* * *
“We can’t keep doing this. I can’t …” His words hang, unfinished, and I open my eyes to see him bend down, picking up his shirt and walking to the edge of my bed, his eyes traveling over my skin until they stop at my face. He puts a knee on the bed, leaning over to brush his lips over my skin, placing soft kisses on my stomach, the underside of my breast, my collarbone, and then my lips. He studies me, his green eyes cloudy. “Neither one of us deserves you,” he says, standing up and buttoning his pants.
* * *
I roll over, facing the opposite direction, and hug his pillow.
* * *
I loved Candace more than I have ever loved another soul on this planet.
* * *
Loved me? A lie, like every photo taken by the press, like that entire weekend at Napa Valley.
* * *
Her death leaves a hole in my heart that will never be filled.
* * *
There are very few explanations for that line, written on Nathan’s stationary, in handwriting I recognize as his, placed in a folder that bears my name. My mind can only grasp one. In Nathan’s world—his meticulously scheduled, perfectly planned universe—I’m going to die. It’s planned for, a statement already prepared, everything in place except for my dead body. When? And why?
* * *
“You need to go back.”
* * *
I nod, rolling off the bed and standing, accepting the clothes that he hands over. I don’t bother dressing, giving him a tight smile and leaving, walking naked through the house and back to the guesthouse, glancing at the clock as I crawl into the bed. Five hours until Nathan arrives home. Five hours before the next man fucks with my mind.
* * *
Please respect our privacy in this difficult time.
* * *
Cecile disappeared. I can’t. I can't run away from Nathan, not without something in place for my father's care. No matter the reason, no matter how unhappy I am as his wife, or whatever danger might exist, I am now in the rare position of being able to actually help my father. To provide for him, visit with him, financially support his care—not just through this sickness, but for the rest of his life.
* * *
I can’t just toss this opportunity away.
* * *
“What happens to my father upon my death?” I finger the ripped buttons of a Chanel blouse, one I took the tags off this morning, wondering if it is salvageable. Nathan had ripped it open without concern for the fine fabric, his need too great for something as silly as unbuttoning.
* * *
Nathan’s head snaps up so quickly that I hear a bone pop. “What do you mean?”
* * *
I drop the shirt and reach for my skirt, stepping into it sans underwear, not wanting to hunt for them in the sheets of Nathan’s bed. “I mean, if I die, what happens to my father? Would you continue to provide for his care?” I shouldn’t have said anything. One of the unwritten rules, made clear by Nathan’s attitude, is that I get up and leave after sex. No chitchat, no goodbye kiss, just a quick and silent exit.
* * *
“Do you plan on dying?” His face is almost distraught, his question spoken quickly and urgently. My suicide must clash with his current plans.
* * *
“No. I don’t think anyone plans on dying. But what would happen if I do? The agreement doesn’t mention anything about that.” An omission which leads me to think that my father will be left high and dry upon my expiration.
* * *
He frowns. “I can have my attorney draft an amendment. I guess I didn’t expect your father to outlive you.” His blue eyes lock with mine, a silent appraisal in them.
* * *
“I would like that,” I say quietly, zipping up the side of my skirt.
* * *
He fastened the buttons of one sleeve, his expression grave. “Then I’ll do it this week.”
* * *
This week. I can see the thoughts growing, his mind working through my questions. I ball up the broken shirt in my hand and scoop up my heels, leaving the room and heading outside, putting distance between us before he starts asking questions of his own.
NATHAN
He watches her leave, her posture strong, despite all he’s put her through. He watches her pull at the glass slider, the moonlight softening the lines of her face, then she is gone. She’s left a dozen times, and never has the urge been so strong to ask her to stay. Only this time, it isn’t his heart that tempts the action—it’s his head.
* * *
He picks up his phone, dialing Drew’s cell, the man quickly answering.
* * *
“Turn on the security system. Then come here.” He ends the call and stands at the window, watching her pull the curtains of her home closed, the cream drapes glowing as she turns on the interior lights.
* * *
“What’s up?” The man steps in, his law enforcement bearing present, even in gym shorts and a T-shirt.
* * *
“We have a problem. It’s Candy.” He sighs, telling the man of her questions and watching his face pinch in worry. “I’m worried … with her references to dying … Maybe I’ve gone too far in trying to keep her at arm’s length.”
* * *
“I wouldn’t call anything about your relationship ‘arm’s length’.” The response is sharper than it needs to be, and Nathan lifts his gaze to the man’s.
* * *
“What’s your point?”
* * *
“I just don’t want you to forget the goal of all this.”
* * *
“We leave for the Bahamas next week. You don’t have to worry about me forgetting anything.”
* * *
“Not the money. Her.” An outsider would think they are talking about Candy, but he knows who Drew is talking about, hears the protective growl in his voice, sees the tightening of his jaw.
* * *
“I don’t owe Cecile any loyalty. Not after all this time.”
* * *
Drew scowls. “And what about Candy? You even care if she’s suicidal?”
* * *
“Of course I care.” Nathan crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t challenge me in one breath about developing feelings for her, and the next about not giving a shit. You’re talking out of both sides of your mouth, and all of it’s bullshit considering the way you’ve been eye fucking her.”
* * *
“There’s nothing in her contract about loyalty.” Drew smirks, and Nathan takes a step forward, dropping his hands, and fighting the urge to tighten them into fists.
* * *
“But there is something in yours.” He tilts his head, watching the man’s face, the pit in his stomach turning into a sharp pain. “Tell me you haven’t touched her.”
* * *
In the silence, a piece of him, one recently created, dies. He steps closer. “Tell me that you haven’t touched my wife.”
* * *
“Your wife?” The man laughs, and it is a steel blade in between his ribs. “You’re not in love with her,” Drew spits out. “You're in love with Cecile. Candy is a fucking contract. Nothing more.”
* * *
“I’ll decide what Candy is.”
* * *
“No.” Drew shakes his head. “She’s not a fucking building, Nathan. She’ll decide what she is.”
* * *
He fights the urge to punch him, to smash bones and bloody knuckles. But there’s a reason, other than Cecile, that he keeps the man around. The handgun tucked in his waistband. The ability of the man, to take a life, with his bare hands. Still, Nathan's temper rages, and he forces out the next question through clenched teeth. “Have. You. Touched. Her?”
* * *
“Yes.” The response is a challenge, and Nathan steps forward, so close that they are eye to eye. He shouldn't care. Their marriage is a business arrangement. It wasn’t designed
for love or emotions, and he’d gone out of his way to make sure she didn’t develop any. He shouldn’t care, but he does. Inside, somewhere past the anger with Cecile, the hurt of his heart, the plans that they’ve made … he cares.
* * *
The punch comes from another man, one without structure or control, a man he thought he buried a long time ago. It hits Drew’s jaw and the pain radiates through his fist, the crunch and impact of bones and flesh brutal in its ferocity. There is the silent collision of his bare chest against Drew’s shirt, muscles struggling for control. They hit the wall and a Peter Lik print shudders. Drew’s hand moves and Nathan freezes in the cock of his gun.
* * *
“What are you doing?” Drew steps back, both hands wrapped around the gun, his stance born from years of training. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
* * *
“Do you love her?” Nathan hisses out the question, his shoulders slumping against the wall as he lifts his hands and rests them on his head.
* * *
“Not yet.” Drew moves a step to the right, the position probably better for taking a man's life.
* * *
“Then stop. Everything. I’ll need you this week, but when we leave for Nassau, you pack your shit and get the fuck out.”
* * *
The man scowls. “So, that’s it. Fuck Cecile or anything else. You go to Nassau, execute your plan, and then wash your hands of me? And what if you get caught?”
* * *
“I’m not going to get caught.” Not with Candace.
* * *
“If you do, I’m not involved. I’m not covering for you, and I’m not cleaning up your mess.”
* * *
“Your sister got me into this fucking mess. Let’s not forget that.” It’s not a fair thing to say. Fuck, the whole situation is unfair. Maybe it’s wrong to fire him. But the man shouldn’t have put his hands on his wife. Nathan closes his eyes, assaulted by the thought of her body moving underneath Drew’s, her lips wrapping around his cock. He jerks to his feet and almost lunges for the man again, regardless of the gun in his hand.
* * *
Drew straightens, his gun falling, and clears the bullet from the chamber. There is the tinny sound of metal against tile as the bullet drops to the floor, rolling harmlessly away. “Are we done with this shit?”
* * *
Nathan crosses his arms. “We’re done.”
* * *
“I’ll be out of here by the time you’re back from your trip.” He tips an imaginary hat at Nathan and steps back. “Enjoy your wife. I certainly did.”
* * *
The rage explodes in his chest, and it takes everything in him to not chase the man down the hall and kill him.
* * *
Four years since Cecile, four years that had built a friendship between the two of them, one that—two months ago—seemed ironclad.
* * *
He turns and walks to the window, looking at the guesthouse, her lights still on.
* * *
She isn’t worth it. Not with everything currently at stake.
CHAPTER 38
I can’t sleep, my mind running laps, my conversation with Nathan only raising more questions. Thinking about my situation seems to do nothing but stress me the hell out. I kick off the covers and stand, my muscles jumping, my head aching with the effort of trying to not think. Swimming. Maybe that will clear my head, exhaust my muscles, and allow my body to finally sleep. I step to the curtains and slip through, unlocking the slider and stepping outside.
* * *
It is beautiful on this ledge of the world. The house sits on the edge of a stiff drop, looking down on the city below. It is a city that sleeps with lights on, skyscrapers announcing their greatness with up lights and a blatant waste of electricity, dotting the landscape with colorful dots all hours of the night. I turn to the house, following the simple, modern lines of the architecture, the house designed to make an impression, from the front as well as the back, the floor to ceiling windows disappearing into the night sky. As I watch, the house goes dark, the light in Nathan’s room turning off.
* * *
I wonder where Drew is, and whether he came for me tonight. Earlier, I put a note on the glass. On it, I wrote only ‘No.’ I figured that would be clear enough for him, yet cryptic enough that—if seen by someone else’s eyes—wouldn’t rat out our affair. I’m not ready to see Drew. Not ready to accept the fact that he may be involved in a plot to cause me harm.
* * *
I pull my t-shirt over my head and slide my pajama pants off, leaving them both in a pile on the pool deck, standing naked on the edge of the pool. I stare into the ripples of water, the lights constantly changing the color of the water, making the transition from cool to warm, from icy to red-hot. I dive when it is the color of blood, needing to see the color change while underwater, needing to feel transformed, from blood red to relaxation blue. When blue steals over the space, I close my eyes and start my laps.
* * *
I have memorized this pool, every inch of it, my mind and body knowing exactly how many strokes, how many kicks, how many breaths to take before I reach the edge. I swim, then tuck, roll, push, and return the opposite direction. Back.
Forth.
Back.
Forth.
Twenty laps. Thirty laps. Forty laps. I try for fifty, my legs giving out at lap forty-two, my chest aching, arms shaking, strokes slowing until I stop, in the middle of the pool, in the middle of the lap. I roll over and float on my back, keeping my eyes closed, my chest heaving as I fight to slow my gasps.
* * *
When I finally open my eyes, it is to an orchestra of stars—thousands of identical specks. Under them, on my back, I feel so small. Small and tired, my eyes heavy. I right my body, my feet standing, moving sluggishly through the thick water to the steps, my gait quickening as I leave the weight of the water and enter the heat of the night. I ignore my clothes and pull on the slider, shivering slightly when I step into the cool room, my weary arms pulling the door closed and locking it.
* * *
I wrap a towel around my body, and crawl into bed, pulling the comforter over my body and closing my eyes. And finally, without argument, my mind goes to sleep.
* * *
Something is wrong. The first sign came this morning, when Nathan called my room personally and asked me to come to the house. Asked. Physically said the words, ‘Will you come to the house?’ I don’t think the words ‘Will you’ have ever left that gorgeous mouth of his.
* * *
When I walked in, prepared for his hands, his mouth, his cock, Drew and Nathan stood in the kitchen, their eyes on me, watching me closely. An arrangement of flowers sat between them, roses and lilies spilling out of an arrangement that stood four feet high. I walked carefully toward them, my eyes flicking back and forth, trying to read the serious look on their faces.
* * *
“These are for you,” Nathan said stiffly, stepping to the side and gesturing to the flowers.
* * *
I looked at them in confusion, staying in place. “Are we expecting guests?”
* * *
Nathan flinched. “No. I ordered them for you. You like flowers, right?”
* * *
“Yes…” I stare at the flowers, trying to figure out what is going on. “Why?”
* * *
“Is it not big enough?” The tightness in Nathan’s voice causes me to turn, my eyes noting several details at once. His tight grip on the bar stool before him. The intense contact of his blue eyes. The way his polo hugs the muscles of his chest tightly, emphasizing the cut of his build.
* * *
I step forward, approaching the arrangement with trepidation.
* * *
“The flowers are fine. What is their purpose?”
* * *
Trophy Wife Page 15