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She retracted the flower and gave him a tight smile. “I don’t think anyone can help you with that.”
He cackled. “You got some spunk. Maybe you’re not a blonde bimbo after all.”
It was a good thing she was the one who entered this room and not Alice. Alice would have blushed, encouraging the asshole to be even more inappropriate. Remembering Alice’s boundless optimism, she decided to ignore his awful first impression.
“How is your recovery going so far?” she asked.
“Lousy. It’s one fucking thing after another.”
“What brought you here in the first place?”
“A run-in with an old acquaintance.”
She frowned. “Meeting with an old friend made you sick?”
“I never said he was a friend.”
The bathroom door opened. She turned and saw a strange looking man with angular features, sunken cheekbones, and protruding eyes. They widened comically when he spotted her. He was leaning heavily on a cane, which slipped, causing him to topple face first to the floor.
“Oh, my gosh!”
She placed the flowers on the old man’s bed and leaned down to help the man to his feet. It was an easy feat since he was emaciated. Something tickled the back of her memory and then it hit her.
“You’re Rafael’s brother,” she said. “We met at Lux.”
Rafael’s brother was dressed much the same as he had been the first time they met at a bar. That felt like a lifetime ago. He wore a button up shirt tucked into slacks. A thin belt circled his tiny waist. She picked up his black cane and held it out to him.
“Are you okay?” she asked and noticed that his hands were trembling. Too much coffee or nerves?
“You know my sons?” the old man asked.
“Sons?” she echoed and turned to face him. “Rafael’s your son?”
“Was,” the man said sourly. “He’s dead.”
She put a hand against her chest. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t know much about Rafael other than the fact that he was good looking, Gavin loathed him, and he ran a prostitution ring. She glanced at Rafael’s brother who still had yet to say a thing. He didn’t look like Rafael or his perverted father.
“Who are you?” the old man asked sharply.
“I’m Lyla. The Pyre Foundation is putting on an event today. I’m helping.”
“Pyre?” the old man asked sharply.
“Yes, Pyre.”
“What’s your name?”
She had been trying to avoid that tidbit. She lifted her chin. “Lyla Pyre.”
The old man’s expression became chillingly hostile. “You’re Gavin’s wife?”
Something about the way he said it made her hand inch toward the pocket in her purse holding her gun.
“You know Gavin?” she asked cautiously.
“He’s the acquaintance who put me in here in the first place,” the old man said. “He shot me in the shoulder and wrist.” He held up his arm so she could see an angry red scar on his otherwise pasty skin. “He doesn’t care that I’m old, that sadistic fuck.”
