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He’s ashen—gray’s not a good color on him. I snatch a grape off his plate and pop it into my mouth. “We have a problem.”
“I-I-I didn’t do anything.”
“Come on now. Did I accuse you of anything?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Did I?”
He shakes his head.
“No,” I tut. “I didn’t. Not yet, anyway.”
“What do you want then?” he asks, terror dancing in his eyes.
“We’ll get to that. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” I pick up his knife and run my finger along the blade. It’s a table knife with a flat edge and not much of a blade.
Bancroft takes a forkful of eggs, but his eyes are glued to the implement in my hands.
“This knife looks harmless, but you’d be surprised at what you can do with it. Nice flat-top good for popping out an eyeball. Digging it out, anyway. With a little elbow grease, I bet you could wedge it into the slit of a man’s dick. You know, the place that makes your knees weak when a woman tongues it.” I glance at his chalky face. “Maybe you don’t know.”
“My wife will be joining me soon,” he says, like I might hightail it out of here.
Not a chance.
“That’s nice. I’ve never met her. You can do the introductions.”
“I never told her anything about what happened in my office. I-I-I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Don’t you have security, Scottie?”
He shakes his head. “It’s expensive.”
“You’re right. Although I think it’s worth every penny. You really should consider it.”
He’s sweating like a pig by the time his wife arrives. She’s a petite woman, maybe sixty, and unlike him, she’s well dressed. She’d be considered attractive if her lips weren’t puckered.
I stand to greet her. “Rafael Huntsman, and you must be Mrs. Bancroft.” I wait for her to put out her hand, but she doesn’t. Oh, Elizabeth, you don’t want any more strikes against you.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she replies with a pinched smile.
“The pleasure’s all mine.” All mine.
“I was just telling Scottie that we have a problem,” I explain once we’re seated.
“What kind of problem do you have?” Elizabeth tips her head. “I hope it has nothing to do with the big party tonight.”
She should find some new hobbies, because she sucks at the kind of subtlety subterfuge requires.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I have a problem. You have a problem.”
Liz lifts her snotty little chin. “I’m going to call the manager,” she announces, standing.
I put my hand on hers. “I really don’t recommend that. Not before you hear what I have to say.”
Even when I touch his woman, Scott doesn’t breathe a peep. What a coward.
It takes her a moment, but she puts her scrawny ass in the seat.
