Page 91 of At Her Pleasure
“Be truthful. More truthful than you’ve ever been in your life. And don’t let her get hold of anything sharp.”
“So expose my belly, but don’t let her slice it open.”
Tiger’s lips tugged in a near smile. “Every sub’s SOP with a pissed-off Mistress.”
“Except Cyn won’t waste time on a symbolic evisceration,” Skye added helpfully.
Mick got into the truck—stiffly enough that Tiger felt a sympathetic wince. The guy might be messed up, but Tiger liked him, no reason to deny it. As Mick turned over the engine and moved to exit the parking lot, Tiger glanced at Skye, seeing the same struggle in her expression. He slid his arm around her waist and she leaned against him. “Should we follow him?” he asked.
She shook her head, signed, “They’ve known each other a long time. If this goes back to the beginning, that’s where they have to resolve it. That’s what Vera says. They can’t do that with us there.”
“I’m more concerned about what happens if they don’t resolve it. Like if we’re going to need Clorox, a lot of shop rags and an alibi for her.”
His beautiful Mistress’s lips curved, but then her gaze shadowed. “Ros said Cyn didn’t want to talk, but she was all right when she left her.
“What do you think?”
Skye glanced up at him. Despite the serious turn the night had taken, anticipation gripped him at the shift in her eyes. All that sexual fuel intake tonight hadn’t vanished—it had merely been held in the tank. Proving it, she hopped into his ready arms, clasping her legs around his hips. As he leaned back against her Mustang, her tempting breasts rested with heavy promise on his chest. Since she had one hand curled around the back of his neck, fingers stroking his hair, she propped her phone on his shoulder and typed with swift fingers. The voice was the Southern one, modulated to a sexy purr.
“I think we better make the most of the time we have. Before that Clorox and alibi is needed.”
* * *
Mick hadn’t yet done that satellite check. The townhome he’d suggested was merely a venue that fit Cyn. So would a trendy loft like Skye’s. He figured she’d go with a rental, versus the permanence and upkeep of home ownership.
When it came to profiling people, anticipating who they were, what they wanted, what they would do according to the situation, his skills were exceptional. Well above average.
He’d been dead wrong on this.
Cynbad Marigold owned a twenty-two hundred square foot single family residence. One with three bedrooms and two full baths, according to the development sign at the landscaped entranceway, since the developer was still selling lots.
It was one of the post-Katrina suburban neighborhoods surrounding the city’s core, like extra ruffles on New Orleans’ skirt. The house had vinyl siding, architectural shingles, and a blue door with a silver knocker. Crepe myrtle trees were in front, along with pots of geraniums—fucking geraniums—on her brick stoop. He saw a glider rocker and side table on the porch, as if she liked to sit out at night and wave to her neighbors as they went by, walking dogs, jogging, or coming in from work.
He walked toward the front door, but as he did, he heard a rhythmic clang and chunk. It was coming from behind her six-foot-tall privacy fence, which screened the rear yard.
Few lights were on in the houses near her, and nobody was taking their dog out before bedtime. But suburbs always had eyes. If someone was suspicious enough to call the cops at this late hour, Cyn wouldn’t let them haul him off. Maybe.
He went around the side and slid open the gate latch. Hopefully she didn’t have a dog half as scary as she could be, though he was prepared to run.
No dog greeted him, but if the house had been a shock, the backyard put him on his ass.
Cynbad Morgan liked flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.
Not the kind symmetrically arranged by a well-paid landscaping company, either. These were planted by homeowner hands, creating spaces that reflected personal preference. A greenhouse attached to her garden shed provided a controlled environment for more exotic-looking things. Like orchids. Over a dozen of them, the blooms offering a range of delicate to bold colors.
The shed and greenhouse foundations were bordered by black-eyed Susans and pinkish-white guara. The lightest wind moved the tiny flowers of the latter, a heavy weight on long, slender stems. Along the vinyl fence were dense stretches of plump zinnias, in various colors.
She’d decided to start a new bed of something, because she was in the center of the yard, ferociously hoeing, chopping up grass like she was cutting up a body for compost. No need to guess who she was imagining.
As he stepped through the gate, he saw a crouching gargoyle to his right. It squatted on a concrete post, its wings spread. A morning glory vine with nighttime furled purple blooms climbed his wings and muscular shoulders. At the foot of the post, a trio of concrete bunnies, each small enough to sit in his palm, grouped around a solar light shaped like a frog.
She also liked lawn art.
He moved toward her. He wasn’t trying to be quiet, but he couldn’t think of what to say, and the lush grass muffled his footsteps. He stopped several feet from her, just as she straightened, pulling in a shuddering breath that yanked at his own heartstrings.
She’d changed clothes, and was wearing a faded pair of jeans with dirty sneakers. The shirt was a heavy cotton tank, bearing a logo from a garden shop, flowers spilling out of a wheelbarrow.
Her shoulders were so fine-boned. Nothing suggested her extraordinary ability to carry as much as she did on them. Then there was the heart shape of her ass. He wanted to rest his head on it. Sleep there. Kiss it, bite it, hold and squeeze it.