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She smiles a little, her cheeks blushing as she leans down…
And kisses me.
On the mouth. Tenderly. With her brothers glaring at us through the glass.
Fuck it. My hand comes up to caress her face as I kiss her back a little harder. When she pulls away, her lips are swollen and her face is pink.
“Was that for me?” I growl. “Or them?”
“You. My brothers can mind their own fucking business.”
I grin as she turns and sashays out of the room, turning to give me a wink in the doorway before she slips out. After she’s gone,I swivel my gaze to Gabriel and Alistair, who both just sit there glaring at me.
Well, guess I’m the one traveling for this meeting.
Being poisoned by arsenic sucks. It fucks with your concentration, your balance, makes your stomach go nuts, and can cause all sorts of mayhem to various organs. Short version, getting up out of bed and making my way to the room next door is the opposite of fun.
I grit my teeth as I step into Alistair and Gabriel’s room, pulling my IV drips behind me. I sink into a chair by the window, inhaling deeply as nausea washes over me.
“Thanks for the wine, Gabriel,” I grunt. “Think I’ll pass next time.”
Neither of them laughs. Alistair’s brow only furrows deeper at me. “What the fuck was that?” he snarls.
“Arsenic. The doctors said it at least five times, Alistair?—”
“Withour sister, asshole,” he snaps.
“Well, Alistair,” I smile thinly. “When two adults decide to get married?—”
“Fuck off, Dante,” he spits. “What you and Tempest have is an obscene business arrangement, nothing more. I’m still looking as hard as I can for a way to cancel it. So don’t even joke about beingin lovewith her, you fuck.”
I don’t realize I’m clenching my jaw until it twinges with pain.
“Alistair.” Gabriel shoots his brother a warning look. Then he glances at me. “What did Tempest make of all this?”
“I told her old wine bottles can sometimes be tainted with arsenic.”
Alister scowls. “You’re in the habit of lying to our sister?”
“I’m in the habit ofprotectingher!” I snap.
“Enough!” Gabriel thunders. He glares at his brother, then his gaze swivels to me. “Can we agree to not talk about Tempest right now?”
“Fine,” I shrug. Then I peer at him closer. “Where the hell did that bottle come from?”
He exhales. “It was a gift from a client about two months ago.”
“What client.”
He shakes his head. “Not one who’d want me dead. Margret Worthington.”
“The socialite?”
When he nods, I blow air through my lips.
Margret Worthington is an eighty-four-year-old society lady whose father was a telecommunications tycoon. She’s used his money to fund hospitals, women’s shelters, and orphanages across New York for decades.
The woman is a fuckingsaint.
