Page 59 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
“Breakfast, my dear, breakfast. We’ll meet you at Ovando at ten!”
Ovando was Marguerite’s favorite restaurant, a swanky affair full of celebrities, posh socialites and prominent businessmen, perfect trolling grounds for finding her next ex-husband. Though Ember knew her well enough to find her repulsive, she couldn’t deny the woman had a certain way with men. She had long ago perfected the art of discerning men’s deepest, darkest desires with a few well-timed questions and a shark-like ability to scent weakness. She found out what they needed and gave it to them. Then when they were emotionally dependent on her, she took it all back and left them clamoring for more.
Genius in her own way, she was also perverted in the truest sense of the word; she was so distorted, her heart so corrupted by the desire for money and power, she could never truly love.
It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.
Judging by the way Marguerite had said “we,” Ember knew her stepsisters would be tagging along. The Tweedies never missed an opportunity to eat.
“Marguerite, it’s Monday. I have to work—”
A truly frightening cackle came over the line. “Work! Oh, dear, that’s rich! That’s too, too rich!”
Ember removed the phone from her ear and stared at it as if it had sprouted horns. Too rich? Who talked like that? And what had this woman on the other end of the line done with her evil stepmother?
“Ten o’clock, September, don’t be late. And try to look presentable, will you, dear?”
Marguerite disconnected, the dial tone sounded, and Ember’s mind went over every possible explanation for what had just happened. Since when was she “dear?”
In the end she decided there was really only one way to find out.
By the time she reached the restaurant exactly two hours later, Marguerite and the Tweedies had already begun to eat.
“I thought you said ten,” Ember muttered, disgruntled as she always was by the sight of her stepsisters. Sitting side by side in the plush leather booth, wearing matching lavender dresses despite being about twenty years past the point when it was either cute or acceptable, Analia and Allegra ignored her appearance and continued eating their breakfas
ts. Even the food was identical; poached eggs with shaved black truffles, crepes Suzette, Belgian waffles with fresh cream, double sides of sausage, and coffee, black.
Because one just had to spare the calories somewhere.
“Anyone with an ounce of good sense knows you have to arrive early to get the best seating at Ovando,” sniffed Analia to her eggs. Allegra agreed with an imperious toss of her head, saying, “And anyone with an ounce of good breeding knows you should always arrive ten minutes before that.”
Ember felt a violent urge to stuff one of their sausages into each of their mouths.
“Sit down, September,” directed Marguerite with a wave of her hand without looking up. She had some paperwork spread out on the table beside her plate and was fingering it with what appeared to be almost religious reverence. Ember’s brows drew together; whatever this was, it wasn’t good.
She took a seat opposite the Tweedies, and ordered coffee from the waiter who appeared then disappeared, silent as smoke.
“You really should eat more,” observed Marguerite, looking down her nose at Ember. She shot a proud glance at Analia and Allegra, plump as fatted calves. “That heroin chic look went out in the Eighties, my dear.”
There is was again—“dear.” The word crawled over her like a cluster of tarantulas.
“What’s going on, Marguerite? What’s with the paperwork?”
The Tweedies rolled their eyes at one another. “Surly,” said Analia.
“American,” said Allegra, and both of them burst into a fit of snorting giggles.
The twins had disliked her on sight when they’d first been introduced. Dislike had taken a turn toward hate when it was discovered Ember’s father—a relatively famous artist who Marguerite had mistaken for a rich artist and married within months of meeting him—would not be able to cure the debts or the bad name their own father had left with the family when he disappeared. General consensus was that the Tweedies’ natural father done some bad business with the mob and had most likely been disposed of, leaving his wife—his third wife—and twin daughters in the lurch.
But that wasn’t Ember’s fault. As far as she was concerned, they were just spoiled jerks.
She looked at them now and said, “Laugh it up, asshats. Once mommy dearest dies, you two vultures will be alone with each other forever. Who do you think will eat the other one first?”
Allegra spit out a half-chewed chunk of Belgian waffle, Analia gagged over her eggs, and Ember enjoyed a profound moment of satisfaction, until Marguerite ruined the entire thing when she spoke.
“Antiquarian Books has been bought.”
Ember’s head snapped around. She stared at a coldly smiling Marguerite, her brain unable to process what had just been said. “Bought? When? By who?”
