Ronny’s tittering confession pulls me back to the conversation and I watch Paulie stiffen slightly before her expression morphs to one of concern, just like the old Paulie.
“Is Cleo okay? Oh dear, Ronny, you should have told me earlier! Where is she? Is she alright? Oh my goodness, I need to get to her and make sure she has her blankets and special pillows that don’t hurt her and—”
“God almighty, Paulette, sit your ass down and just breathe already. She’s fine. She just hurt herself a little and needs some surgery is all. Now don’t go fretting and wanting to run to the rescue like the little mouse you are. Cleo will survive without your hovering. I need you to come with to the salon and keep us company.”
Oh, how her compassion and care for her own warms the cockles of my heart.
Paulie sits back down, slowly, and looks as white as a sheet. I’m just about ready to give her a freaking Oscar when she sniffles and seems bereft at the thought of not being able to go to Cleo.
Sometimes you just know when someone is lying, not by word or action or any real physical response, but just by a feeling. That’s the feeling I have right now watching Paulie morph back into the skittish mouse I’ve always seen her play.
To be fair, I do think her concern for Cleo is genuine. I just don’t think she’s reacting quite the way she would if myself or Ronny weren’t here.
“Erm, shouldn’t we at least go see Cleo and—”
“Oh nonsense! We’d just be in the way, and besides, the salon bookings aren’t refundable, are they, Paulette?” Ronny says matter-of-factly, giving the other woman a mean smile. “I’d rather hate to lose all that money after going to all this trouble. Cleo will still be there tomorrow if you feel the overwhelming urge to visit her sickbed. Now let’s go, darlings. These nails need a refresh and I know just the color I want.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon listening to Ronny dish dirt upon dirt about everyone from the mayor’s daughter to the Freemont twins, who have a penchant for trying to sleep with each other’s girlfriends to win a bet that’s been in the mix since those idiots turned eighteen.
What I get from this, what I know after three hours of watching Paulie titter and dote on Ronny, is that nothing in this place is as it seems and the truth is probably not something I want to know anyway.
All I know is that Jace has been shadowing me since I followed Ronny’s car three hours ago, and my plan is on track. I hope.
If I’m right, I should be deep within the bowels of the Lane home by this time tomorrow, and then I can start piecing things together before everything comes crashing down around my ears.
You think being a blackmailed FBI profiler and double agent against your own father is nerve racking? Try spending an afternoon with two of the city’s most mismatched socialites and a roomful of animosity. Now that is enough to start my “anxiety” screaming at me full blast to get the hell out of town, like nothing else, and I’m pretty sure that if I don’t have an ulcer already, I will before I nail Ronny’s ass to the wall.
Chapter Four
Jace
God help me, she is so beautiful.
That’s my newest thought after getting over the news of before and realizing that it’s not the end of the world, that I can still salvage something with Trace.
Granted, my plan seems to revolve around kidnapping, since I’m more than willing to bring her home and watch her attempts to escape while my family looks on, laughing at me.
Whatever the outcome, I feel a lot more relaxed now than I did a few hours ago, and the reason for that is that I’ve seen something Trace probably wouldn’t want me to have seen.
She doesn’t like Ronny.
It’s there in her body language every time the woman touches her or laughs about whatever the hell it is an evil spawn like Ronny finds amusing.
And there goes that eye roll I remember so well, the one Trace is so good at hiding. I’ve been the recipient of those eye rolls and raised brows many times, so I know when she’s annoyed beyond bearing, and this seems to be one of those times.
It hasn’t escaped me, either, that she’s not as open with Paulie as she used to be. For whatever reason, I can see that she’s avoiding Paulie, though the girl has tried on more than one occasion to draw her into conversation.
“What the hell is going on here?” I hear from my left a second before Jared hunkers down beside me in the booth of the diner across the road from the salon.
“Don’t know. Trace looks pissed and your bird seems put out by something, while Miss Ronny doesn’t seem all that concerned that her dear aunt Cleo was found unresponsive in her bed this morning.”