Page 55 of Ruthless Claim

I don’t trust her at all.

She’s a viper dressed in designer clothes and she’s been watching Valentina since we sat down with the attention of someone who has identified a target and is waiting for the right moment.

She waits until the second course.

That’s always her move—when the wine has settled in and the guard is down and a comment lands in the middle of the table where it can’t be easily walked back from.

“Such a shame about Emma not being here,” she says, with a warmth so practiced it almost sounds genuine. She lets everyone at the table understand exactly what she’s doing, then she turns to Valentina with a smile that has nothing behind it. “I imagine the whole situation has been rather uncomfortable for your family. Given how your brother started it.”

The table goes quiet.

I look at Connor.

His face closes with that specific Brennan blankness, the one that means something is happening underneath that no one is going to see.

He sets his glass down carefully.

I look at Teresa.

The color has gone out of her face and she’s looking at her plate.

Valentina sets her fork down.

She looks at Maureen with an expression of such warm, pleasant interest that from across the table you’d think she was about to agree with her.

“Uncomfortable,” she repeats, mulling over the word. “How thoughtful of you to worry about us.” A small pause, her head tilting. “I think about it differently, actually. I think the people who knew her best—who’ve known her for years, who’ve watched her grow up in this family—must feel her absence most acutely.”

The warmth in her voice is genuine sounding, but her dark eyes resting on Maureen are anything but warm. “That kind of loss is so specific, isn’t it? All that history. All those years of being close to someone, and then”—she gestures with her hands—“they’re simply somewhere else.” She leans forward just slightly. “How are you holding up, Maureen?”

Maureen’s mouth opens. Closes.

“Oh, it’s all right if it’s hard,” Valentina says, gently. “These things take time.”

From three seats down, Brigid’s voice comes in. Brigid hates Maureen and has always done her best to make it known that she considers Maureen an outsider.

“Maureen wasn’t close to Emma,” she says, glaring at the white-faced woman. “She was barely an acquaintance. Weren’t you, Maureen?” She takes a sip of her wine before she turns her attention to Valentina, a faux-sympathetic look on weathered face. “I always find it interesting how loud the grief gets from people who had the least to do with the person.”

The silence this time is a different quality of silence.

Maureen’s face has gone the color of the tablecloth.

Valentina looks at Brigid across the table and something satisfying passes between them.

Brigid briefly inclines her head toward my wife.

Valentina looks like the cat that caught the canary.

“More wine?” Valentina asks Maureen sweetly.

Connor’s face is still impassive, but he immediately goes back to his conversation.

But I can tell from the way he’s sawing at his meat that Maureen’s husband is going to be verbally eviscerated later for his wife’s display.

I grimace.

I don’t envy the bastard.

But it’s my aunt’s face that I’m most interested in.