Page 26 of Secrets (The Sins Trilogy 2)
Chapter Eleven
Anthony
After dinner, Iris’s eyelids start to droop. She had a pretty tiring day. Swimming was a whole new level of physical activity for her. Then there was the marathon sex.
I lay her on our bed, and she curls up, pulling the sheets over her. She’s adorable, and I can’t stop myself from teasing her. “It’s barely eight, grandma.”
She opens one eye to look at the clock by the bed, then rolls so she’s snuggled against me, closing her eyes. “You better go back to school, because it’s almost nine. And it’s your fault. You kept me up late last night.”
I hold her until her breathing deepens. By nine, she’s sleeping soundly. I kiss her on the forehead, tuck the sheets around her and leave, TJ watching the place as I do. Sam and I are due for a chat.
Sam’s mansion’s gates are still broken, hanging crooked, leaning against their columns like frat boys after too much partying. I smirk with bitter satisfaction at the sight as I drive my Audi through the unsecured gap where they used to be.
At the main entrance, I knock and wait like a civilized man…although the things I want to do to Sam are fairly barbaric. The butler from Friday opens the door, sees me and stiffens immediately. “Master Sam isn’t receiving anybody.”
“Ah, so he’s home. I’m his beloved long-distance relative. I’m sure he’s dying to talk with me about how proper lunch meetings ought to be conducted.”
“You can’t come in,” the butler says coldly, although his Adam’s apple is bobbing.
“Or what? You going to shoot me?” It wouldn’t take more than one good punch to knock him out.
“Why not? You’re an intruder!” His voice becomes slightly shrill toward the end, sweat popping along his hairline.
I laugh. “If you want to do that kind of thing, you should go work for someone in the South. Californians don’t like it when you brandish guns and threaten to shoot people.” I lean closer until I’m right in his face. “Besides, it’s not like you know what it’s like to shoot a person. If you want, I could teach you.”
He swallows loudly, then takes a nervous step back. “I need to announce you.”
“Don’t bother. Second floor, right? Left or right? Which door?”
“Left. Third—” The butler inhales sharply, slapping a hand over his mouth. “What the hell,” he says, horrified. “It’s my job to announce you.”
“It’s fine. Really. I promise I won’t get lost.” I walk up the stairs. Where the hell did Sam find this butler? The man is worthless.
Sam’s study is as ostentatious as the man himself. Instead of being a place to relax and work or read, it’s designed to appear important, the kind of place that says, “The man who works here matters. A lot.”
I deliberately ignore Sam and let my gaze wander, giving myself time to calm down enough so I don’t jump on him and turn him into a collection of broken bones. Leather-bound books fill tall bookcases; there’s a ladder installed to reach the upper shelves. Three Monets hang from the wall—imitations, albeit damn good ones, because the originals were in the National Gallery last time I heard. A huge oak desk occupies a prominent place in the room, along with a leather chair. The desktop has a laptop, currently closed, a stack of documents and a Dictaphone.
A weasel-like smile on his florid face, Sam looks at me from the desk. He’s dressed in a maroon evening robe and pajama bottoms. The time I gave myself to calm down hasn’t really worked. Right now, the idea of dragging him into the en suite bathroom and shoving his face into the toilet is enormously appealing. It would fit better than your standard beating, too. After all, he used water to hurt Iris.
“Anthony,” he says, his voice oily enough to make me feel nauseated. He fiddles with his Dictaphone.
I take an armchair opposite him. “I see you’re healthy as a horse, despite what Marty said.”
“My son worries about me. He’s a good child.”
My ass. Nothing less than a beating can fix what’s wrong with Marty. “Then perhaps you should tell him to be a good little boy and stop contacting Iris. And I know what you did, Sam. Stay the hell away from Iris unless you want to face charges for attempted murder.”
“Attempted murder?” He laughs, slapping the desk. “For what?”
I flex and clench my hands, the knuckles cracking. “I saw you push her into the pool.” I bite out each word, fury building like a tsunami. “You know she can’t swim.”
“She slipped. Twice. I was going to get her, but then…” He raises his palms, shrugging. “You arrived.”
The toilet bowl is too good for him. “You want me to believe that shit?”
“It isn’t about what you believe. It’s about what I can convince a jury to believe. I’ve been a very good uncle to Iris. Her doctors will be more than happy to testify to that effect. You’re the weird, controlling ‘boyfriend’ who wants to take her away from me for nefarious reasons.”
A broken nose and a few teeth in the back of his throat would be nice about now. “Try it, asshole. I can ask Elizabeth to testify on my behalf.”
