“You are doing something wrong, you moron. You’re murdering a woman for her money,” Bob pointed out.
“Not really. I earned the money. And I don’t murder her. She has an accident.”
“Don’t get offended. You always want to talk about this, but you get offended when the truth comes out. Shut up already.”
A voice came out of the shadows. “I was very interested in his point of view. Weren’t you, Ice? Storm?”
Another voice answered, “I’ve never met anyone who could convince themselves that murder wasn’t really murder. When I kill someone, I know I fucking murdered them.” Ice stepped out of the shadows and knocked the phone from Knight’s hand. “Don’t be stupid, you’ve got several guns pointed at you.”
“What do you want? Money?” Knight sounded snide.
“I don’t need money,” Ice said. “I want you dead. Those women didn’t even matter to you.”
“They didn’t matter to anyone but me,” Knight corrected. He narrowed his eyes as the others stepped out of the shadows. “You’re the motorcycle club. The one that took in the bitch Winston was supposed to deal with.”
Ice casually slammed his gun across Knight’s face, opening a cut that began to bleed profusely. “No one gets to call my wife a bitch. You can apologize or I can keep going. I don’t much care either way.” He sounded bored.
“I apologize,” Knight said immediately, reaching for the roll of paper towels they kept close. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Knight,” Bob hissed. “Shut the hell up.” He turned to Ice. “Just tell us what you want.”
“Well,” Ice said, “I want to know how a man with your background, Bob, a man who came from a good family, with decent parents and all, thinks murdering women for money is perfectly okay. I’m very interested.”
“Just get it over with,” Bob snapped. “I don’t need the bleeding-heart lecture from a fucking biker.”
“I’m a fucking biker assassin, Bob. I’ve been killing since I was five years old. Grew up doing this shit, and I’m still doing it. Always envied those houses with real parents and then I come across scum like you and wonder what the hell happened.”
Bob gave him the finger, and Ice shot him between the eyes. Knight screamed, a high-pitched sound the bullet Ice fired cut off.
They left the movie playing with the scattered popcorn soaking up the blood, disappearing into the shadows just as they’d come in.
* * *
Peter Daniels entered the club feeling as if he were on top of the world. It was a good night. The best. He was good-looking and knew it. Already pushing sixty, he looked like the proverbial silver fox. He was the perfect age to appeal to both young women and older women. He’d brought in forty million dollars for his group, so he was being hailed as a hero, and now he wore the coveted title of widower, the most sought after of all men.
Those who’d thought up their scam were pure genius, and he was willing to give them their due. It hadn’t been difficult to arrange for his “sweetheart,” a really lovely woman of seventy-eight, who was still very active, to work out, drink champagne, have sex and sit in the hot tub. She’d taken some pills to energize herself for their incredibly adventurous romp. He’d left her only for a few minutes to fix them some caviar on her favorite crackers. During that time, she must have tried to exit the hot tub, slipped, hit her head and fallen underwater.
No one had been more distraught than he had. They’d only been married three months. The detective, Danny Sullivan, had pronounced it a terrible accident. The medical examiner had confirmed it and the insurance people had made everything smooth and easy for him, feeling so sorry that he’d lost his dream wife just when he’d found her.
He was on a high that didn’t seem to fade as he surveyed the room. So many women. So little time. He went to the nearest bar, looking down the row of bar stools to see who might catch his eye. He felt intensely powerful and wondered if it was because he had gotten away with murder. If this was how it felt every time, he was going to work overtime to find the right woman and make her fall for him. It hadn’t been that difficult.
There was a beautiful dark-haired woman sitting alone at a small table looking sad. She was drinking what looked to be a cosmopolitan. Perfect. She had a really good body. An amazing body. He liked what she was wearing. It showed just enough, not too much. She wasn’t putting herself on display. She wore gloves, delicate little things, to go with her perfect little black dress. He had to make a move on her before any of the other men eyeing her did.
He ordered two drinks, one for her, one for himself, and walked over with complete confidence. “Would you mind sharing your table? There’s nowhere to sit and I’m afraid I’m not as young as I used to be.”
She glanced up, looking annoyed at first, and then when his words sank in and she checked out his gray hair, she waved him toward the seat. He put the drinks down. “I figured the least I could do was order you a drink.”
“Thank you.”
She sounded shy, and the smile she gave him confirmed she must be.
“What’s your name? I’m Peter, Peter Daniels.”
She hesitated again. “Alice, Alice Burns.” Alena gave him her sweetest smile. Her hair was a dark mane of chestnut and her eyes were that dark chocolate she’d used earlier. It was just easier to leave the contacts in.
“What are you doing here all alone?”
She swallowed and looked down at her hands. “I lost my husband recently—well, it still feels recent but it’s been over a year. He . . . we . . . I own a tech business and we took our first vacation in a very long time. There was an accident and he . . .” She trailed off and then looked at Peter Daniels with her tragic face that could bring a room to tears. “I just lost him. My friends told me to quit moping, that it was time I got out of the house, but I still think it’s too soon.”
“I recently lost my wife as well,” Peter said. “You’re right, friends push and push and they don’t understand.”
Alena reached for her drink, knocked into his and then managed to save them both, a small embarrassed smile lighting up her face. “I was going to suggest we toast to our friends, but I’m a bit of a klutz. It might not be safe.”
He grabbed his glass as she lifted hers. “To our friends who we both let push us around.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Alena agreed, and lifted her drink toward her mouth, her eyes beginning to dance with amusement.
Peter took a healthy drink and looked at her over the rim of his glass. “You didn’t drink.”