A Family Affair: Spring: Truth in Lies, Book 2 Read Online Free Page A

under the subdued lights. “I had to see you.” She ignored Greta as though she were part of the décor and pulled her lips into a pout. A practiced expression, he could tell by the perfection of it. This wasn’t his first rodeo with someone like her, a barterer of goods for services rendered. Women like Bridgett provided the sex and Harry provided payment in the form of fancy dinners, clothing, and jewelry. Occasionally, trips. A win-win situation for those with black hearts and empty souls—like him. Bridgett brushed her blonde hair behind her right ear and said, “I can’t seem to find one of my diamond studs? Have you seen it?”
    “No.” Had Greta figured out who Bridgett was and what he’d been doing with her?
    “Hmm.” She tapped a finger against her chin and sighed. “You haven’t seen it anywhere? Did you check the sheets?”
    The gasp pierced his left ear. Harsh, painful, shocked. Harry turned to find Greta rushing toward the kitchen, head high, step filled with purpose and no doubt a desperation to get as far from him and his deceitful self as possible. There was no question Greta had figured out his relationship to Bridgett. Dammit. He grabbed his iced tea, drained it. Why did do-gooders always act like they’d had their heart gouged out when the person they refused to believe ill of disappointed them? Hadn’t he told her straight up he was no saint, didn’t even deserve a second thought because his soul was black and twisted and he was beyond redemption? Because that’s the way he wanted it? Hadn’t he been up front about it? And what had she gone and done? Believed in him. That was the worst thing she could have possibly done. He’d stepped up for Chrissie, but if people thought he was going to make a regular habit of it, they were going to be very disappointed.
    “Harry? Baby. Can you check the sheets?” Bridgett laughed, low and sultry, a sound filled with promises of sensual escapades. “Maybe it slipped to the bottom of the sheets when we were,” she paused, ran her tongue over her glossed lips and said, “pleasing each other.”
    On a usual day the lips and tongue and voice could get him going, especially if he pictured the aforementioned coming from a feisty German woman. But today was different ; today was nothing but an exposure of his sick mind, with Greta as witness of his debauchery. He thought of her standing before him in shock and pain. Strings of curses bombarded his brain, big and bold and crude, plastering themselves all over his psyche, festering until they poured out. Unfortunately, Bridgett was the recipient of the curse-laden barrage.
    “Harry? What did I do?” She eased her hand from his and pushed back her chair. “Why are you so angry?”
    “I need a drink. A double.”
    “In a minute. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
    Okay, she wanted him to talk, he’d talk. “You’ve got a master’s in psychology, right?”
    She smiled, her eyes lighting up. “I do.”
    “Next up is the Ph.D. so you can discuss Freud and all that other crap in a college classroom, right?”
    The smile brightened, the lip gloss shimmered. “You do listen.”
    “So, why are you with me?”
    She laughed. “I like you.”
    Right. “You like me or my money?” Now there was the question.
    She spread her hands flat on the table, leaned forward until her boobs squeezed into the opening in her shirt and she murmured, “Is there a difference?”
    “There should be.” What the hell kind of psycho-bullshit answer was that? Greta would never spit out that kind of twisted garbage.
    “I don’t see the difference. You’re a fun guy, handsome, entertaining.” She paused, licked those damn lips again, and said, “Sexy as hell.”
    “And you’re half my age.”
    “Doesn’t feel that way when we’re in bed.”
    Had he really fallen for such bullshit? Of course he had. Men thought with the wrong head most of the time and then wondered how they ended up getting screwed by someone like