Bitty turned to him. “You don’t see how—”
“I don’t notice them.” Rhage looked the girl straight in the eye. “My Mary is the only female I see. That is the way it is and ever will be. The others can trip over themselves all they like, they will never match up to what I have been blessed with, and I will never, ever have anything to do with them.”
Bitty seemed to consider that for a moment. Then she picked up her own menu with a little smile. “I think that’s really nice.”
“So, what do you feel like having?” Mary asked. “Both of you.”
“I’m in a steak kind of mood.” Rhage turned another page. “And also Mexican. And chicken. And I think I gotta rock some potatoes.”
Mary leaned across to Bitty. “Good thing there are only three of us. We’re going to need the table space for his plates.”
“I don’t know what to get,” the girl said. “I’ve never seen … so much.”
“Well, I’m willing to share.” Mary closed things up and put the sheath on the edge of the table. “But I’m just going to get a big salad.”
“I’m still working on my list.” Rhage nudged Bitty with his elbow. “I think you should get at least one thing on your own. You deserve to have your own plate—plus I can eat whatever you don’t finish.”
When the waitress came back, she had eyes only for Rhage—and it was funny; Mary could remember being insecure about that sort of thing in the beginning of their relationship … especially in light of that one episode. Now, though? It truly didn’t bother her. Rhage had not lied. These women could literally strip down to their hey-how’re-ya’s in front of him and he would have no more interest in them sexually than he would a sofa.
Amazing how your mate could make you feel cherished without actually saying a word to you.
“So what are you thinking?” the waitress asked Rhage.
“First, my ladies. Bitty?”
The girl seemed to panic. “I don’t know. I don’t—”
“You mind if I make a suggestion?” Rhage asked. When she nodded, he said, “Have the mac-and-cheese side with the broccoli side and the crispy chicken fingers with the honey barbecue sauce. Simple. Easy on the stomach. Not a lot of confusion with the old taste buds.”
Bitty seemed to brace herself. Then she looked at the waitress. “May I please have that?”
The waitress nodded. “No problem.”
“My Mary?”
Mary smiled. “I’ll have the grilled chicken Cobb salad please, with no avocado and no bleu cheese—for dressing, just ranch or something like that would be great. On the side.”
“We have ranch.” The waitress focused on Rhage, her eyes clinging to his face, his shoulders, his chest. “And you?”
“Well, I do believe I’ll start with the buffalo wings and the loaded potato skins. Then I’d like the hibachi chicken skewers, the New York strip with the half rack of both the barbecue ribs and the Memphis-rubbed, the strip done medium, and I’ll finish with the triple-stack Reuben. Oh, and I think I want the all-American burger, too. Medium, as well. Oh, and ranch with the wings, please. On the side.”
As he closed the menu, he seemed to be unaware that he was being stared at.
“Yes?” he said to the waitress.
“Are you—are you waiting for more people?”
“Nope.” He gathered the menus and handed them over. “And may I have two Cokes, please? Ladies?”
“Water’s good for me,” Mary said. “Bitty? Water or a soda? Water? Okay, she’ll take water—and then I think we’re done. And very hungry, as you can see.”
As the waitress walked off with a set of wall-eyes, Bitty started to giggle. “You’re not going to really eat all that, are you?”
“Heck, yeah.” Rhage put out his palm. “Wanna bet me?”
Bitty shook his hand. “But what happens if I lose?”
“You have to finish what’s left.”
“I can’t do that!”
As the pair of them went back and forth, Mary just watched them, the huge, impossibly beautiful male with the small little sprite of a girl as comfortable with each other as you could get.
“Mary?”
She shook herself. “What?”
Rhage reached his hand across the table. “Bitty’s asked how we met.”
As Mary clasped his palm, she had to smile. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Tell me?” the girl asked, sitting forward. “Please?”
FIFTY-THREE
When Assail was satisfied that there was no closed-circuit, or otherwise, monitoring in the study, he went to the carved door panels and cracked one open. Hearing nothing, he stepped out into the foyer and stood stock-still, listening for sounds of voices or footsteps.
“A coast that is clear, indeed,” he murmured, looking all around.
He was about to head toward the grand staircase when there was a shriek from the closed room across the way.
“—untrue!” Naasha bellowed, her volume barely dimmed. “Then it is a forgery of his signature! This is an abomination!”
Bad news? he wondered with a smile. Perhaps a long-lost relation had just come into a windfall in the will?
He jumped back into the study and closed the door most of the way just as she burst out into the foyer and stomped her way toward the stairs. Throe was on her, though, taking her elbow in a rough grip and wheeling her around.
Jutting himself forward, the male said in a low tone, “You must listen to the rest of the provisions. Yes, I realize this is a shock, but we can’t fight what we don’t know the full story of. You will go back in there. You will stop yelling. And you will let Saxton finish the presentation. When he has concluded, we shall ask him what your rights may be and who will adjudicate your contesting of the will. Then we shall engage a solicitor of our own. But you will not run out of there half-cocked and hysterical. Not if you want to get the money you’re due. Do you understand what I am saying to you.”
The voice that came out of the female’s well-greased throat was nasty as a growling dog’s. “It’s supposed to be mine. I spent the last twenty years listening to him complain. I have earned every penny of that money.”
“And I shall help you get what is yours. But that shall not happen if you do not control yourself. Emotion is not welcome here.”
There was a little more back-and-forth. And then Naasha squared those padded shoulders of hers and stalked back into the meeting.
One had to feel sorry for Saxton.
Although there was no dwelling on that now.
Assail wasted no time when they closed that door. He popped out of the study, re-shut things, and hit the stairs at a dead run. As he got to the second floor, he went down the hall farther than he had before, to a grand bedroom suite, the door of which was open. The moment he smelled astringent in the air, he knew he was in her hellren’s room—and what did one know, but the bed had been stripped, the pillows stacked in the center of the mattress, the whole of it looking well-worn.
He took out his camera phone and started snapping pictures. He had no idea what might or might not have been out of place, but that was for later perusal.
Stains. On the mattress.
High up on the mattress, not where one would expect them from a loss of bladder control.
The pillows were likewise marked.
A quick whiff told him it was not blood, nor urine. But what was the substance?
Into the bathroom. Medications everywhere, bottles with caps on cockeyed or not at all. A walker. A cane. Depends.
He was in and out of the suite in under seven minutes, and he paused at the head of the stairs. Two ways to get to the basement. The back fashion, which he had traveled the previous night …
No, he would use the other set of steps this time.
Closing his eyes, he dematerialized to the first floor and ghosted under doorways until he presented his physical form at the top of the front stairs to the cellar.