’s your husband, where’s your wedding ring?” She quickly covered her mouth after the words spilled out, but it was too late.

  The smile left my face as I looked down at my left hand and began twisting the imaginary ring on my finger. “It was too big. I’m having it resized.”

  “I know, Miss Alex,” she answered quickly. “I’m getting old. My memory is—”

  “It’s okay, Sophia.” I waved the thought away with the back of my hand and suggested we get some lunch.

  In all the months I’d eaten her delicious meals and worked so hard to gain her approval, I’d never taken the time to ask the simple questions that would give me a window into who she was. I knew nothing about her, really. Was she married? Did she have children? Lunch was the perfect opportunity to get to know the woman I’d practically lived with for the better part of a year.

  An Italian restaurant wasn’t the best place to take a native who could probably outcook the chef, but the restaurant we chose was less crowded than the others, and my goal was to hav
e a real conversation and not just eat over the noise of a hundred voices.

  “Sophia, are you sure? We can do Mexican or Chinese if you’d like.”

  Her shoulders shrugged. “I’m not the only Italian cook in New York City. Maybe I send a note to the chef with a little advice.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  She ignored me and walked inside. Sophia was a bold woman, so I wouldn’t put it past her to head to the kitchen for a private cooking lesson with the chef—her being the instructor. I prayed the food was up to her standards.

  We were seated at a table near the window and handed a pair of menus. Sophia’s brow did a series of acrobatics as she grunted her way through the list and then declared the menu adequate. She ordered the sardine and artichoke pie, while I stuck with pasta with broad beans and ricotta.

  In all the time I’d live in Greer’s house, I’d never seen Sophia drink, so I was surprised when she ordered a glass of red wine.

  “So tell me, Sophia, what do you like to do when you’re not working?” The question was general enough. My goal was not to pry but to open the door for voluntary disclosure of things like children and marital status. “Do you live in Manhattan?”

  Her dull stare suggested I was a fool. “Brooklyn.” She sipped her wine and picked at a piece on lint on the tablecloth. “Is stupid to serve Italian food on a white tablecloth.”

  “That’s a long commute, isn’t it?” I was stricken with a case of nerves as I realized the conversation was fizzling. I hated small talk, but Sophia wasn’t contributing, and I’d be damned if I’d let the lunch go down in flames because I couldn’t engage her in a real conversation.

  Our food arrived just as the awkwardness reached its peak. Sophia examined both of our plates before picking up her fork. She took a bite of the sardines rolled in breadcrumbs and artichokes and nodded her head. After washing it down with a generous gulp of wine, her eyes softened, and I could tell she was beginning to loosen up.

  “Mr. Sinclair sends a car for me. Big black car comes to my house every morning and drops me off every night. My neighbors are jealous.” A rare grin spread across her face as she chewed another mouthful. “They think I have a rich boyfriend.”

  “That’s why I love him.” The thought of his generosity and attention to Sophia’s needs brought a smile to my face. “He’s such a thoughtful man.”

  Her grin vanished as that same strange look fell over her face again. “Miss Alex, what kind of pills you take for that headache last night?”

  “So,” I replied as if her question hadn’t been asked, “do you live with anyone?”

  Her fork paused on its way to her mouth, and for a second the room seemed to pause with it. When the noise resumed, she put the fork back down and started moving the sardines around her plate. “You want to know if I have a husband?”

  “Well, sure. Or children?”

  “I have a daughter, Adrianna. She lives in London. Met a fancy Wall Street guy and moved across the ocean.” She muttered something under her breath. “No more husband, either.”

  “Divorced?”

  She smirked. “Catholic. We don’t get divorced.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry.”

  “Yes, you were, but don’t be sorry. He was an asshole.”

  She looked at my barely touched plate and then back at my face. “What? You not hungry? You invite me to lunch, you eat. Is a sin to waste good food.”

  I twirled the pasta around my fork and took a large bite. I would never say it, but it was as good as hers. In fact, I had to restrain myself from stuffing the pasta into my famished mouth for fear of her knowing. At least I was certain she wouldn’t be interrupting the chef.

  “My husband was a drunk. I cook and I clean for him every day, but it was never enough.” The waiter brought her another glass of wine, and she continued to loosen up and reveal her life. “When he didn’t like my food, you know what he did?” She drank half the glass in one gulp and leaned into the table on her sturdy forearms. “He gave it right back to me—with the skillet.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. Sophia was a formidable woman, and the thought of someone hitting her and getting away with it was incomprehensible. Was this the same woman who scared the hell out of me the first time I stepped foot in Greer’s house?

  “Sometimes you convince yourself you deserve it,” she continued. “Sometimes I throw it back at him, sometimes he miss and I run, sometimes I wake up on the floor.” She put her fork down and pushed her plate away. “But when he touch my baby—” She shook her head and looked out the window. “She don’t deserve that.”

  “What did you do?”

  She sat back in her chair but kept her eyes on the window, and for a moment she was somewhere else. When she looked back at me, her eyes were present, lucid as a hawk. “I got rid of him.”

  I had a delayed reaction to her words, but as soon as they registered, a large lump formed at the back of my throat. I laughed nervously and waited for her to laugh with me and tell me the truth about what happened to her husband. But she just sat there with a stone-cold stare.

  “How…how’d you do that?” I finally got out, trying to sound casual about asking Greer’s Italian housekeeper how she got rid of her abusive husband. But the words trembled as they left my mouth.

  “I called Mr. Sinclair.”

  FIFTEEN

  There are many ways to make someone disappear, and not all of those ways include murder. Sophia tightened up like a wire-corked bottle of champagne when I pressed for more. Maybe Greer paid him off, or maybe he’d threatened Sophia’s husband into leaving and never coming back. Either way, I knew Greer wasn’t a murderer, and that man walked out of Sophia’s house still breathing.

  Bear bounced off of his chair and demanded to be picked up the minute we came through the front door.

  “Mommy missed you.” I planted half a dozen kisses on his face and dropped him in the shopping bag on top of the shoebox. “Come on. Let’s go unpack.”

  He was too little to climb the wooden stair treads, which made me wonder how he’d gotten down to the first floor. Visions of him somersaulting all the way down made me cringe.

  “Poor baby. That will teach you to stay put in your room until you’re big enough to climb the stairs.”

  “What you want for dinner?” asked Sophia.

  “Are you kidding? I’m still stuffed from lunch. Why don’t you just throw something simple together for Greer and go home early.” I had plans for my husband that evening and wanted the house to ourselves. “Oh, go on, Sophia. Enjoy an evening off for a change.”

  I took my bags and started up the stairs. When I looked back down, Sophia was standing at the bottom with her hands planted on her hips. “You know what?” I mused, feeling domestic in my new role as wife. “I think I’ll cook.”

  “Mr. Sinclair will not like me leaving without telling him.”

  “Now Sophia, this is my home, too.” I was careful to tread lightly and not sound like I was giving orders. She’d worked for Greer for God knows how many years, and the introduction of a wife was sure to upset the power structure in the house.

  “I don’t feel so good about this. Mr. Sinclair told me not to leave you alone.”

  “Nonsense, Sophia. I’ll tell Greer you resisted and I insisted.”

  Twenty minutes later I was walking Sophia to her car. She reluctantly climbed in and looked at me with that same strange expression she’d had on her face all day.

  Bear was sitting in the foyer when I walked back inside. “Not again?” I eyed the long staircase suspiciously, swooping him up to go back upstairs to get ready.

  I unpacked my new lingerie and shoes. Then I picked out the perfect dress, something I could slide out of easily.

  Leda had stocked my closet months ago with her own clothes. Partly because she was tired of schlepping them over every time I needed a last minute outfit, and partly because she rarely wore the same outfit twice and hated to see such beautifu
l things go to waste. I was happy to take them off her hands.

  I took a shower and smoothed my favorite scented lotion over my skin. Perfection was the goal, because after a long day at the club, Greer deserved to come home to the perfect, attentive wife. I practiced untying the pretty little wrap dress and letting it slide to the floor, leaving just the lingerie and shoes standing before him. If that didn’t get him juiced, I’d question the man I married.

  Greer stepped off the elevator just before seven and tossed his keys in the bowl. The smell of tomatoes and basil filled the air from the pot simmering on the stove. I’d decided on a light sauce with angel hair pasta just in case we actually made it to the dining room.

  We didn’t.

  I stood in the foyer looking at the man I loved, and before I could get a word out, I was leaping into his arms and wrapping my legs around his hips. The smell of his body triggered something primal in me, and the sight of him sent my own body into a kaleidoscope of emotions that jumbled my brain and extended to the lowest regions of my stomach. I was a living, breathing mass of arousal that needed to be sated.

  “Easy now.” He tamed my assault as my lips traveled over his face and stopped at his.

  “Why aren’t you kissing me, Greer?” My legs dropped back down to the floor, and I took a step back. He had that same annoying expression that seemed to be afflicting everyone in the house but me, and it was killing the moment.

  “Damn it, Greer. You’re scaring me. I had this wonderful evening planned for us, but now it’s ruined.”

  Without a word, he pulled me into his arms and gave me a proper kiss—the kind a man gives a woman when he’s been looking at the clock all day in anticipation of feeling her naked body under his. The heat of his chest intensified, and for a moment I thought I might burst into flames. Then he picked me up and took the stairs two at a time.

  “What about dinner?” A playful smile fell over my face as I feigned Martha Stewart.

  “What about it?”