Meg set the phone down and went for the pitcher.
Which she dropped to the floor when Antony Grimaldi stepped into the kitchen through the mudroom.
And now she was pissed.
“How the hell did you get in my house?”
“Through the garage,” he said in a cavalier, mocking tone, gesturing to the mudroom. “You opened the garage and I thought it’d be easier than going through the hassle of front entry in this quiet neighborhood of yours. Please, have a seat.”
Meg had looked down the barrel of a gun on numerous occasions, had been injured and struck and frightened on various levels, but never had a criminal walked freely into her home—twice.
“Leave now, Antony, and the repercussions of unlawfully entering my home might not be so severe,” she said, suddenly no longer sleepy or lulled by the lingering effects of a glass of champagne. She needed total focus to talk down a crazy psychopath.
“I told you before, belladonna, that I could get to you anywhere. Putting that high-tech security system in place delayed me, and I’m personally offended by the inconvenience, but I can somewhat understand your need to feel protected.” He glanced around. “Now the house is locked up tight, but I’m the only person inside with you. Where is he? Remy?”
“I don’t know.” It was true. They hadn’t made contact since he’d left. “The next time I see him, I’ll tell him you popped by.”
He advanced and she backed up to the counter, holding her stick tightly. “Don’t get the idea that you might strike me. I guarantee it won’t benefit you.”
“Antony, I’ll make this perfectly simple. I’ll walk you to the door, will open it, and will let you walk out.” She started to move, clutching the counter and the stick now.
Then his hand shot out and caught her neck.
Stunned—how could a living being’s fingers be so cold?—she countered with a cough and dropped the cane, predicting he’d perceive her as defenseless.
Good, she thought, calm now even as he squeezed and cut off her air. I knew it would come down to you and me.
Antony gave a full-fledged grin, but the dominance trip impacted his alertness and reflexes, and by the time he saw the glass jar in her hand, it was too late for him to change the trajectory.
The jar connected with his skull, bursting on blunt force impact and setting free dozens and dozens of jelly beans. Meg felt the skin on her hand open in several tiny spots, but the blood that began to flow like wine pouring into a goblet came from her attacker as they both crumpled to the floor.
Candy crunched under her feet, and her cane wobbled as Meg scrambled up. She groped for a phone but realized with her breath going out in a whoosh that the landline receiver was sideways on the counter.
And her mother on the other end.
“Mamá!”
“Ay, Dios mio, are you all right?” Anita cried. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay? Where the hell are the police?”
As though on her command, sirens screamed outside on the street. “I’m okay, Mamá. The police are here. It’s over. Finally, it’s over, and I’m okay.”
* * *
Meg supposed it made sense for her friend Waverly to break from tradition at her wedding reception when instead of tossing her bridal bouquet from the grand second-story balcony of an elegant centuries-old ballroom, she took the staircase in measured graceful steps and joined the hundreds of guests and photographers anxious to see who’d wind up holding the bundle of rustic cream-roses, branches and imported silk ribbon.
From her seat in the ballroom, Meg couldn’t see much once the bride was swallowed up by single women clamoring and competing for the flowers, but with a bandaged hand she lifted her champagne flute in an early toast to the gal who’d receive them.
Waverly appeared then, in her diamond-strapped wedding gown, holding the bouquet toward…
“Me?” Meg asked, frowning as she looked around her. Guests watched from lavishly decorated tables as lights winked up to the cherubs dancing across the stories-high ceiling.
“Yes, you,” Waverly said, handing her the bouquet. “Be happy, Meg.”
“But I’m not getting married anytime soon. I don’t even have a date tonight.”
Around her people laughed, but did anyone—including Miz Willa Smart, who shared her table and spied her with eyes that seemed to know too much—notice the sorrow beneath her humor?
As the band struck up live classical music, Meg took the bouquet and her scepter-styled walking stick out to the gardens.
It was a beautiful summer night for a wedding…for promises and for dancing.
The lights had been magnificently webbed over the lush gardens, and the flower petals and plant leaves wore a golden blush.
“A sight like this will make me never want to leave you again.”
She turned as her mouth fell into a soft O.
Remy stepped away from the double doors and across the stone walkway to her. The music seemed to trail after him, but he had a way of amplifying everything. “Can I get a dance?”
“You came back to Las Vegas for a dance?”
Remy drew closer and she let him kiss her: forehead, nose, lips, the bandage wrapped around her hand. “I didn’t protect you.”
“In a very bizarre way, you did,” she protested. “The weapon I used to fend him off was a gift from you.” She offered her lips again. “Why did you come back?”
“For you. I didn’t go to New Mexico. I had to let Raphael rest in peace, by not hanging on to his murder.” He raised a hand; his cousin’s ring was gone. “I’m letting the Pote sting happen and I won’t be a part of it. I came back to be with the woman I love.”
He’d put her first. He loved her. It was dizzying and she didn’t doubt it this time.
“Where were you if not in New Mexico?”
“A small town outside El Paso, applying for a job. There’s this security firm that seems interested in my skill set.”
Meg gazed at him, greedily taking in his sulky features and serious dark eyes. “The Espositos want you in the family business, do they?”
“Seems that way. I, however, want to be home with you.” Holding her so that she could toe off her stilettos and settle her feet on his, he started to move to the music that caressed the gardens. “I don’t know if it’s here in Las Vegas.”
“Or in Texas,” she said truthfully. Some undefined mission, some undecipherable chapter in the arc of her life, had been completed. Underneath the bittersweet finality of it all was the certainty—as comforting as it was exhilarating—that she wasn’t meant to go it alone. Not anymore.
Meg and Remy were unfinished apart, but mesmerizingly complete together. Two halves of a whole. They were risky, intense, dirty together, and no one understood them more than each other.
“So what do you propose we do?”
That’s exactly it, she thought, looking at the bouquet in her hand. Propose.
Remy kissed her. “I love you, so here’s what I’m hoping. Marry me, Freckles.”
“I will,” she whispered. “I can’t wait another five years for you, though. Or five months or five days. Just marry me, Remy, and take me…”
“Somewhere for us.”
There was such a place. They just had to search for it. For now, they had a diamond sky, a golden garden, and this dance.
* * *
Blood. Sweat. Tears. Sex. The END GAME series by Piper Westbrook begins with THE PENALTY.
Author’s Note
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Books By
Piper Westbrook
The End Game Series
The Penalty
The Rush
The Brawler
The Hook
The Forgiven
About The Author
Piper Westbrook is a writer and a city girl whose life is a country song.
Reader discretion advised—always.
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The Forgiven: The End Game Series (Book 5) Page 20