Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Syrup of figs,” I add. “That’s Albert speak for a wig.”
“A dog in a wig sounds so silly.”
“You’re right. It should be a pig in a wig.”
“Lavender, you are so silly, but I love you.”
Ah, my heart. It’s spilling rainbows and pink hearts. And my eyes are suspiciously wet. “I love you, too. You’re adorable, Daisy. And you’re going to look so cool in your new jeans. Maybe you should wear them to see your dad next week.”
“Yes.” Her expression falls. “I forgot about that.”
“I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun.”
“We don’t really do fun things,” she says. “Not like this.”
“Well, maybe—”
“Look!” Daisy’s arm shoots out. I follow the direction and break out in a classic case of the butterflies as I see Raif walking toward us. “Uncle Raif!” She waves manically and, pulling her hand from mine, runs along the path to him.
He smiles at her enthusiasm, but his eyes are all for me. And he’s quite the picture. Dark suit, white shirt open at the collar, the breeze artfully ruffling his hair. My mouth hooks up at one side. All he’s missing is a film crew hovering around him because he looks like an aftershave commercial in the making.
He stands out like a sore thumb. A really good-looking, sexy sore thumb. I know it’s not just me who thinks so as, at the nearby playpark, a yummy mummy fails to catch her kid as he shoots from the bottom of the slide.
Raif snatches Daisy up as she reaches him, arms wide. He swings her around, their joint pleasure so evident. It’s heartwarming and not the only place I experience pleasure.
Probably also thanks to the lack of action you’re getting.
Shut up, brain.
“Hey.” His expression softens as I reach them. Lifting Daisy to one side, Raif presses a kiss on my head.
“How did your meeting go?” I ask, stuffing my hands into my cardigan pockets. I really want to touch him, but things have become so awkward between us. There’s still tenderness, and I see the heat in his gaze when he thinks I’m not paying attention. I know he wants me. And I want him. But there seems to be this invisible wall between us, and I don’t know how to breach it.
“It went.” He gives a short shrug.
“Uncle Raif, is that ketchup on your shirt?” Daisy reaches for the tiny but vivid fleck of red peeking from under the placket of his otherwise crisp, white shirt. He grabs her hand and presses a quick kiss to it, keeping it in his, which speaks volumes.
As rich as Midas and more intrigue than Machiavelli. Tod’s words come back to haunt me, and I wonder how much violence fits into his reputation.
“Did you have a spot of bother at your meeting?” So my words, my gaze, might be a little pointed.
Is this what he does? Hurt people for work?
“It’s paint,” he says, putting Daisy down.
“What were you painting?” Daisy continues as he takes her hand, offering me the other.
“I wasn’t. Someone nearby must’ve splashed me with it.”
“Is it cadmium red?” she asks, looking up at him.
“More like claret,” I mutter. “At least, that’s what Albert would call it, anyway.”
“Who’s Albert?”
“He’s a dog who talks like a geezer,” Daisy replies. “I like the color red. Crimson, carmine, vermilion, and…”
“Brick?” I offer.
“Scarlet.” Raif’s choice. “It’s the color of good fortune and luck.”
“For some people,” I murmur. For others, it represents fear, aggression, and hatred, I think, glancing at my husband’s hand. His knuckles were battered and bruised after the gallery. They aren’t now. Not one bit.
“Uncle Raif? Daisy turns a big old smile his way. “How did you know where we were?”
“That’s easy. I have you under surveillance.”
“Like a spy!” she yells, delighted.
I wouldn’t put it past him.
“I take care of what’s precious to me,” he says.
The way he looks at me, intent and unwavering, almost makes me believe him.
34
LAVENDER
The following Friday. Also known as the day I officially reach the end of my tether, which has nothing to do with the dinner party Raif springs on me. He throws out the casual mention over another sumptuous breakfast—this one a açai smoothy bowl, because Fridays deserve to start well—quickly adding that all I’m responsible for is turning up at seven o’clock.
Canapes and cocktails are served on the terrace, overlooking a garden filled with a profusion of summer colors. White-aproned servers mill around, and Raif’s guest seem delighted by Daisy’s oddly formal manners. At least until she’s shuffled off upstairs into the care of Maria. Sam presides over the kitchen like the culinary maestro he is, and the catering crew does the rest, ultimately serving a four-course dinner in the formal dining room.
Raif is in excellent form, his hand pressed to the small of my back as he introduces me to everyone.
“George, have you met my gorgeous wife, Lavender?”