Pitch Black: A Romantic Thriller (Blackwood Security Book 1) Read Free Page B

there’s always one.
    In this case the “one” was my husband’s Aunt Miriam. Not my favourite person on a good day, and if I’d made a list of the people I least wanted to cross paths with today, her name would have been right at the top of it, written in bold and underlined. She powered in my direction like a super-tanker, mourners scattering out of her way as she dragged her long-suffering husband along behind her, set on a collision course with yours truly.
    Nick’s grip tightened around my elbow, and he silently asked me with his eyes if I wanted him to get rid of her.
    “I’ll deal with it,” I whispered. Despite the circumstances, this wasn’t his battle to fight.
    She ground to a halt in front of me, her ample figure carelessly squashed into a Chanel suit, teetering on a pair of Louboutin heels that I was surprised hadn’t buckled under the strain. I doubted her unsteadiness was entirely due to the unsuitability of her footwear, however. Miriam was fond of a few glasses of wine with her lunch. Or sometimes instead of her lunch. And for glasses, read bottles.
    I schooled my face into a blank mask as I prepared to face a woman who made the Ugly Sisters look like Cinderella, and who had as much tact as a herd of buffalo. As usual, Miriam got in before me. She always had to have the first word and the last. And most of the ones in between.
    “I thought I should let you know how sorry I was to hear about Charles’s death,” she said, her voice dripping with more insincerity than the pastor’s. She was the only person who called my husband Charles. It was a name he’d despised, but she still insisted on using it even when he continually asked her not to.
    “It was good of you to take the time to come, Miriam. I’m sure he would have appreciated it.”
    Not exactly true, as my husband cared for Miriam about as much as I did. What he would have appreciated was for her to have moved to the next state. Or better still, the next continent.
    “I always said he would come to a nasty end if he kept associating with those unsavoury characters. If he’d become an accountant like my William, I’m sure all of this could have been avoided. A man needs a well-respected job to get on in life. You don’t see any of William’s friends at the country club getting murdered,” said Miriam.
    Even in a situation like this, she couldn’t resist giving me a lecture. Miriam thought that any man who rode a motorbike, or had a tattoo, or didn’t have a nine to five office job was an “unsavoury character.”  
    Most of our closest acquaintances fitted into one of those categories, whereas Miriam’s son, William, was about as exciting as a jellyfish, and with slightly less backbone. William’s wife wasn’t too enamoured with him either, judging by the fact I’d seen her stumbling out of the Quality Inn on the outskirts of town last week accompanied by the pizza delivery guy from Giuseppe’s. She’d had the satisfied smile of a freshly fucked woman and was busy untucking her skirt from her panties. The Quality Inn was one of those classy establishments where the honeymoon suite came with a mirror on the ceiling, a vibrating bed and free all-you-can-watch porn.
    Still, this was a funeral, and I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I kept that little story to myself.
    “He made his own decisions in life, Miriam.”
    “Don’t we all know it? Some of them were worse than others.”
    She looked pointedly at me when she said that, leaving me in no doubt which decision of his she was referring to. Miriam thought I was a trophy wife and a gold digger. I know this because she told my husband exactly that about a week after our wedding.
    No “congratulations.” No “I hope you have a lovely future together.” I think her exact words were, “You’ve done what? What is she, a hooker? I hope you’ve got a good lawyer.” Like I said, Miriam held me in high regard.
    As I forced myself to resist the call of the Beretta