Avenging Angels by Mary Stanton Read Free Book Online

good sword fight.” She waited a few beats and said innocently, “Um. There are sword fights in Hamlet , right?”
    His hand brushed hers. “Sword fights are a specialty of mine.”
    I’ll just bet they are, Bree thought. She had the oddest feeling—that she was suddenly wide awake.
    “Oh, my. We’re being summoned,” Cissy said. “Tully’s just come in.” She pulled Antonia gently, but firmly, a small distance away from the group and tilted her head questioningly at Bree. “Gentlemen, I know y’all will understand if I drag my two girls here over to say howdy to Tully. She asked Bree here specially to talk about signing her on to handle some contracts, and there she is, beckoning us on over.”
    “So we may meet again?” Haddad leaned a little closer and she caught his scent: spicy and warm.
    Haddad’s smile, Bree decided, ought to be registered as a lethal weapon. “We just might,” she said.
    Cissy propelled the two of them through the crowd and hissed into Bree’s ear, “You were flirting with that man, Bree Beaufort.”
    “I would have been, if you hadn’t dragged me off.”
    “Well, I’m glad to see it. These past few weeks you’ve been in Savannah, I thought you’d given up on life altogether.” Then at full voice: “Well, now, Tully. Here they are.”
    “I see you’ve been talking to my favorite Egyptian,” Tully said smoothly. She’d exchanged the blazer and slacks she’d worn at the auction for a deceptively simple-looking dress. It was gray, belted at the waist, and flowed around her like a soft wind. “He’s agreed to sign on for another year as director of the Players.” Something like triumph flickered in her eyes. “And Ciaran, too, of course. We confirmed that as of this morning. But look at this. You don’t have anything to drink. Antonia, get your sister a glass of wine. Or a julep? No? Take your time about it, please. And Cissy, go with her. Bree? Come with me.”
    Her aunt and her sister trotted off obediently. Bree thought about throwing a Nazi salute, but didn’t.
    “We’re over here.” Tully sailed briskly through the crowd, like an arrogant sailboat on the Savannah River. And I, Bree thought irritably, am the little rubber dinghy bumping behind. They walked across the foyer and then straight down the hallway leading to the back of the house. “Kitchen’s straight ahead,” Tully said with a jerk of her thumb. “And I asked Fig and Danica to meet us in here.” She opened a mahogany door set in the wall a few feet in front of the foyer leading to the kitchen and stepped aside. “Go in. Both of them will be there. I’ll be back in a moment. I need to speak to the kitchen.”
    “And speak to the kitchen she will,” Fig O’Rourke said. “Was she carrying a cleaver?”
    “Nope,” Bree said. “Just an attitude.”
    “Heads will roll anyway.” Fig got to his feet, reluctantly. “Come in and sit down.”
    Somebody had banned the color lemon from this room, and Bree was glad of it. It was an ordinary, rather undistinguished home office. A set of barrister bookshelves sat under the windows on the far wall. A small round table with two chairs was tucked into one corner, and a leather recliner and reading lamp sat on the opposite side. Fig O’Rourke sat back down in the recliner. The quiet black woman Bree had seen at the auction sat at the table, an open briefcase on her lap.
    The middle of the room was empty. A very good Turkish carpet covered the floor. From the four indentations at the corner of the rug, Bree could tell a large desk or table had sat there.
    “Father’s desk was supposed to be here already,” Fig said. “I guess Mother Dear went to shriek at whoever screwed up.”
    Bree didn’t believe that people’s looks reflected their character, or at least, she didn’t believe in prejudging character based on the shape of, for example, somebody’s mouth. (Fig’s was sulky.) Or eyes. (Fig’s were the color of muddy coffee—and he squinted