Page 27 of Business vs. Pleasure

She sighed heavily. “Oh, actually…yes, that might be it.”

“Mmhmm. Don’t worry, Mrs. Redham. Soon, your problems will be much smaller.” Not gone completely—no one could do that—but a carefully enacted death often provided the greatest good for the greatest number of people.

“Call me Rachel, please.” He heard her take a sip of her drink. “I prefer it. I…you’re doing it tomorrow, right?”

August hummed again. Deniability, always deniability.

“You know, I’ll be at the party.”

Oh, that was news. “Why?”

“Because the only positive interactions I’ve had with that man for the last five years have been about the charity,” she said, her voice getting a bit louder as her passion for the subject matter grew. “I chose a man who didn’t respect me, or any woman. He brought home a disease that ravaged me so badly I had to have a hysterectomy. He promised me the world and then made my world the size of a penthouse apartment, no larger, except for his damn parties. He kept me locked in and wouldn’t let me leave, he said he’d ruin me if I tried, and…”

She went quiet, and August stared into the dark depths of his drink and wondered how hard it would be to kill Harrington Redham, III, with the toothpick currently plunged through the center of his maraschino cherry.

“The charity is important to me,” Rachel said at last. “And he almost ruined it, too. I’ve got more in my life now thanks to connecting with Lisa and the girls, but the money we raise at this event should go to the people who really need it, not my awful husband. I need to make sure it goes well.”

August nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“Good.” She raised her glass. “L’chaim.”

“Cul sec.” He drained his drink right along with her, then left a fifty on the table and departed before she could say anything else.

A client at the party was a complication, but not something they couldn’t work around. August had dealt with worse things, twice while wearing a wetsuit and lugging an oxygen tank on his back, so this was nothing more than a wrinkle. Galas, especially for charity, especially when they happened during the light of day, generally meant that the participants were going to be on their best behavior, so despite the fact that the Redhams were a hair’s breadth away from a vicious divorce, they ought to be able to tolerate each other’s presence in public. Hell, they’d been married for two decades—Rachel was clearly a boss at tolerating her lesser half.

As long as there were no tantrums between the main characters, things ought to go perfectly. In fact, if Ricardo had gotten the dosage right, they wouldn’t even be around when Harrington started showing symptoms, never mind when he finally bit the dust. Ricin kicked in slowly, with miserable but not emergent symptoms appearing hours later. Death? Two or three days down the line, long after August and Ricardo had vacated Arizona for some place less arid and scorching.

“Did you get everything I need?” August asked Ricardo over dinner in their hotel room. It was a little crass, to be eating roasted duck on a silver platter while sitting on the edge of the bed, but they’d made sure the room was free of listening devices. The same couldn’t be said of the restaurant downstairs, and neither of them wanted to leave anything to chance this time.

“No,” Ricardo said as he brought his fork up to his mouth. He chewed obnoxiously slowly, drawing out the moment for the sake of fucking with August. Asshole. Cute asshole, but still. “I’m relaxing over dinner with you because I’ve decided to change everything about the job without even talking to you about it. We’re going to be dropping a safe on Redham’s head at the party instead.”

“Deadass, that would be amazing,” August said, and snickered as he watched Ricardo mouth “deadass” in silent disbelief to himself. “No cap. But a piano would be even better. What are the odds we can make that happen by tomorrow’s luncheon?”

“Nonexistent,” Ricardo said. “The same as the odds you’re getting laid tonight. No… cap? No cap.”

August placed a hand over his heart. “What, darling, you don’t like my efforts to modernize my vocabulary? All the hip young people are saying it!”

“Well, you just disqualified yourself.”

Ricardo absolutely deserved the napkin he took to the face next. “It’s all set,” he said, ignoring the delicate square of ecru linen as it fell to the floor.

Ecru napkins, ugh. Bad enough when the shade trended cream, but yellow? Yellow? Who did that suit? No one, that’s who.

“And you’re sure the dosage is right?”

Ricardo rolled his eyes.

“Hey, I’m just asking. If he just shits himself, pukes, and gets over it, then we’re screwed.”

Another eyeroll. “People don’t just shake off ricin. And he has enough health issues that even if it’s not a fatal dose in a healthy person, it’ll be enough to shock his system beyond repair.” Ricardo stabbed a green bean with his fork. “Anyway, the lethal dose is so small, if anything, I want to make sure we don’t give him too much. If it kicks in too fast and too hard…”

“I mean as long as he doesn’t puke on me…”

Ricardo laughed soundlessly. “Well, stay out of the line of fire and you won’t have to worry about it.”

August flipped him off.

Ricardo ate some green beans. “And make sure you don’t drink from the wrong glass. If you start showing those symptoms, you’re the hospital’s problem.”