Carly broke away from Armand. She drained the last of her wine again and poured another glass. Armand always brought the best wine—smooth, full-bodied, a caress for the tongue. The wine went down easily and made her stomach feel better.
She raised her glass. “To Spike and Sean.” Connor clinked his bottle against her glass, and Carly drank. “And to Tiger. Bless him.”
Again she and Connor toasted and drank. Yvette served up the sauté with thin strips of beef she’d precooked and a smattering of mushrooms. She deglazed the pan with a little of the wine to make a tasty sauce and put everything neatly on a plate for Carly.
“The best medicine,” Yvette said. “Good food, good friends. You eat now.”
Carly sat on a stool next to Connor at the counter and pushed the food around the plate. Because Yvette’s cooking shouldn’t be sneered at, but mostly because Yvette was standing over her giving her a steely look, Carly ate.
The mixture of peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes, meat, and wine was heavenly, but it felt leaden on Carly’s tongue. Life was indeed tragic when she couldn’t appreciate one of Yvette’s meals.
“Let’s not talk about it,” Carly said, pouring herself more wine. The bottle released its last drop, but Armand had brought more. “How was the exhibit opening? From the fact that you didn’t instantly fire me, I take it you sold a piece?”
“Three.” Armand’s smile beamed out. “And interest in more. That young man is on fire.”
“Good,” Carly said. “Good.” At least someone’s day had gone well.
More food and more wine disappeared, but Carly stopped following the conversation. Exhaustion, worry, heartbreak, and too much alcohol was taking its toll, and taking it fast. Connor ate a helping of the meal and talked easily with Yvette and Armand, telling them more about the events of the day. They started discussing Brennan and Walker, speculating about what they really wanted, but Carly was finished.
She slid off the stool, ready to explain that they could all leave now so she could shower and lie down. She found her legs buckling, and only Connor’s strong arms kept her from sliding to the floor.
“I’m all right,” she said. “I jus’ need to rest.” Carly heard the slur in her words and started to laugh.
“I will put you to bed,” Yvette said. “Come.”
She held out her long, slim arm. Carly grabbed the wine bottle and her glass as she let Yvette take her back into her bedroom. Once inside, Carly poured another glass and spun around, laughing. “I feel so free. No more Ethan, no more sitting around his pool or taking one of his fancy cars to go shopping. Damn, I would have hated that life.” Carly stopped spinning, but the room kept on going. “No, I wouldn’t have. I wanted to be a pampered puddle. I mean, a pumpered poodle. A . . .”“You lie down. You sleep. You will feel better.”
Sure she would. Yvette took the bottle and glass out of Carly’s hands and gently but firmly guided her to the bed.
Carly didn’t remember much after that, but she supposed Yvette had gotten her to settle down and sleep, because the next thing she knew, Carly was waking up, her mouth like cotton, her head pounding, her stomach in knots.
She slid out of bed, noting that the house was dark and silent, the clock beside the bed telling her it was three in the morning. Carly staggered to the bathroom, sacrificed Yvette’s great meal to the toilet, then washed her face and got ready for the next long trek—down the hall to the kitchen. As tempting as it had been to drink from the bathroom tap, Austin water wasn’t the way to go on a roiling stomach. Carly needed bottled water. Cold. Lots of it.
The rest of the house was quiet, but a nightlight shone in the kitchen. Yvette and Armand must have gone home a while ago.
Connor? A glance around the kitchen showed her that it was empty, but at least someone had done the dishes. Everything gleamed. Probably Armand had cleaned up, as he usually did after Yvette cooked. She felt a moment of gratitude toward him.
Carly pulled open the refrigerator and took out a gallon jug of water. She thought about reaching for a glass.
“To hell with it.” She upended the jug and drank straight from it, swallow after swallow. She wiped her mouth, noting that she’d dribbled plenty of water onto her T-shirt, but she felt slightly better.
Not much though. She needed aspirin. Her purse in the living room was closer than the bathroom, which was all the way back down the hall.
Sipping again from the gallon jug, Carly made her way into the dark living room, navigating by the light from the kitchen. She thought she’d dropped the purse behind the chair when the weird professor and his soldier had come in, but she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything about yesterday except Ethan’s bare butt going back and forth as he banged the woman on the counter, and . . .
Carly snapped on the lamp to look for her purse. And let out a shriek.
Tiger was sitting on her couch. Not really sitting—lounging back with his long legs stretched out in front of him. The light burnished the orange in his black hair, and his yellow eyes glittered.
Connor lay on his back on the floor, his knees up, one arm over his eyes, breathing softly. He was asleep, but Tiger was wide awake and watching Carly.
Carly realized she was in a T-shirt that came to her thighs and a pair of panties, and that was it. Her long legs were bare, and there was nothing between herself and the T-shirt but empty air.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” The words came out as a croak.