The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

only half an effort to replace his impatience with feigned concern. It wasn't a particularly successful try.
          "Well, excuse me!" Paige snapped. "I should have known better than to think you'd care!"
         He swallowed hard, resting his forehead on an open palm. "I didn't mean it that way. You know what a pressure cooker this place is. Of course I want to know what's going on with number-one son and heir."
         Her tone softened, " Only son and heir for the foreseeable future. Until you make senior partner, anyway. Seems Wynn-Three is terrified of the Pink Pig."
         Wynton's mind bounced around his skull like a rubber ball until recognition came to him. "Pink Pig? You mean that children's tram they put up at Lenox every Christmas? I thought kids loved it."
         "Not your son."
         He inhaled deeply, giving himself time to think. A three-year-old frightened of the Pink Pig was sufficiently newsworthy to interrupt what he was doing? Did she think there was something he could do about it from here? He knew better than to tread any other way but lightly. Paige had become increasingly prickly about her duties as a mother as compared to his as family hunter-gatherer.
         "Maybe he and I can talk about it when I get home," he suggested, hopeful of a quick and amicable resolution of whatever issue was really on the table. The trouble was, lately he was never sure exactly what that might be.
         "Not unless you get home a lot earlier than usual."
         He didn't like the direction things were heading. That is, toward him. He took the coward's way out. "Oh, hi! Have a seat and I'll be right with you!" he said to the empty room. "Can I call you back?"
         They both knew he would not be calling.

CHAPTER 7

    480 Lafayette Drive
    Atlanta
    That Evening

    W YNTON REACHED ACROSS THE CANDLELIT table to refill Paige's wineglass before topping off his own. ". . . and the jury consultant says we have a better than ever chance of . . ."
         To Paige, listening to what was going on at the firm was like looking at travel brochures of a far-off land she once visited but to which she would never return: interesting but irrelevant.
         She nodded toward the casserole dish in the middle of the kitchen table. "More beef bourguignon?"
         Wynton patted his mouth with his napkin. "I'm stuffed, thanks. Really good, though. I appreciate your taking the time."
         Paige snorted over her wineglass. "Time? What else do I have to do once I get the house cleaned up, make sure we have groceries, get the bills paid and Wynn-Three fed lunch and down for his nap? As long as I can pile stuff into a Crock-Pot while he's asleep and don't have to screw with it till it's done, I can cook it. Not like I have every minute already filled."
         Wynton recognized a vague accusation, perhaps a continuation of this afternoon's conversation. He took a sip from his glass and was thinking about how to change the subject when he heard a voice from upstairs.
         Paige raised her eyes as though able to see through the ceiling. "Your number-one son and heir is awake. Why don't you spend some quality time getting him back to sleep while I clean up."
         After-dinner KP duty usually was Wynton's job, one he would gladly swap for a little extra time with his son. "Sure."
         He returned fifteen minutes later, a puzzled expression on his face.
         Paige looked up from the sink, her hands holding a plate. "What?"
         "He wet the bed. When's the last time he did that?"
         She shrugged. "Six, eight months. You changed the sheets?"
         "Of course."
         "And his pajamas?"
         Wynton crossed the kitchen and drained the last of the wine from his glass. "I may not get to spend as much time as I'd like with him, but I'm not a total fuck-up. I also washed him up and dried him. The kid must have had a helluva nightmare; he was in tears. He kept saying something about the train. The