A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(53)

She didn't sound sorry.

"Gwen—"

"It's a lot of money. We need it."

Her aim was perfect. The words hit him square in the ego. He left the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


Gwen started at the bang of wood on wood. Art was mad. So what? So was she. She reached for her glass of wine and drank.

She was glad he was leaving and taking the kids. She needed a weekend alone to think this through. She didn't want to break up her marriage. She'd experienced the devastation divorce caused first hand. She wasn't willing to have her kids go through the pain she had, but she couldn't look at Art right now.

Her glass was empty. "The story of my life," she mumbled.

Gwen leaned out of the bath, dribbling water and bubbles on the tile, grabbed the bottle, and refilled. Lance's perspective on marriage was beginning to make an inverted kind of sense.

It was a far cry from the idyllic visions she and Art had nattered about in the beginning, when they'd had constellations in their eyes. How young she'd been. How idealistic. She’d really believed she'd found her soul mate. Her hero.

She raised her glass to the ceiling in a toast. "To reality," she said to no one and gulped. Maybe a fling would help her cope with Art's infidelity—an eye for an eye. If someone slaps you, turn the other cheek. It didn't say which cheek. She laughed bitterly.

The water and wine warmed and wooed her. She rubbed her tired legs one against the other. Skin, smooth and slippery, brought images to mind of other legs, other skin. She allowed her thoughts to wander down roads they'd never traversed before. Refill her tank, wasn't that what he'd said?

That sounded good. She'd been running on empty for a long time. No tenderness. No love. No lovemaking. Why not pull up to the pump? The idea of sex with Lance, once planted in her mind, began to take it over like weeds in a garden.

She closed her eyes and submerged hoping the surface of the water would create a barrier strong enough to keep her from reaching for the phone. It lay on the floor next to the tub—a serpent ready to strike. When she came up for air—and more wine—she eyed it again. It flickered to life as if she'd willed it. Gingerly, like someone reaching for a hot coal, she lifted it off the bathmat and opened her text messages.

She read, "You okay?"

After several moments she typed, "Not really."

"What are you doing?" came almost immediately.

"Taking a bath."

Gwen sipped her wine.

"Nice," flashed on her phone.

She paused, then typed, "Still on for tomorrow night?"

"You bet," Lance messaged.

An idea had been forming in her mind while she soaked. "Let's not go to a restaurant," she typed.

"No?"

"Picnic."

"Where?"

"My listing in Dana Point." Arranging a rendezvous there felt adventurous and rebellious, and she reveled in those emotions tonight.

He didn't respond for a full minute and a half. It seemed an impossibly long time. She stared at her silent screen until the light dimmed. Had she said the wrong thing?

She knew she was sending a dangerous message, one she had no business sending. But he was the one who brought up bending biology and empty tanks and all that. She was just playing along. She didn't plan to have an affair, but she could flirt. She could imagine. She could try on the role of the wanton woman like a costume for one night. See how it fit.

The phone reanimated. "Is that safe?"

"Yes. They're gone until next week."

Another long pause. "When?"

"Seven." Her heart thudded against her ribcage.

"Okay."

It was done.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


I wasn't sure why I was there, parked across the street from the house on Sailor's Haven, other than that it was Gwen's listing. Maybe I was hoping it would prove to be a place of vulnerability, her Achilles’ heel. I'd had success with other agents in other empty properties. The prey tended to be distracted by their own hunt. They lusted for a sale, while I, you could say, lusted for blood. But I had other plans for Gwen.

"Hello."

The voice startled me. I looked up to see a lanky, old woman with a knobby, gray head of hair striding up the street toward my car, sweater flapping in the wind.

"Excuse me," she said.

I sat up straighter and waited for the inevitable. I knew the type. Every neighborhood has one. A bored, senior citizen who reads too many amateur sleuth novels out looking for a crime to solve.

"Hello there," I said and graced her with my most melting smile.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

I gave her a quizzical look.

"I couldn't help but notice you've been parked here for..." she looked at her watch, "twelve minutes, thirty-two seconds. I thought maybe you were lost."

"That's very gracious of you," I said. "But I'm not lost, just looking at the flier on this house."

"The Frobisher's house? It's a very nice place, but they're out of town."

"Oh, are they?"

"Are you looking for something in Dana Point?" she said.