Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (always you kirsty moseley .TXT) 📗

Gary was, and someone was minding him. The man never took off his gloves, she noted. He had a gun tucked into the back of his jeans that she only caught a glimpse of when he bent toward the fridge.

“Let’s take a break.” He closed the fridge door. “I can’t believe how disgusting this is.”

He glanced at his phone, then set it on the kitchen table, faceup as if he were expecting a call. It wouldn’t take her but a second to swipe it, she knew, but what did she do afterward? Would she have time to dial 911? It was almost a bad joke: In the middle of a forest, would anyone even notice?

The man went to the back window and stared out into the darkness. The glass was made up of tiny panes, and whatever was happening on the other side of it was holding his attention. Was there an accomplice watching the grounds? A lot hinged on that. If a second gunman were inside the house, all bets were off if she or Gary could make it outside. But if the kidnappers had even more help, who knew what might happen?

“Is somebody out there?” she asked him.

“Just one of our guys.”

So there was at least one person outside, watching the grounds. Good to know. “What if someone wanders off the road?” she asked.

“We’re more than three miles from the nearest road.” His voice was reproving, as if she should have known better, even if she had been smuggled there in the back of a van. “No one’s coming here.”

“Do you have any tick spray?”

“What?”

“We’re in a wooded area. Even though it’s November, you must’ve thought about Lyme disease, right?”

His mouth fell open, as if the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. Before he could string together an answer, his phone rang. The noise made their eyes arc in the same direction. The screen of the phone had come to life, filled with an image of a white woman with highlighter-yellow hair with a bright pink streak shot through it. The woman was wearing enormous sunglasses in the picture, but that didn’t hide her identity. Dominique would’ve recognized her anywhere. That was Gary’s wife.

Chapter 7

Hold on,” the man said to Dominique as he picked up the phone. “Hello?” He headed out of the kitchen, as if moving a few feet away conferred some shield of privacy. He halted just beyond the entryway, his eyes flicking furtively at Dominique.

Her mouth was dry again. She hadn’t believed Gary when he’d claimed his wife was behind this, but she’d been dead wrong.

What did she even know about Trin, after all? Dominique had spotted her countless times over the years at fashion shows. It was impossible not to notice Trin, even in a crowd, since the woman was always dressed outrageously, had her hair dyed hues that didn’t occur in nature, and carried odd props in one hand—one year a monocle, another a vintage Japanese fan—and a cigarette in the other. Trin sometimes showed up in designers’ showrooms for private viewings of a collection; her access was guaranteed by the fact that she spent a mint on couture. She never entered into conversations with models, preferring to treat them like thoroughbreds who’d respond to hand signals and sharp commands. “STOP. Turn around!” Trin would bark, in a clipped voice that aspired to be a British accent but couldn’t quite make the leap across the Pond. The ladies who collected couture were an odd flock of fine-feathered birds, usually billionaires’ wives insulated from reality in gilded cages built with money from oil and gas and coal. Even in that rarified air, Trin stood out. She was a caricature of an heiress, so oblivious to others that it seemed as if she floated along in a bubble.

When Dominique first met Gary—at a photo shoot to promote that stupid, toxic energy drink he’d bought into—she’d been curious about him, because she knew he was married to the notorious Trin Lytton-Jones. He’d shown up not only without a wedding ring, but also without a tan line where the ring should have been. He’d been so laid-back and self-deprecating and charming that Dominique was intrigued. How could a handsome former athlete, a man who liked baseball and bowling, cold beer and hot jazz, be married to such an alien creature?

The truth is, we’re not really married, Gary told her later, when she asked.

That’s a great line. What would your wife think if she heard it? Dominique had fired back.

She wouldn’t care. Our marriage is a publicity stunt, nothing more. We don’t have any relationship at all.

Gary had pursued her, and Dominique had laughed him off. Any married man who wanted to sleep with a girl would say he was estranged from his wife, and Dominique wasn’t that kind of girl, anyway. But she was fascinated, and more than a little attracted to Gary, and so she dug deeper. There were people in the New York fashion world who knew about Trin and Gary’s strange arrangement, and everyone agreed it wasn’t a real relationship. Trin’s far-out, avant-garde style had always made Dominique think of a bejeweled stick insect, one that injected its mate with poison after sex. Gary eventually explained that he wouldn’t know anything about that, since he’d never slept with his wife.

Then why are you with her? Dominique asked.

It’s a business arrangement.

You made a business arrangement with Trin to marry her as a publicity stunt?

No. The arrangement is with her father.

Trin’s father had forced her to get married, Gary explained. After auditioning a series of candidates—all athletes, because Mr. Lytton-Jones wanted his grandsons to be tall and strong—Gary had been selected. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect, but he’d explained to Dominique that he’d desperately needed the cash. He’d lost everything he’d made through endorsements, and he’d borrowed against future earnings. The companies he’d tried to start up had gone belly-up and left him deeply in debt. Worst of all, his mother had been