A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(63)
I watched Gwen pull up to the curb and carry several parcels into the house. A moment later she reemerged, leaving the front door open wide behind her. She scurried right past me so intent on getting out of the wet night she never looked my way. I watched until she was bent into the trunk of her car to retrieve more bags and sneaked across the yard and through the front door.
I glanced around. The second floor seemed like the best place to hide until I could establish a plan. I ran up the stairs before Gwen made it through the front door with her bundles and positioned myself in the walk-in closet of the master bedroom. I waited.
At one point, I bumped into a shelf in the dark, and a shoe thudded to the floor. I feared I'd given myself away, but there was an auspicious clap of thunder at the same moment that must have covered the noise. No one came upstairs.
I left the closet door open a crack and could hear movement and voices below. Several times, I almost crept out just to see what was happening, but I'm glad I didn't. Good things come to those who wait.
The scent of roses was my first clue that a splendid opportunity was about to present itself. My second, the view of Lance dropping said rose petals across the bedroom floor. Romance was in the air.
Catching the gigolo with his pants down was almost too good to be true. He was easy to deal with, half-drunk, eyes closed, and naked as a jaybird. His death was as smooth as a good Cabernet.
Gwen was harder to deal with. I hadn't expected her to turn out the lights and bolt, but even that was only a momentary setback. I enjoyed the chase. It proved she was a good choice. She had grit and ingenuity.
Then that stupid, stupid old crone banged on the front door and almost ruined my plans. She made a tremendous ruckus. I was afraid she'd rouse the entire neighborhood, but nothing ever came of it. When she left, I threw Gwen over my shoulder, no small feat, and sneaked her out through the back door.
It bothered me that I had to bring her to my shop. My sanctuary. But I couldn't think of anywhere else at such short notice. I only kept her there long enough to retrieve her car. It wouldn't do to let the police find it and come to the conclusion she'd been a victim instead of a perpetrator. I left the vehicle in a rough area of Santa Ana with the windows down and the keys in the ignition, walked several blocks to an all-night bar, had a glass of abysmal wine to calm my nerves and called an Uber. I had the driver drop me in the Dana Point Harbor, and I walked to Sailor's Haven to pick up my car. .
When I finally returned to the shop, I was so agitated I paced between the shelves for over an hour, running a finger across the bottles—my form of meditation. It calmed me, helped me think. I drew on the strength of the wine.
Every bottle represents an ancient process, a magic formula. Every crop of grapes demands its own unique care. Was it a hot, dry year? Wet and cold? An early or late spring? Nature infuses the grape with a mystery only the alchemist can unravel.
He combines varietals—dark with bright, sweet with pungent—to achieve balance. He adds a pinch of this, a drop of that, then hides his creation away in the dark. The longer it sits, the more deep and complex it becomes. Every wine has its perfect time. Opened too soon, it will be weak and shallow. Too late, and it's spoiled. This was my time.
My sister wouldn't win. She wouldn't steal my light, or my birthright. But I knew I would have to storm the castle soon if I wanted what was mine, and I did. What had started as a hunger for justice had grown into ravenous need.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Gwen rocked Emily, back and forth, back and forth, in the white rocking chair with the floral print cushion. It was the same chair she'd rocked each of her babies in. The day she found out the child she was carrying was a girl, she went to Home Depot and purchased a can of bright white semi-gloss. It had taken several coats of paint to cover the once blue rocker.
"Hush, sweetheart. Hush," Gwen murmured and kissed the top of Emily's head. Instead of the smooth, blond, strawberry-scented hair she'd expected, wiry strands poked her lips. She rocked harder. "There now, Mommy's got you."
Emily had dreamed a terrible dream. She'd seen blood in a bathtub, a lifeless body, the black silhouette of a stranger in the dark. At least, Gwen thought, it was Emily who’d had the nightmare. It was possible that she, herself, was the one who'd dreamed.
It was cold. She should cover Emily with the blanket she always kept on the chair, but it was hard to move her limbs. Even her eyelids felt like blocks of cement. Straining, she attempted to lift them but couldn't. She tried to bring her fingers to her eyes to rub them awake. Her hands stopped short. They must be tangled in Emily's hair. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she dozed again.
She was awakened by violent shivers. The blanket. She knew where it was but couldn't reach for it. Her arms wouldn't cooperate. She opened one eye a slit and looked at her hands to see what the problem was.
They were tied.
Awareness slapped her awake. Her eyes flew open. There was no sweet face haloed by the strands wrapped around her wrists. There was no rocking chair. Gwen was lying, alone, on her side on a wood floor, hands bound with rope.
The room was dim and shadowed. The only light came from under a door. It was a small space, piled high with boxes. A storage room of some kind.
The memory of the night came to her in disconnected bits, puzzle pieces that refused to make a complete picture: Lance's curling hair and beautiful eyes. The Frobisher's great room. The dark at the top of the stairs. Mrs. VanVlear with wine-stained lips. Wine, the smoky taste of Ravish. And something else. Something she didn't want to remember.