Blood on the knife, mixed with meat fibers from the steak she had cut moments ago, dripped on the floor and all over her hands.
“You do not put your hands on me.” She wiped the blood on his shoulder, shoving him back to the floor when he tried to get up.
One pleading hand reached up and touched her thigh. “Help me.” A sharp-toed leather shoe lashed out and drew blood from his stubble-darkened chin.
“You just do not learn.” She jerked her leg back. “Unless you got love on your mind, do not put your nasty hands on me. Ever.”
Blood-slimed hands pushed the moaning hulk from the floor, feet slipping in crimson pools. “ Don't tell me nothing, bitch.” From somewhere inside his male pride, anger gave him the strength to stand. He tackled the woman, grappling for the knife. “Give me that.” They wrestled for the knife. “Obey me or I’ll get the strap.”
She twisted out of his grasp and rolled over on top of him, pinning him between hard muscled thighs. “Obey this.” The knife plunged it into his chest, punctuating each word. “Keep your damn hands off me.” Blood sprayed her face and chest. Down came the knife. His shirt shredded as he struggled to get away, getting weaker and weaker, a river of blood coursing across the shoulders and down onto the shiny parquet floor. His fists beat back the knife. She batted his hands away, slicing the knuckles and wrists of both hands. Deep chasms opened from wrists to forearms, slashing through the blood-matted tangle of hair on his arms.
Bringing the knife overhead in both hands while straddling his protuberant belly, the blade descended with such force it clinked on bone. She bounced a little as the air whooshed out of the lungs. Her adversary was silent, a quiescent bloody lump.
Torrents of blood trickled to a stop beneath her Italian leather shoes as she rose gracefully and dropped the knife in the sink. Cold water sluiced down. Scarlet water carried clots of blood and gristle and pallid bits of purple-veined gobbets down the drain. Bloody hands reached for the soap. Pink lather covered both arms to the elbow and foamed down into the sink. She breathed in the clean scent of Ivory soap now faintly tinged with hot copper. Steam rose from the gleaming stainless steel sink. Manicured fingers turned down the hot water tap and turned up the cold water.
The pale pink foam lightened steadily to white, swirled down the drain and over the wicked shimmer of the knife blade. Plucking a clean towel from the rack, she carefully dried her hands, pushing back the cuticles of each fingernail and sliding under each perfect nail. She had not ruined her manicure. Good. Off came all the rings: the emerald cut diamond set in platinum, the beating heart of a ruby nestled in a ring of diamonds and the diamond and platinum band. Each ring was dried and replaced on long slender fingers with care before she turned the water off.
From under the sink came a pair of pink gloves, the cleanser and a sponge to scrub and rinse the countertop and sink until they shone. “Nothing I can do about the floor.” Placing everything neatly back under the sink, she stepped er the huddled body and tiptoed through congealing puddles of blood. She picked up the phone and dialed 911. “My husband’s dead. Would you send a car?”
She sprinted up the stairs and took off all her clothes in the bathroom, tut-tutting at herself in the mirror over the sink. Closing the door, she surveyed the damage in the full-length mirror. “No sense letting the blood set in these clothes.” The second hand tick-ticked around the face of the diamond watch. “Just enough time to shower and change.”
Bloody clothes went into the sink and were immersed in cold water. A thick fluffy towel was unfolded and draped over the shower door. When the water was warm, she stepped into the cleansing spray. Singing lustily, she shampooed and conditioned her hair and bathed, luxuriating in the rich, thick foaming sea sponge that replaced the charnel house reek with the scent of Chanel #5. “Amazing Grace” soared up on a warbling trill that sent the notes skirling through the steam, defying gravity.
When the door bell rang fifteen minutes later, Maureen fingered shining mahogany waves into place, smoothed the folds of a cool linen skirt and silk blouse, trailing a fresh, fragrant cloud. After slipping into low-heeled sandals, she descended the stairs and answered the door.
“You’ll find him in there. He’s a bit of a mess.”
“Not again, Maureen.” The slender, red-headed cop frowned. “Why don't you just get a divorce?”
“No need now, Officer O’Connor.”