Judith Rossi’s housekeeper answered the door. She was a cheery, middle-aged Latino woman with a pleasant face and stocky build. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled up on top of her head and the white smock she was wearing was dusted with flour. She must have been in the middle of baking when Cat had rung the doorbell.
“Is Judith home?” Cat asked.
“Si.” The housekeeper let her in. “I’ll tell Miss Rossi.”
“Thank you.” Cat stood in the middle of the impressive foyer. It had a high, arched ceiling and stained-glass mosaic windows. A big-ass chandelier hung in the centre. Cat had never been to Rossi’s country house before. She had always met with her in the agency’s office or Rossi’s luxurious apartment on Fifth Avenue.
Cat had hitched with Nancy to Target. She’d used the payphone to return Rossi’s calls. Her cell phone had got lost in Oliver’s sleazy bar. She had left her purse in her apartment. She’d had her wallet tucked in her pocket when she’d sneaked out of the window. Luckily, she’d had enough cash to cover the cab fare. She hadn’t thought about the ride back. She might have to take a bus or train home. Or call Gabriel if there was no public transportation to take her to Newark.
Man, Gabriel was going to be really pissed off. He had told her specifically not to confront her fake client and she was doing the exact opposite. Triumph blossomed in her heart. She liked Gabriel very much, but, dude, was that man bossy or what? Gabriel was overly protective, the way Jon had been. She wasn’t a child any more. For God’s sake, next month would be her twenty-seventh birthday. That was more than a quarter of a century old. Or one hundred and eighty-nine, in dog years.
The sound of heels echoed on the terrazzo floor. A tall woman dressed in black appeared from the hallway. Judith Rossi was the spitting image of a Sicilian mourning window. Her live-in personal assistant at the Fifth Avenue apartment had said Judith had been like that since her brother’s death. She clad herself daily in old-fashioned dresses with black stockings and black sheer gloves. Her blonde hair was tucked neatly under a conservative fascinator hat and veil. The head-to-toe work was to cover the burn scars Judith had suffered. Through the veil, Cat could see that half of Judith’s face had been consumed by fire and left permanently disfigured. Judith’s gait was stiff and measured, as if every step greatly pained her. How could this rail-thin, disabled woman have deceived her? Judith started to greet her, but all of a sudden her face twisted as if she had caught a whiff of something offensive. The pantsuit she was wearing was clean. Gabriel’s housekeeper had laundered her clothes while she’d strutted around in Gabriel’s shirt. Had she accidentally stepped on a dog turd?
Judith collected herself fast. “Miss Kovac.” Her voice was three-packs-of-cigarettes-a-day gruff. “Shall we retreat to the drawing room? Carmen has made us chamomile tea.”
“Okay.”
The drawing room looked even more impressive than the foyer. Cat felt as if it was trapped at the height of nineteenth-century splendour. The furniture was museum quality, and each item should have been put in a glass case and labelled. Cat took a seat in a wingback chair. Judith sat opposite her. A tray with cups of steaming tea waited on the highly polished coffee table.
“Please.” Judith waved at the tea.
Cat considered it. Since Oliver had roofied her drink, she was now wary about accepting drinks from strangers. “I’m not thirsty, thank you.”
“I appreciate you returning my calls.” Judith took a cup and sipped it demurely. Pinky up. “I was worried.”
“Thank you. I’ve been busy.” Being kidnapped by a pervert. Fucking the hottest guy in New York. Swell. “I discovered Gabriel’s secret.”
“Oh?” Somehow, Judith didn’t seem enthusiastic.
“Gabriel and his brothers aren’t human. Maybe half-human, but not entirely. They’re shapeshifters. Lion shifters.”
Judith maintained a perfectly blank face. “Do you have any proof of this?”
“Saw them change with my own two eyes.”
“Solid proof. Photographic evidence.”
“I can obtain that later. Remember Oliver Duval? Your old friend from Cape Town? He’s also a lion shifter. The bastard tried to sexually assault me by giving me Rohypnol.”
“Goodness.” Judith grew wide-eyed. “Are you all right?”
“Duval didn’t remember you, or the hunting trip you took with your brother in Africa fourteen years ago.”
“Of course he wouldn’t remember. He was one of the suspects.”
“Gabriel Larousse also didn’t recall the trip. Or knowing you. He did know Oliver in the past, but they weren’t close friends, as you have suggested. Oliver was a pride rogue and they hated each other.”
“He lied.”
“I began to wonder who’s lying in this case, Judith? In fact, your name isn’t even Judith Rossi. You’re Sophie-Marie Veron. You hate Gabriel Larousse for some reason and he won’t tell me why.”
The woman who’d hired Cat stiffened. She stood up abruptly. Her agility surprised Cat. The weak, crippled woman Judith had pretend
ed to be vanished, replaced by a very pissed off bitch.
“I hired you for Larousse’s dirt,” she spat. “His embarrassing photos. His dirty secrets.”
“You’re a paying client. I would have done it without you lying to me.”