A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(60)

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


Gwen heard water running and Lance moving around upstairs while she did the dishes. She imagined him taking off his shirt, his jeans, his boxers. Did he wear boxers? She didn't even know.

She was sure his abdomen would be lean and muscled, his legs strong. She thought about running her hands over his taught back. An ember of anticipation in her belly flickered to life.

Her phone dinged, "Coming?" the text said.

She dried her hands on a towel, "Yes, almost done," she sent back.

"Hurry."

"I'd be there quicker if I didn't have to text," Gwen said to her reflection in the darkened kitchen window, but typed, "Yes." She was hurrying. If she didn't, she might change her mind. A part of her wanted to walk out the front door, leave him alone in the bath until the water cooled, and he realized she wasn't coming up.

"Drinking all the wine." Another text.

Gwen smiled. "Don't!"

"Have to do something."

She put the last of the dishes away, opening and shutting cupboards until she found their mates. It was important to put everything the way it had been.

She had no idea what Mrs. VanVlear was planning to tell the Frobishers about this night. If what she'd done came out, it would be the end of her career. People didn't take kindly to sharing their bath and bed with their Realtor and her boyfriend. Bath and bed. Boyfriend. Her stomach fluttered again. Had she lost her mind?

The phone pinged. "Waiting."

"I know," she answered out loud while she typed the words. She had lost her mind. She'd better find it again before Sunday, before Art and kids came home.

Several shots of adrenaline hit her blood stream like espresso. She shouldn't have thought about Art and the kids. She flicked a dishrag at the counters, hung it over a towel rack under the sink, then stood still in the center of the kitchen.

Although yoga wasn't her favorite form of exercise—she preferred something faster paced—she'd taken classes at the gym. She practiced the ujjayi breathing she'd learned until her pulse slowed, then walked into the great room.

"What's taking so long?" her phone demanded.

"Hurrying." Her thumbs stabbed at the screen.

She crossed the room extinguishing candles as she went. Dread replaced excitement as darkness replaced the light. When she reached the fireplace, she turned off the gas and was momentarily blinded by the echo of the flames. A streak of lightning pointed like a finger across the black room to the staircase, thunder rolled.

"Do I need to come get you?" her phone glowed.

"Coming," she typed.

She stood at the base of the stairs and looked into the dark cavern at the top. Love you, babe. Art's words rang through her mind. She couldn't go through with this. Maybe she was a fool. Maybe Art had cheated on her. Maybe he hadn't. Either way, it didn't make this right.

She'd lived her whole adult life mourning her mother's death. A death caused by her father's affair. Gwen didn't believe in bending biology, or flexible marriages. It didn't matter how handsome, or dependable or persuasive Lance was. She knew the reality of infidelity.

She made a decision. She would climb the stairs, go into the bathroom, and tell him she couldn't do it. If it cost her a partnership, so be it.

The feeling that something was wrong hit her on the third riser. There was no warning creak like in a haunted house movie. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

She heard no splashing, no running water, no sound at all other than the murmur of rain against the windowpanes. She picked her way carefully around the rose petals that were already beginning to wilt.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she called out to Lance. He didn't answer. She paused for a moment, then fixated on the trail of petals as if she might lose her way without them. The red path led her down the dark hall and into the master suite.

From halfway across the bedroom, she could see the tile floor of the bathroom shining wetly in the candlelight. Lance must have splashed water out of the tub as he got into it. With a soft, nervous laugh she said, "You're so messy. We're going to have to mop."

Lance didn't answer.

A strand of hair tickled her shoulder. She slapped it behind her as if she could slap away the light fingers of anxiety tickling up and down her spine. She stepped over the puddle into the master bath.

Her eyes followed the wet trail to the wide, ceramic tub. Rose petals floated on the surface of the water like drops of blood. Lance's chin rested on his chest as if he was sleeping. "Lance." Her voice broke like a teenage boy's. She cleared her throat and stepped closer.

His knees rose like bone, white islands. She noticed, in an absentminded way, his legs were skinnier than she'd imagined them. Burgundy clouds floated in the sudsy water.

"Lance." Her voice was pleading now.

She willed him to open his eyes, to smile sheepishly and tell her he'd spilled a glass of wine into the tub. But he didn't stir. Only his fine, brown, chest hairs swayed in the water like kelp.

DING. The light of her cell phone shone blue and ghostly in the dim room.

"Finally."

The phone slipped from her fingers and disappeared beneath the maroon bubbles.





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR