Page 10 of Kiss of Wrath

“I did not mean to upset the children,” Mordr said right off.

“It is all right. The little ones recover fast.”

“I brought them some gifts from the ship store. A kaleidoscope and a microscope.”

“They will be pleased.”

The two brothers sat side by side in silence for a moment.

“What’s with the big hole?” Mordr asked.

“Swimming pool. First, it was going to be a small above-ground pool for the children, but somehow it’s turned into an big-ass, Olympic-size pool for everyone. As if I don’t have enough to do with these castle renovations. Last month, the plumbing backed up and we had to dig up the back courtyard. That’s when Alex got the pool idea.”

Mordr turned to look at Vikar. “Do you do everything she wants?”

“Just about,” Vikar agreed happily. “Oh, by the way, Mike wants to see you in an hour.”

“Me?” Mordr exclaimed. “Me, in particular?” No vangel wanted to be singled out by their heavenly pain-in-the-arse.

“You, in particular.” Vikar arched his brows with amusement. Easy for him to be amused when he was not the one in the archangel’s crosshairs.

Mordr stood wearily.

“You lucky devil, Mordr! I mean, you lucky vangel! Guess where Mike is sending you next?” Vikar asked with barely controlled laughter.

Uh-oh! Mordr did not like the expression on Vikar’s face.

“Well?”

“Sin City.”

“Oh shit! He’s sending me to Hell. What have I done lately to merit such a punishment?”

“Not Hell, you halfbrain.” Vikar was laughing out loud now. “You are going to Las Vegas.”

Where’s Mary Poppins when you need her? . . .

Dr. Miranda Hart was late. Again.

“George?” she said into the speaker on her cell phone that sat on the hall table as she wobbled on one foot, then the other, stepping into a pair of high-heeled pumps. “Can you take my nine a.m. appointment with P. Jack Sloane? I’m running a little late.”

“Again?” She heard George—Dr. George Jensen, her boss at Nevada Psychiatric Services—sigh deeply. “You used to be the first one in the office.”

“Well, I’m cashing in on those credits now.” She glanced into the mirror over the table and cringed. Her curly red hair, a gift from some long-ago Irish ancestor and the bane of her onetime orderly life, was already coming loose from the French knot she’d pinned it into a mere half hour ago.

“Miranda,” George said on a long sigh.

Miranda knew as well as George that canceling appointments with depressed/exuberant/obsessive-compulsive/bipolar emotional wrecks could cause huge crises. It was a professional no-no. In P. Jack’s case, she was not worried, though, and George wouldn’t be, either. P. Jack, a high-stakes baccarat dealer at a Las Vegas casino, had been married and divorced thirteen times, and he was trying to understand through therapy what his core problem was. He had, of course, proposed to her several times.

“I already have another appointment scheduled for that time, Miranda. We’ll have to cancel Mr. Sloane and reschedule for later today. Unless you have other pressing plans, like a peewee badminton game.”

Miranda groaned. It was not like George to be sarcastic. She suspected he was reaching the end of his rope with her. Now was not the time to correct him, and say it was peewee baseball, not badminton. Even as she repinned the loose strands of hair back into place, she argued her case, “Listen, I’ll stay late today. Tell P. Jack I can see him at five, if he’s available.”

George agreed, then added ominously, “Please tell me you completed the monthly records that were supposed to be filed two days ago.”

Miranda glanced over at her briefcase near the front door where she’d dropped it when she came in yesterday. “Of course,” she lied.

No sooner had she ended her call with George than her phone rang again. She would have ignored it and let her answering machine kick in, except that the caller ID said “Bradley Allison, Esq.” with a Cincinnati number. Reluctantly, she answered, “Hello.”