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“No, I didn’t.” She tugged at a loose curl that had dropped into her face. “That reminds me,” she said, a little haltingly. “I suppose I should thank you for sending me dinner. I was so exhausted last night, I probably just would have settled for a jar of olives.”
“I thought you’d enjoy that.” He picked up the wine and strawberries, swinging to his feet. “Let me take you out. I’m sure you’re not up to cooking now.”
All the warmth drained from her face, leaving her ashen. “What? No. I can’t.”
“Relax,” he said, his tone harsher than he wanted. “I didn’t mean in public. I know I’m not here to take you on a date.”
She didn’t apologize so he knew it was exactly what she was thinking. But apparently hunger was enough to override whatever qualms she had, because she followed him to the Prius. Without asking, he drove across town to pick up some fast food at the run-down drive-in mostly occupied by stoners and kids this time of night. Donni kept her face averted as he placed the order, looking out the window.
He could have told her that anyone would know her, with a profile like hers.
Once he’d paid for the food, he parked in the lot, under the shade of a large sycamore. Every so often one of the pods would give up the ghost and fall on the hood with a metallic thunk that sounded deafening in the silence. At some point, when they’d finished their sodas and were working their way through the carton of strawberries, he opened the wine, pulling the cork out with his teeth.
“You’ll break your teeth,” Donni said. “Or put your eye out.”
“Are you my mother?” he retorted, feeling a mean, savage pleasure when her face crumpled a little, and the ice looked like it might be on the verge of breaking.
“Please,” she said quietly. “Don’t.”
That worn, defeated tone was so similar to his actual mother’s that something in him shuddered in disquiet. He took a long drag from the neck of the wine bottle before passing it over to her. It gave their impromptu dinner a rebellious, festive edge, and eventually she accepted, taking a long swig before blotting her berry-stained mouth with the back of her wrist in a way that he found incredibly sexy.
“So,” he said, leaning back. “Opal Walters died. Are you all right?”
She tensed again, and then nodded. “It was awful. I was returning her cake plate and the front door was open, so I knew something wasn’t right—”
“You went into her house?”
“I didn’t know she was dead.” Her voice was defensive, and a little shrill. “I thought she was—I don’t know, distracted or in the bath. But when I found her, she was wearing a little wisp of a nightgown and so pale, like marble. Blue-white marble. And there was a needle beside her on the floor—”
He laid his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much.”
“It looked like heroin,” she continued recklessly, apparently too distracted to notice him thumbing her bra strap. “But do people do that by themselves?”
“Addicts do. Heroin’s not a party drug.” His tone cooled a little as he wondered if she remembered her lie.
Donni took another drink, the smooth lines of her throat working. Her hand was unsteady though, and a few crimson beads splashed her chest. That distracted him from the strange thought that buzzed half-formed through his brain, only to fizzle out in a small burst of flame. When she finished, he took the bottle from her and stuffed the cork back in, while she watched him with slightly puzzled eyes.
He looked at the garnet flecks above her breasts. For some reason, he thought of the staining on the lace that was in the locket he’d found outside her bedroom.
The thought was strangely unsettling.Wine or blood?
“Maybe Christophe killed the old bitch to get his inheritance,” Rafe mused aloud.
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Well, he is,” Rafe said. “Terrible.”
She made a bitter sound. “He seems to think the same of you. He told me you were dangerous.”
“I bite, too.”
Donni leaned back from him. “I’m glad you find this so amusing, because I don’t. A woman was just killed in her home and you’re making light of her bereaved son.”
“Even if it’s coming from one bereaved son to another?” She shook her head, clearly annoyed. Rafe studied her in the darkness of the car. “When did you talk to Christophe?”
“At the funeral.”
“After I was gone?”
