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“Carlton isn’t here,” she says and I understand something. I think I do, at least.
“No?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sure I can help you with whatever you need. Come into my office. Would you like coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
She smiles, turns, and walks ahead of me down the hall shaking her curvy ass the whole way. It’s something to look at in her tight running pants. I’m sure that’s by design. I wonder how close she and Isabelle are. How much Isabelle knows about Julia. And I make a mental note to learn more myself.
She opens the door to a study but I wouldn’t say it’s a woman’s office. It’s old, dark wood at every turn. Very masculine. But maybe that’s me assigning gender roles.
“You sure this isn’t your cousin’s office. Doesn’t look like furnishings for a woman to choose.”
“No? Not pink enough?”
I look down at her. Take in her too-red lipstick. Julia Bishop arrived in New Orleans a single mom about four years ago. She moved in with Carlton right around the time Monique moved out. That’s all I know about this woman who I’m beginning to think I’ve underestimated.
I reach into my pocket and take out Isabelle’s phone. I set it on the desk. The SIM card is in my office at home.
“I’m guessing you slipped that to my wife the night I found you two in the chapel.”
She glances at it, turns a surprised face to me. “I thought it had been forgotten by the man who collected her things. You know how it is to be without a cell phone these days. Can’t survive, really.” She smiles casually.
“I’m sure you had only the best intentions for Isabelle.”
“Of course. How is my cousin?”
“I think you know.”
She blinks, gives nothing of what she’s thinking away. “Do I owe the happy couple a congratulations?”
I only smile, neither confirming nor denying. Isabelle’s pregnancy won’t remain a secret for long but if I could have it my way, no one would know until the baby is safely in my arms.
“You stand to lose quite a bit if she’s pregnant, don’t you?”
For the first time, on the few occasions I’ve interacted with or seen Julia Bishop, her mask drops, her expression giving away her thoughts and making her usually attractive face ugly. At least momentarily. And I wonder just how much in control Carlton Bishop is of the Bishop house.
“The inheritance was never mine. My father was the younger brother. It’s like the monarchy. An heir and a spare. He was the spare and me, well, I’m barely that, aren’t I?”
“Does that upset you?”
Her eyebrows knit together.
“The fact that Isabelle exists. That she ranks higher than you.”
She swallows. “Of course not. I love my cousin.”
“Hm. Where is Carlton anyway?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Didn’t come home last night. Probably at the Cat House.”
I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does, at least momentarily. “Does it bother you?” I ask, testing.
“Excuse me?”
“Does it bother you that he’s at the Cat House. Fucking other women.”
Her face flushes red. “We’re not… He’s… We’re cousins. That’s all.”
“I had a cousin once,” I lie, letting one side of my mouth curve upward.
“That’s not us!”
“My mistake,” I say. I walk around the office, take a seat on the couch, and lean back, folding my ankle over the opposite knee. She remains where she is, still flustered. “You were here when Isabelle’s brother was killed and she almost died. When Carlton took her in.”
She nods, folds her arms across her chest defensively.
“How long did you know of Isabelle’s existence? That she was a blood relation?”
“Sorry?”
“How long did you know about her? Carlton would have learned about his half-sister at the reading of his father’s will where the old man claimed paternity. A DNA test was done, without Isabelle’s knowledge by the way, years before she came to live in this house. Carlton knew about her for a long time. My question is how long did you know?”
“Only when she moved in.”
“Is that so?”
“What are you getting at, Jericho?”
Jericho.
I stand. Walk toward her. “We are not friends, you and I. Mr. St. James will do.”
She looks up, flipping her ridiculous ponytail off her shoulder. I don’t like her. In fact, I feel such an aversion to her it’s almost physical. There is something so calculated about her. So cold. But she’s a Bishop and my hate for all things Bishop runs deep.
But then I think of the Bishop at my house and that feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s carrying my child. Maybe it’s that she sleeps in my bed. That I’ve seen her at her most vulnerable and that she depends on me for everything. My hand is the hand that feeds her.
I don’t know. All I know is she’s not like this one.
“Stay away from my wife. Am I clear?”
