Max suddenly knew why she had come, why she had searched for Bud. She’d wanted a confession. She was hunting for the reason to do what she’d always wanted and needed to do, what she’d vowed to Wendy she would do. She wanted to kill him. He’d given her the reason, one beyond vengeance, beyond the personal. He could kill even the ones he loved, a man capable of devouring his own young. Like a fucking rodent. Max had been born to stop him. She was Bud Traynor’s destiny. And he was hers.
She knew the way to push his buttons, to throw him off balance, to extract that confession. Leaning her chin on her hand, she fixed him with a beguiling gaze. “So tell me, Bud, how does your aunt fit into all this?” His aunt, the woman who had played master to his victim, probably for the only time in his life.
“My godmother,” he corrected evenly. “She was my first victim, Max.” He licked his lips as if savoring victory. He’d been ready for her and betrayed nothing, not even with a flash of emotion in his eyes. If he’d had any lingering emotions about his own victimization, he’d quashed them between last night and today. Damn and double damn. She’d lost whatever advantage she’d had.
“I showed such potential, being only thirteen at the time.”
Thirteen. That irredeemable age, when evil vanquished good and murderers were made.
The subject no longer an advantage to her, she altered it. “Tell me why you killed them.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Cameron and Cordelia?” he asked, then went on as if she’d confirmed. “I loved them both.” Bud covered her hand with his. She flicked him off as she would a disgusting bug. He smiled at the action and went on without losing his train of thought. “But they weren’t infallible, Max. And I quickly learned they weren’t perfect.”
What the hell did he know? She’d decided to kill him, now all she had to do was figure out when, where, and how. His words flowed over her. Half listening, her mind ran through all her options. Did she want to get caught? Did she want to do it in a blaze of glory and go down like Joan of Arc, a martyr? Or did she want to sneak in and out, hide in the shadows, keep her life, not blameless but guiltless?
“Did you know that, Max?”
“What?” Shit, idiot, she’d lost the thread. “No. How do you know?” There, good, she didn’t let on that she hadn’t paid attention.
“I had him followed. Do you want to know her name, Max?” Bud’s eyes glowed with anticipation.
Damn, she really did miss something. What the hell was he going on about? She said the only thing she could say. “Her name isn’t important.”
“The name of your husband’s lover isn’t important, Max?”
She laughed. Again, eyes focused on them. She imagined them greedy and her voice overloud. She turned the laugh into a sneer. “That’s your best attempt yet. Sorry it didn’t work.”
He raised a brow, solicitous, sympathetic. “The wife’s always the last to know, Max.”
Dickhead. Like a news flash across a TV screen came an image of Izzie Monroe’s letters juxtaposed with Cameron’s explanations about them. But those were letters across two thousand miles. They meant nothing. Nothing.
“Drink your wine, my dear Max,” he said softly, as if he could hear the wheels working overtime in her head and wanted to give them the chance to work his magic for him. Chin cupped in his hand, Bud indicated the glass with his finger.
She straightened her spine. She wouldn’t fall for his baiting. To drink or not to drink? What impression did abstinence give? Weakness? Max tipped the glass to her lips, tested. Yes, a little drier, but still sweet enough for her palate. “I see through your games. Divide and conquer. Turn me against him. Make me think he deserved what he got.”
That deeply sad facade fell over him again. “No one deserved what Cameron got, Max. There was simply no other choice.” He reached across the table and pulled off a chunk of fresh bread to dip in the balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and garlic. “But I don’t want you living with an idealized vision of him.” His lips parted, his teeth bared in preparation, he added, “You’re too young to waste your life pining for a dead man, Max.”
Biting down, oil dripped over his chin. He blotted his napkin. The pungent garlic odor made her nose twitch and her mouth water.
Anger welled in her like a water predator breaking the surface of a calm pool. “How I choose to live my life is none of your business. Don’t try to confuse me with any of this other shit.” The words were harsh and all the more softly spoken for the bubbling anger in her. “You’re picking off his killers to cover your own ass, and you’re framing me for it.” Her chin jutted. “Tell me, did you use my gun to do it?”
He tipped his head, not the least bit affected by her tone. “Are you by any chance wearing a wire tap, Max? I’m sure your little boyfriend would suggest that.”
She opened the lapels of her jacket, revealing the skintight turtleneck beneath. “Does it look like a wire is in there?”
His eyes roved over her breasts. He exhaled a breath. “No wire, Max.” He dragged his gaze to hers. “I love red. I dream about you in the tiny things I touched in your bureau.” He grabbed her hand. “Feel me, I’m hard as a rock.”