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The Laughing Corpse :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 148 из 213It reminded me of Cicely's soundless laughing face.
Back to business. "I heard you were Harold Gaynor's mistress a while back." No preliminaries, no sweet talk. Off with the clothes.
Wanda's smile faded. The glow of humor died in her eyes, replaced by wariness. "I don't know the name."
"Yeah, you do," I said. I was still standing, forcing her to look up at me in that near painful angle.
She sipped her drink and shook her head without looking up at me.
"Come on, Wanda, I know you were Gaynor's sweetie. Admit you know him, and we'll work from there."
She glanced up at me, then down. "No. I'll do you. I'll let the vamp watch. I'll talk dirty to you both. But I don't know anybody named Gaynor."
I leaned down, putting my hands on the arms of her chair. Our faces were very close. "I'm not a reporter. Gaynor will never know you talked to me unless you tell him."
Her eyes had gotten bigger. I glanced where she was staring. The Windbreaker had fallen forward. My gun was showing, which seemed to upset her. Good.
"Talk to me, Wanda." My voice was soft. Mild. The mildest of voices is often the worst threat.
"Who the hell are you? You're not cops. You're not a reporter. Social workers don't carry guns. Who are you?" That last question had the lilt of fear in it.
Jean-Claude strolled into the room. He'd been in my bedroom. Great, just great. "Trouble, ma petite?"
I didn't correct him on the nickname. Wanda didn't need to know there was dissent in the ranks. "She's being stubborn," I said.
I stepped back from her chair. I took off the Windbreaker and laid it over the kitchen counter. Wanda stared at the gun like I knew she would.
I may not be intimidating, but the Browning is.
Jean-Claude walked up behind her. His slender hands touched her shoulders. She jumped like it had hurt. I knew it hadn't hurt. Might be better if it did.
"He'll kill me," Wanda said.
A lot of people seemed to say that about Mr. Gaynor. "He'll never know," I said.
Jean-Claude rubbed his cheek against her hair. His fingers kneading her shoulders, gently. "And, my sweet coquette, he is not here with you tonight." He spoke with his lips against her ear. "We are." He said something else so soft I could not hear. Only his lips moved, soundlessly for me.
Wanda heard him. Her eyes widened, and she started to tremble. Her entire body seemed in the grip of some kind of fit. Tears glittered in her eyes and fell down her cheeks in one graceful curve.
Jesus.
"Please, don't. Please don't let him.
Back to business. "I heard you were Harold Gaynor's mistress a while back." No preliminaries, no sweet talk. Off with the clothes.
Wanda's smile faded. The glow of humor died in her eyes, replaced by wariness. "I don't know the name."
"Yeah, you do," I said. I was still standing, forcing her to look up at me in that near painful angle.
She sipped her drink and shook her head without looking up at me.
"Come on, Wanda, I know you were Gaynor's sweetie. Admit you know him, and we'll work from there."
She glanced up at me, then down. "No. I'll do you. I'll let the vamp watch. I'll talk dirty to you both. But I don't know anybody named Gaynor."
I leaned down, putting my hands on the arms of her chair. Our faces were very close. "I'm not a reporter. Gaynor will never know you talked to me unless you tell him."
Her eyes had gotten bigger. I glanced where she was staring. The Windbreaker had fallen forward. My gun was showing, which seemed to upset her. Good.
"Talk to me, Wanda." My voice was soft. Mild. The mildest of voices is often the worst threat.
"Who the hell are you? You're not cops. You're not a reporter. Social workers don't carry guns. Who are you?" That last question had the lilt of fear in it.
Jean-Claude strolled into the room. He'd been in my bedroom. Great, just great. "Trouble, ma petite?"
I didn't correct him on the nickname. Wanda didn't need to know there was dissent in the ranks. "She's being stubborn," I said.
I stepped back from her chair. I took off the Windbreaker and laid it over the kitchen counter. Wanda stared at the gun like I knew she would.
I may not be intimidating, but the Browning is.
Jean-Claude walked up behind her. His slender hands touched her shoulders. She jumped like it had hurt. I knew it hadn't hurt. Might be better if it did.
"He'll kill me," Wanda said.
A lot of people seemed to say that about Mr. Gaynor. "He'll never know," I said.
Jean-Claude rubbed his cheek against her hair. His fingers kneading her shoulders, gently. "And, my sweet coquette, he is not here with you tonight." He spoke with his lips against her ear. "We are." He said something else so soft I could not hear. Only his lips moved, soundlessly for me.
Wanda heard him. Her eyes widened, and she started to tremble. Her entire body seemed in the grip of some kind of fit. Tears glittered in her eyes and fell down her cheeks in one graceful curve.
Jesus.
"Please, don't. Please don't let him.