Angol
Alex sat, his back rigid, his mind frozen. He had dealt with many contemptible people, but Hardy exceeded the boundaries of villainy. How could he do this to Ellie? Gentle Ellie, whose only sin was to need tenderness, to make Alex a present of her unopened gift of passion, a gift Hardy had refused. His heart ached for her. How in the name of anything human could a husband betray no sign of altered emotion for six long months while harboring this swinish 'show and tell" trash? He wanted to strangle the man, to force the color of suffering into that flat-white, lifeless face. He realized he'd already refilled his glass with port. His head was humming. His gaze moved from the decanter to the man behind the gun. Al1 that wine, and now the port. Had Hardy actually drunk any? What were his intentions? Certainly he would know the perfect potion for a slow death. And the gun.was it to keep them imprisoned at the table until the poison infiltrated their veins? Or did he intend to poison and shoot them, a Rasputinish overkill? He, who had been accused of the ability to read minds at countless negotiating confrontations, hadn't even a good guess.
