Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“And tension,” I say quietly, as he leads us up the path. We round the villa and find everyone sitting at the table on the patio by the pool. Everyone except Rose. I spot Goldie first, and as James predicted, her newfound girlie wardrobe is nowhere in sight, the suit back, the cut expression accompanying it. She’s the woman I first met. Stoic. Imposing. Business-like.
I find Danny at the head of the table, looking like he’s been slapped in the face. It’s a definite possibility. “Not drinking?” I ask, pointing at the bottle of water in his hand where a tumbler of amber liquid always sits.
“Not tonight.” He rises and offers his cheek.
“What’s going on with you two?” I ask quietly, kissing him, but I get no answer, just a shake of his head, telling me to leave it, before he slaps hands with James and drops back into his chair. I look at Esther who shrugs. To Brad who feigns shivering. I round the table and greet everyone with a kiss, finishing with Zinnea. “Where’s Rose?”
“In the kitchen,” she whispers, as if it’s a secret, filling up her glass, obviously deciding only wine will get her through this evening. “You could cut the atmosphere with a damn knife.”
I sigh and place my purse on the table where James just took his seat. “Back in a minute.”
“Don’t offer to help,” Esther calls as I leave them to go to Rose and find out what the hell is going on. “She’ll bite your head off too.”
I enter the kitchen as Rose drops a spatula and sauce splashes up her legs. “Fuck it,” she hisses.
“All right?”
She glances up and smiles so bright, I’m surprised the island doesn’t short-circuit. “Nearly ready,” she sings, dipping to pick up the spoon and tossing it in the sink.
I watch her, wary, as she stirs the bubbling pot of curry, blowing her hair out of her face a few times. “Esther told me not to offer my help,” I say, going to the island and popping a spoon in the mango chutney.
She stops stirring and looks up at me. “I’ve got it.”
I nod and unwrap the pappadams. “Do these need frying?”
“Shit, yes, they do.” She drops the spoon in the pot and moves on to a pan, where oil is sizzling. She takes the handle. “Fuck!” Drops it and starts shaking her hand.
“For God’s sake, Rose,” I yell, going to her and flipping on the faucet, shoving her hand underneath. I wince at the glowing red welt across her palm and look at her, seeing tears streaming down her cheeks. Tears from the pain, no doubt, but also tears for something else. “What—”
“Rose?” Danny blurts, falling into the kitchen in a rush and taking in the scene. “Rose, baby, what happened?” He comes to us, taking her arm at the wrist and inspecting the damage. I move back, letting him take over, but Rose’s tears dry up in a second, a steely expression falling, and she withdraws from his hold. “I’m fine,” she says, sniffing, refusing to look at him. “Beau’s got it.”
Danny, understandably hurt, looks at me standing awkwardly to the side. There’s not one sane man or woman on this planet who would stand in the way of Danny when it comes to his wife, and yet here I am, caught in the middle. “I’ve got it,” I confirm, fearful of the repercussions if I leave them alone together.
He swallows, moving back, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Rose, I—”
“I’m fine,” she snaps, turning away from him. “Just go.”
He does, and it rings even more alarm bells. Since when does Danny Black have his tail between his legs? The moment he disappears, I turn to Rose. “We’re not leaving this kitchen until you tell me what the hell has happened,” I say, shoving her hand back under the faucet.
Her eyes drop, but I still see them welling. “I said no,” she whispers. “I said no, and he didn’t stop.”
“What?” I ask, shocked. She meets my eyes, and the tears begin to trail her cheeks again. “Last night?” I ask. When he was drunk?
“This morning.”
Oh fuck. Although Danny was so plastered last night, there’s a distinct possibility that he was still drunk this morning. It’s not an excuse. I am not making excuses. I’m just trying to make sense of this madness. I flip off the faucet. “Where’s your first aid box?”
“The last cupboard, top shelf.” She points, and I collect it, going to the door and trying to get Zinnea’s attention. Esther’s standing behind Danny’s chair, her hands on his shoulders, her mouth close to his ear, obviously trying to pacify him. Zinnea spots me and sets her wine down, rising and tottering across the patio in her heels.
“Everything all right?” she asks, looking at Rose by the sink weeping.