A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(61)

Art steered the minivan into the driveway. Relief untangled his shoulder muscles. He almost pulled off the freeway several times to find a hotel, but was propelled forward by a longing to be home, in his own bed, with his own wife.

The windows were dark. He looked at his dashboard clock, 12:17. Gwen must be asleep. He hit the garage opener and watched as the door struggled up then clunked into place with the groan of an arthritic, old man settling into his La-Z-Boy. That would probably wake her, and she'd be irritated. He'd been promising to replace it with one of those roll-up jobs as soon as he got the job and the raise, or when the door broke, whichever came first.

He'd expected to have to maneuver around Gwen's silver Honda. She never would pull it all the way to the left like he asked her to. But it wasn't there. He looked into his rearview mirror to see if he'd passed it on the street and not noticed. Not there either.

Gwen must have gone to Maricela's. They probably watched a movie, had too much wine, and she decided to spend the night. He opened the passenger side door and put a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Hey, buddy, we're home."

Jason mumbled something unintelligible and stumbled from the car. Tyler woke, gave him a sleepy smile, then followed his brother. Art walked around the car to the passenger side and picked up a slumbering Emily. Her eyes never opened. Her head came up, wobbled on her bird-thin neck for a moment, then thudded onto his shoulder.

He walked through the dark house without turning on lights and climbed the stairs. Emily's bedroom smelled like strawberry candy. He deposited her on her bed. After kissing her forehead and tucking the covers around her, he headed to the bedroom the boys shared.

Jason and Ryan were already sprawled atop their Batman quilts, breathing heavily. Art took off their shoes, then covered them with superheroes and arch-enemies. He remembered scooting a Matchbox Batmobile around his bedroom and shouting orders to Robin when he was a kid. Some things were constant. It was comforting. In a world full of change and insecurity, Batman never died.

After a hot shower, he climbed under his own duvet-covered, down comforter, between Egyptian cotton sheets that smelled of Gwen's perfume. He stared at his phone. Should he call or text? He didn't want to wake her if she was sleeping. He decided on a text.

"Hi, honey. Came home because of the storm. Everyone in bed. You OK?"

He dozed off with the phone on his chest waiting for a response. An hour later, his bed heaved under him. He reached his hand over the side, and a wet muzzle acknowledged it. A few more bumps and Rocket, the fair-weather guard dog, burrowed deeper under the bed.

Art checked his phone. Gwen hadn't answered his text. He hadn't expected her to, but disappointment seeped from the blank screen just the same. Exhausted, he rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


Gwen looked at Lance's bloated fingers bobbing, white and lifeless, in the scarlet water and pressed her hand to her mouth. He hadn't sent the text. She stumbled and turned toward the bedroom. Who then?

The only illumination came from watery moonlight shining through the uncovered windows. Her eyes ran across the expanse of carpet to the doorway leading into the hall. Dark, indistinct mounds loomed between her and the exit. She stepped forward, wary and alert—a deer sidling toward a salt lick.

A shape on the bed rippled in the blackness. Gwen stared. Was it a trick of moonlight? She strained her ears for a rustle of bed sheets. All she heard was the pounding of her pulse.

Lightning flashed. In that split second, Gwen saw an arm cradling a head. Another flash. She saw feet crossed in a relaxed, picnic-in-the-park pose.

"I've been enjoying the Ravish," a deep voice said. The shape rose onto an elbow. An ebony arm hoisted a toast.

Incredulity almost extinguished Gwen's fear. The voice was familiar. The man put his glass on the bedside table and turned on a low lamp. She knew him—knew, but couldn't comprehend. It was absurd. It was as if a Martian, or Abraham Lincoln, or the Ghost of Christmas Past was lying in that bed.

His eyes gleamed, feral in the low light. How had she not noticed those eyes before? He patted the bed. "You look as ravishing as the wine. Come have a glass."

"What are you doing here?" As soon as she asked the question, she wished she wouldn't have. Its answer lurked in the empty house.

"We have things to discuss."

It must be shock. She couldn't fit the pieces together. The events of the day swam in meaningless circles through the squall in her mind. He was here. In her client's home. In her client's bed, where she'd planned to...

Lance, oh God, Lance.

The fact that he was lying dead in the next room burst through the unreality of the scene and struck her like a cold wave. She began to shiver.

Mo sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Heartbeats scampered around her chest, but she was unable to move. Like a mouse mesmerized by a cobra, she watched as he crossed the room. He came between her and the door to the hall, between her and her family.

A primal instinct took hold of her unresponsive limbs. She broke into a run and launched herself at him. It was like slamming into Mount Vesuvius. She fell back, stunned.

"No need to be hasty. I was coming to you." He grinned.

Gwen dodged right; he blocked her. She feinted left. He spread his arms wide and sidestepped.

"Calm down. I only want to talk," he said.