Free The Kill by Jan Neuharth Page B

about ten years ago.”
    “It’s nice to meet you.”
    An attractive, slim blond seated next to Wendy waved her hand. “Hey, Abigale. It’s me, Julia.”
    Abigale’s eyes widened. “Julia Farleigh?”
    “Yep.”
    “Oh, my God. I wouldn’t have recognized you. You used to have brown hair.”
    Julia flashed a smile, revealing a perfect row of unnaturally white teeth. “And braces. Not to mention an extra thirty pounds. In
all
the wrong places.” She ran a hand down her sweater and smoothed away the wrinkles, showing off her flat abdomen and voluptuous curves.
    Abigale laughed. “Not anymore. You look fabulous.”
    “Thanks. You too.”
    A man leaning against the hearth straightened and held out his hand. “Percy Fletcher. Long time no see.”
    Abigale fought to hide her shock at Percy’s appearance. His athletic build had turned soft, and a barrel chest strained against his shirt buttons. A receding hairline added years to his portly appearance.
    “Wait, you’re not still going to pay me back for that swimming pool incident, are you?” He raised an arm across his face in mock defense as Abigale reached for his hand.
    She arched an eyebrow. “You know what they say: ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’”
    Percy pumped her hand and raised his glass. “Touché. Fair warning.”
    Laughter floated through the room and Abigale breathed out a sigh. Perhaps she’d get through this after all.
    Margaret patted her arm. “Now let’s see, that’s everyone, except Manning, whom you know, of course.”
    Abigale’s eyes followed Margaret’s gaze to the man who stood beside a liquor cart in the far corner of the cozy room. There he was, a grown-up version of the boy she remembered. The years had hardened Manning’s muscles and added bulk to his broad shoulders; no hint of a middle-aged pouch on him. His wavy hair, more sandy now than blond, was shorter, and his face harder, accentuating his high cheekbones and strong jaw. But there was a different air about him. His eyes, blue as a summer sky, showed no hint of the naughty-boy gleam she remembered. The gaze he leveled at her seemed clouded with weariness. Or was it wariness?
    Manning stepped forward. “Hello, Abby.”
    She had expected the moment to be uncomfortable, but she wasn’t prepared for the rush of sadness that seemed to suck the air out of the room. Her father’s angry shouts whirled in her head, as vividly as the day seventeen years ago when he’d paced this same room, hurling hateful accusations at Manning.
    Abigale knew she should cross to him, but she didn’t move. She just stood there. She managed a smile. “You look great.”
    Manning snorted softly, giving her a look that seemed to say,
So that’s how we’re going to play it—just make small talk?
    His blue eyes hardened as he raised his glass to his mouth. “So do you.”

CHAPTER
23

    A bigale pushed the remnants of her apple pie on her plate as she looked across the table at Thompson, trying to focus on the story he was telling about being ambushed on the drive from the airport to his hotel in Iraq. But Manning’s presence at the end of the table trumped her ability to concentrate. With one ear, she listened to Manning and Smitty discuss the entries for the upcoming steeplechase races. The sound of Manning’s deep drawl swaddled her like her favorite cashmere sweater. She had no doubt that if she closed her eyes she’d see the apple orchard, bathed in moonlight; picture Manning and herself sprawled on the grass, counting fireflies, searching for constellations in the velvet summer sky, talking about all the places in the world they wanted to visit one day.
    She shook off the memory and forced her attention back to the conversation with Thompson. “What were you doing in Iraq?”
    He raised his glass, swirled the red wine around the goblet and inhaled, then took a sip. “Spearheading an audit of several defense contractors.”
    “Oh, interesting. Do you work for the