Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons Page A

his fingers were red impressions on her pale skin. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “That’s all right, dear. Fetch me a stole from the closet. I’ll wear the sable tonight.”
    She stood and examined herself in the full-length mirror. Ray put on his tuxedo jacket and stood beside her. They were once a handsome couple. Time marches on and over everyone. As they looked at themselves, they shared the same unspoken thought. No amount of wealth could compensatefor what they had lost, for what had been so brutally taken from them.
    •  •  •
    Rosario closed the drapes to the drawing room as Sr. and Sra. Dumont pulled away in their limo. When the car was out of sight, she went to the kitchen at the rear of the house and switched the lights off and on twice. Soon there was a soft rapping at the back door. She opened it, and a swarthy man stepped in, closed the door behind him, and took her in his arms. His kiss was urgent, penetrating, and lengthy. She pulled away only when the need to breathe required, then fell into his embrace, whispering into his neck over and over, “Mi amor, mi corazón,” until she could stand his body odor no longer.
    “Javier, you stink. Come.”
    She led him to her maid’s quarters and drew him a bath. His clothes, even the jacket he wore, she took and threw into the combo washer/dryer with which she was so familiar.
    “I would die for something to drink,” he called out to her. She smiled at the sound of him splashing in the tub like a child.
    “Water? Iced tea?”
    “No, a drink. I’m sure your patrón has something I could tolerate.”
    Indeed he does, Rosario thought. There was a wine cellarthat she hated because the dank, dusty cavern with fifteen hundred bottles made her sneeze. There was the liquor cabinet that contained an extraordinary collection of expensive spirits and liqueurs with which she was totally unfamiliar; then there were the two kitchen cabinets that held their everyday “utility” alcohol. There were several bottles of tequila that she assumed were quite good, having seen them on dining tables of tourists in Acapulco, her hometown and that of the man splashing in the tub. She found a shot glass and filled it, leaving the bottle on the counter.
    “Please don’t make too much of a mess in here,” she said, serving him the glass in the tub. “I will have to clean up before they get home.”
    He caught her wrist as he sat in the steaming water, threw back his head, and had her pour the tequila down his open throat. He swallowed with one gulp, took the empty glass from her, and kissed her fingertips one by one. “Someday you will clean only what is ours.”
    She smiled, having no such illusions, then left him to finish. Rosario went to the kitchen and fixed a simple meal, knowing that he would be hungry. Though she was not concerned that any food would be missed, still she chose with care. Two eggs, some presliced ham, bread and butter. She was about to serve his plate. He stood in the kitchen wrapped in a towel. His body was well defined, with the reflection from the overhead light bouncing off his damp skin. His thick black hair glistened, droplets falling on hisshoulders. She felt weak at the sight of him and rushed to his arms. She sat him in the kitchen chair, then, without undressing, spread her skirt and straddled him, grabbing the back of his neck, not kissing . . . devouring.
    Javier ate his eggs cold.
    “Your clothes will be ready soon,” Rosario said as they sat at the kitchen table. “They are drying now.”
    Javier pushed away his empty plate, poured himself a glass of tequila from the bottle he had retrieved from the counter, downed the shot, then poured another.
    “I will have to replace that,” Rosario said, “or they will think I drank it.”
    Javier shrugged, threw back his glass, and handed her the bottle. “Just water it down and stick it in the back. Gringos won’t know the difference.”
    Javier had a simple solution for everything.