Runaway Mistress. Robyn Carr

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      “You can’t just bring your bimbo to Vegas and toss me to the sharks in Palm Beach while you’re here screwing around. They’ll eat me alive!”

      Uh-oh. That would be Mrs. Nick.

      “I’m here for poker! I can screw around in Florida!”

      “Everyone knows you left me at home while you brought that whore to Vegas!”

      Jennifer stiffened indignantly. She took exception. At the very least, the pot was speaking of the kettle.

      “Why you worrying about what everyone else thinks? You got your big house, your big rings. You don’t play second fiddle. You got your masseuse.”

      “Oh, you have such a dirty mind! Maurice is gay!” And with that there was a crash. She was throwing things. It was time to give her some space.

      Jennifer backed quietly out of the room, gently pulling the door closed. She went downstairs to a quiet bar, sat at a corner booth and ordered a foamy margarita. She sipped it very slowly, killing time. She’d give Nick and his spouse time to work through this tiff. If she ended up with her own room and a first-class ticket back to Fort Lauderdale, it wouldn’t be the first time. It was no big deal.

      “Hey, sweetheart.” She looked up into the deep brown eyes of a rather handsome and well-dressed man. “Buy you a drink?”

      “Thank you, no. I’m waiting for someone. He’ll be along soon.”

      One corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. “Blow him off,” he suggested.

      She placed both her hands on the table, fingers splayed, roughly sixty thousand dollars’ worth of gems glittering on her fingers and wrist. “Oh, I don’t think so. I really don’t think so,” she said sweetly with her positively shattering smile. He was dismissed.

      She knew better than to flirt or lead men on. For one thing, Nick wouldn’t stand for it. More than that, she’d seen plenty of women get themselves in serious trouble biting the hand that fed them. Not to mention the number she’d seen take a dive because they were stupid enough to fall hopelessly in love and believe everything they were told.

      Jennifer had never been in love. At least, not since her sophomore year of high school. The combination of watching her mother suffer through frequent broken hearts and having her own trod upon by a stupid high school jock had taught her more than she wanted to know about that emotion. She thought it best to rise above it and live the good life. And her life was good.

      The fight going on upstairs was upsetting, however. According to Nick, the honeymoon with Barbara was over and they’d gone their separate ways. Jennifer didn’t like conflict. She never fought. She was a pleaser. Nick was not similarly disposed; he had a bit of a temper. He was a little scary sometimes. He treated her with kid gloves, but even though she tried to tune him out, she’d heard the way he yelled at people on the phone, threatening them with dire consequences if they didn’t get something done to his satisfaction.

      That was precisely why she minded her own business and tried not to listen.

      She thought two hours away from the suite would be enough, so she gave it another thirty minutes. If the wife had won, she’d be intercepted by one of the guys, like Lou, and escorted discreetly to her own room or suite. If the wife had been successfully sent on her way, she would find Nick, or a note, instructing her to meet him there later. Frankly, she was betting on Nick.

      She returned to the suite and quietly unlocked and opened the door, peeking into the foyer. Silence. She stepped inside and listened. Not a sound. Then she heard running water and a man’s muffled voice. She plastered that ready smile on her lips and moved toward the sitting room—and was stopped short. A battle had taken place there; a bloody battle. Furniture was tipped over, glass sparkled on the floor and there were actual splatters of blood on the white furniture and carpet.

      “Just get rid of her,” she heard Nick say.

      “Yeah, like where?” one of his guys asked.

      “Who cares? Don’t worry about money, just do it up right. Don’t want to draw attention here. And clean up this place—I don’t want housekeeping in here asking a lot of questions.”

      Immobilized by the shock of what she was hearing and seeing, Jennifer stood in the doorway, frozen. Then she saw Nick, shirtsleeves rolled up, splatters of what must have been his wife’s blood on his shirt, holding an ice pack to his eye. He walked from the bedroom to the bar. She heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass. He hadn’t seen her.

      “You seen that bimbo?” Nick yelled into the other room.

      “She stuck her head in the door just when Babs started pitching the crystal around the room.”

      “Shit. Find her. We’re gonna have to do something about her, too.”

      She stepped quietly into the coat closet just inside the foyer, out of sight but not out of earshot. She was just in time. Lou and the other “butler,” Jesse, came marching past to leave the suite. “We’re gonna need something big and easy to handle.”

      “Golf bag, maybe.”

      “Yeah. Or big suitcase on wheels. Y’know, they hold a lot.”

      And they were gone.

      In her entire life, as bad as it had been during some periods, she’d never imagined she’d encounter anything like this. But now, as she stood in the dark closet, a crack of light from the partially opened door streaking across her face, she knew she should have seen it coming. His temper was obvious, even if it hadn’t been turned on her. She sensed his businesses were shady, though she had no idea how. But what manner of man needs a couple of big bruisers hanging close at all times?

      After a few moments she pushed the door open. She was going to flee, but she heard the shower running. Nick was fastidious. He’d want to wash up if he’d been mussed or stained with blood.

      She knew she shouldn’t, but she just had to know. She passed through the chaos of the sitting room and crept toward the bedroom door. The sound of the shower gave her a sense of cover. She looked into the room and there, sprawled facedown on the bed, was Mrs. Nick. Her hand dangled lifelessly off the edge and her hair looked wet in the back. Blood?

      God, he’d done it. They’d gotten into it and, whether deliberately or accidentally, in a fit of rage he’d killed her. And now Nick’s boys were going to get rid of her body. And then he was going to “do something” about her.

      She heard something and craned her neck. He was singing in the shower! That’s when she knew she’d hit bottom. She had to run. She couldn’t take any chances. Any man who could sing in the shower while his wife lay dead a few feet away was no man to trifle with.

      She left the suite, left the Mansion and went through the casino. She took a cab to the airport. She had no luggage. Only that little tiny Kate Spade bag, which fortunately had quite a lot of money in it. She didn’t know what to do, but she knew what not to do. She would not wait around the airport for a flight to Florida so she could be found there. She wouldn’t flee to her condo, the first place Nick would look.

      But she bought a ticket to Florida on her credit card. Then she bought a pair of sunglasses and a scarf with cash. She covered her platinum hair and her lavender eyes СКАЧАТЬ