The Perfect Woman (Rose Gold Book 2)

by Nicole French

  Together, we had no positions, no people, no pasts to keep us apart.

  I cried out, but the sounds were swallowed by his kisses, by the rumble of his voice. Matthew gasped, and his movements shook the bed beneath us, the very core of who we were.

  Together, we had no names. We ceased to be two separate people.

  Lost, yet found.

  Wild, yet tamed.

  That word swelled again.

  Together we were home.

  Chapter Six

  “So, what happened today, doll?”

  I looked up from where I was still buried in a nest of down comforter and Egyptian cotton. Not quite the same as the fifteen-hundred-thread-count sateen I usually slept on, but in its own way nicer, courtesy of the warm afternoon light pouring through the drapes and the deep green eyes of the man with me. It was funny, in spite of the being the epitome of luxury and comfort, my suite at home still felt like the center of a jail. And my jailer could unlock the doors and violate that sanctity—as he had done last night—any time he wanted. Especially now.

  Dread settled over me like a thick mask. The idea of leaving this room, this man, was utterly asphyxiating.

  The desire between Matthew and me had quieted to a simmer instead of the hot summer boil.

  I still wanted him. I’d always want him. But reality pressed on the cool glass walls of this lovely room.

  How could something that felt so unbelievably right be so terribly wrong for both of us? I was married. Matthew was investigating my husband. We were both at risk, even with just a text.

  But the thought of leaving all over again made me feel like I was cutting off my own arm. I had never felt anything like this before. Not for Peppe. Certainly never for Calvin. The closest thing was for my daughter. And even with her…no, it wasn’t the same.

  Our time was nearly up. Matthew was already half-dressed in his pants while he ironed out his shirt. His smooth, even motions made the sinewy muscles of his chest, arms, even his abdominals move in elegant concert. He had no idea what a graceful creature he was—I truly loved watching him complete even the simplest tasks. If the city was a jungle, Matthew was its panther. A king cat, always on the prowl.

  When I didn’t answer his question, he stopped ironing and looked up. His full lips curled into another roguish grin.

  “Enjoying the view?”

  I didn’t even bother to hide it. I never had to with him. “Of course I am. You’re beautiful.”

  Matthew opened his mouth as if to joke again, but frowned at my tone. I was trying for light but couldn’t quite manage it. In less than a second, he had abandoned his shirt and moved back to sit beside me on the bed. He twirled a lock of my hair, winding it around his finger like a ring before letting it go.

  “There it is again,” he remarked. “That face. I don’t like it. Five weeks since we talked or anything, and you text me out of the blue. What’s going on?”

  My stomach squeezed. He couldn’t possibly know how badly I wished the rings on my finger matched one on his instead of the husband I would rather never see again. I’d give up every dollar in my bank account, every sumptuous fabric in that penthouse if it meant I could stay here with him.

  “Is it the guilt?” he asked quietly. “Is it too much?”

  He dropped my hair to toy with the white gold chain around his neck. On it dangled a crucifix and a medallion of San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples, where his grandfather was born. He was given the cross at fourteen—after his father died and Matthew was confirmed. The other piece was his grandfather’s, who had passed some years back. Both were grim, almost gruesome reminders of family, pride, and faith.

  I understood the first two very well. After all, until I met this man, my entire life had been shaped by the fact that I was a member of the great de Vries family and needed to maintain their pride (and thereby, mine). We had room for one black sheep, but by the time I became pregnant, Eric had already taken that spot. So I sculpted myself in the matriarch’s image out of fear. I’d gone to the right schools. Worn the right clothes. Married the right man. Or, as it happened, the very wrong one. And for what?

  Family. Pride.

  Faith, though. That wasn’t as clear to me, but Matthew seemed to have it in spades despite his own history of loss.

  I never probed. Things like that were personal—nothing I would ever ask about, having been trained assiduously to leave politics and religion firmly out of polite conversation. But I knew his faith was deep and nuanced. I knew he attended Mass frequently with his grandmother and sisters in the Bronx. I knew he confessed what he considered his “sins” to a priest and had been going to confession more often since we met. I knew that he carried his faults around like the cross was on his back, not around his neck, and often believed he was beyond redemption.

  I also knew he was mistaken.

  The squeeze in my stomach tightened. Not because I felt particularly bad about being here with him.

  I simply didn’t. Not anymore. Calvin Gardner was my husband in name only. He was a bad man. And the only reason I had to stay with him now was to protect myself and my daughter during the trial. Matthew said it was for my dignity. He still didn’t know about the other secrets I carried.

  It was fear, not guilt, that kept me up most nights.

  Better to live in the moment. Not to yearn for a future that could never be.

  Even so, there was no use pretending completely. Not with Matthew.

  “No,” I said. “It’s not guilt. It’s…today is my anniversary. Number ten, as it happens.”

  Matthew’s face darkened. “That’s right.”

  I turned on my side toward him, drifting a hand over his bare chest, then down across the solid ridges of his stomach. “You knew?”

  Of course he did. Matthew had researched me and my family long ago as part of an ongoing investigation related to Eric, and now for the case he was building against Calvin.

  My husband.

  Live in the moment.

  I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. “Ten years.” I sighed. “It’s a little hard to believe.”

  Matthew bared his teeth, again resembling a cat that desperately wanted to hunt. “It’s a fuckin’ tragedy, is what it is.”

  I shied, as I often did when his bitterness about my marriage took over. I wasn’t afraid. I just couldn’t do anything about it, and it hurt. So, so badly.

  Matthew’s face softened. “Shit, doll.” He slumped, then stood and returned to his ironing. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.” My voice was sharper than intended. Almost defensive, though I wasn’t. Not of Calvin anyway.

  But I knew that tone well, and it never went anywhere good. Matthew and I had had more than one argument on the street about the state of my marriage. Why? He’d always demand, before the complication of Calvin’s criminal behavior presented itself. Why do you stay?

  Eventually the truth came out.

  That I had been pregnant with another man’s baby when I’d married Calvin.

  That none of my family had known about the affair, and at only twenty, I was too afraid of their reaction to say anything.

  That my daughter, Olivia, also had no idea.

  Family. Pride.

  How could things so important also feel like dead weights?

  I shouldn’t have resented them the way I did.

  But I did. I really did.

  “So what does old Calvin have planned tonight, huh?” Matthew couldn’t quite keep the vitriol out of his voice. “A room at the Plaza? Maybe a trip to Tiffany’s?”

  I sat up against the headboard, then drew the sheet and my knees to my chest, shrinking more with each suggestion. They were jokes, clichés, productions of jealousy. But Matthew couldn’t know how much they hurt. If that was the sort of husband I had, I probably would have never ended up at this hotel in the first place.

  No. That possibility burned as well.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We generally do
n’t celebrate our anniversary.”

  Matthew looked up. “You’re kidding.”

  I shook my head. “Why should we, with such an arrangement? It’s not as if we love each other. Or ever did.”

  “Because you love me now, right, baby?”

  “Well…yes.”

  At my frank admission, Matthew put the iron down again, and we stared at each other across the room. The air crackled.

  Then he crossed over to the bed in five long strides, pulled me into his arms, and delivered a long, deep kiss. It was anything but decorous. It was messy. All-consuming. And exactly what I needed.

  When he released me, I gasped. But my limbs were no longer stiff and folded into themselves. Once again, I was relaxed. Fluid.

  At peace.

  “For what it’s worth, I love you too,” Matthew said, equally out of breath. “And I’m sorry. I’m a jealous asshole.”

  I reached up and pushed a few strands of hair off his forehead. His hair was a deliciously deep brown that shone like the sides of a skyscraper in the rain.

  “You’re just frustrated,” I said. “I understand. I am too.”

  Matthew pressed his forehead to mine, eyes closed as our breathing returned to normal.

  “When…” he started, seeming to search for words. “Fuck it. If you were my wife—”

  “Your wife?” I practically squeaked, arching back to look at him.

  A broad, cocky smirk—the one that always managed to enthrall and irritate me at the same time— spread across his face. “Well, yeah. My wife. What do you think I’m so jealous of?”

  “I—I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.”

  It was the truth. Or was it? I’d be lying if I said in moments of weakness, I hadn’t imagined what it would be like to come home to this man night after night. Wake up with that smirk greeting me each morning. Be his “doll” for the rest of our lives.

  He seemed to understand this as he leaned in, touched his nose to mine, then kissed me again, ending it with a light nip on my lower lip.

  “Like the stars, baby. Remember?” He stood up again and tipped my chin with one finger. “If you were mine, I’d celebrate the hell out of our anniversary. We’d be swing dancing at a hundred. You can believe that.”

  The visions returned. This time they were fifty years from now, both of us old and gray. Me with finger-rolled hair curls, and Matthew, stooped and gray with his ever-present fedora, holding hands by the river while we watched the sun drop below the New York City skyline. I settled back into my pillows and let myself swim in the idea for a few moments more. We both did, until the truth sank in.

  It would never happen. It couldn’t.

  Matthew pressed one more kiss to my forehead, sighed, and returned to his clothes. “Is he at least home? Will he bring you flowers? Maybe a card or something?”

  I shook my head. “Unlikely. Actually, you might like to know he was making some phone calls last night, and—”

  “Don’t.” Matthew shook his head as he finished with the iron. He pulled on his undershirt, then the Oxford. “Even if it would be helpful, it shouldn’t come from you.”

  I watched as he did up his buttons and tucked in his clothes, making sure everything aligned correctly with the zipper of his pants. Neat, no fuss, but always precise in a way most men couldn’t manage anymore. Classic.

  It made me forget for a moment how irritatingly reticent he was to take any information I offered about Calvin. This wasn’t the first time I had offered. And every time, he always refused.

  “Honestly,” I said. “What is the point of any of this if I can’t help?”

  “The point, duchess, is that we have to keep this case clean. And out of our damn bed, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, the sooner it’s over, the sooner we can spend more time in it, don’t you think?”

  “Nina.”

  I stopped and sighed, feeling very much like a petulant child. I didn’t like not getting my way. I never had.

  Matthew cocked his head, looking at me like he felt sorry for me. It was utterly infuriating. “Nina,” he said again.

  “I only want to help.”

  “You are helping. By staying safe.”

  The word rattled. He had no idea how unsafe I really was.

  He pulled his tie around his collar and came to sit with me on the bed, offering the two ends. It was as big a compliment as I could get from Matthew Zola—the honor of looping his half Windsor knot.

  I went straight to work, if only because it allowed me to focus on the crimson paisley and avoid getting lost in those deep green eyes again.

  “Look, Nina, you know you can’t tell me things like that. We’re in the middle of the discovery process right now, which means that at some point before the trial, I have to divulge every single thing I learn to Calvin’s lawyers. Along with where I got the information. If they find out it came from you…well, it will probably get thrown out anyway once he claims spousal privilege. But then it will bring a rain of fucking fire down on your head too. A hell of an investigation on your potential part in Calvin’s dealings. That’s the only way the DA will get around it—by naming you as an accomplice to his crimes.”

  “And what part would that be?” Did I protest a little too loudly?

  Matthew didn’t seem to notice as he stood and picked his jacket off the chair near the door. Exquisitely put together. The perfect gentleman, but with a distinct and delicious dark side.

  I closed my eyes, if only to fight the urge to drag him back to bed and have my way with him all over again. It was ridiculous, this desire.

  This complete and utter need.

  “Spousal privilege, baby,” he said as he returned to the bed one last time. “You need it. We need it. I don’t want you or Olivia anywhere near this case. All right?”

  “But I have spousal privilege even if we’re divorced, don’t I?” I tried again.

  “It only protects what was said during the marriage,” Matthew replied through clenched teeth, like talking about my marriage physically pained him. “If you’re divorced—and if it ever comes up that there was any kind of threat or rancor in the marriage…well, the whole thing could potentially split wide open anyway.” He shook his head. “Not to mention my career falls apart too. And then I can’t protect you anymore. The case gets turned over to a much more bribable ADA. Calvin gets off, and we’re both fucked.”

  We’d had this conversation countless times. That for everyone’s sake—especially Olivia’s—I needed to remain Calvin’s wife until the trial was over. Matthew thought I was willing to be Mrs. Gardner to protect myself from the threat of his investigation. He didn’t realize that our humiliation wasn’t the only or even the worst threat. It was the knowledge that if he ever discovered the truth, he’d never look at me the same way.

  It made me a coward, but I couldn’t take that chance.

  “Do you have any idea how much it kills me, sending you back to that monster?”

  I shivered at the rumble of his quiet, forlorn voice. He didn’t know the half of it.

  Matthew slipped his palm around my neck and stroked my cheek with his thumb. We gazed at each other for a long moment. Then he leaned down, past my mouth, and dropped kiss after kiss along my neck, my bare collarbone, before pushing the sheet out of his way so he could take my nipple between his teeth. He sucked, then worried it hard enough that I hissed. When he pulled away, the skin above it was red again. Marked.

  I loved it. Just like I loved him.

  Maybe because he listened to me. He looked for the line where pain and pleasure met and found it every time. Unlike the other man in my life. The one who sought out my pain, but only for his own pleasure.

  “It’s all right,” I murmured as my fingers threaded into his thick dark hair. “I’ll bear it.”

  He sat up, quiet as his thumb drifted over my skin, then down to my wrist, which he encircled with his fingers. “He doesn’t actually hurt you, though. Right?”

>   Matthew’s dark green eyes were searching, almost pleading for me to say no. He looked as desperate and trapped as I felt. As utterly helpless.

  And after all, what could he do if the answer was yes? I knew this man. He would throw every caution to the wind if he believed I was unsafe. Including himself.

  How could I betray that?

  “Of course not,” I said, recalling every bit of conditioning I had to keep my face straight under Matthew’s probing gaze.

  “Those bruises on your inner thigh—”

  “I told you. I stumbled getting off the spinning bike,” I lied.

  Matthew was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I would never hide anything from you that I didn’t have to, Nina. You know that, don’t you?”

  Now guilt strummed through my insides like the strings of a guitar. Did I know that? Wasn’t he purposefully shielding me from his work? Did he have to?

  I knew what he would say.

  In order to save you from it.

  I shook away the thought and did what I was best at. I changed the subject.

  “How did you get in?”

  Matthew gave me a curious look while he stood to put on his jacket. “The service stairs. I’m assuming you took them too.”

  I nodded. “You know me and elevators.”

  At the mention of my terrible claustrophobia, a sly grin crept across Matthew’s face, causing me to blush in response. We were thinking of the same thing. An evening when we were trapped by some absurd circumstance in a faulty elevator in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had believed I’d never see him again, but fate had thrown us back together—just as my claustrophobia attacked like never before. Somehow, his presence had calmed me. His entire body had calmed me.

  Desire, I had learned that day, is stronger than any fear.

  Or maybe that’s just love.