Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘You don’t happen to be working for some Hollywood bigwig, do you?’’ She doesn’t wait for an answer to her cryptic question. ‘But no. You couldn’t be. You’d surely share that kind of information with your best pals.’

  ‘Shall I just go—hang up? This seems to be a conversation you’re happy to have with yourself.’

  ‘You see,’ she says, ignoring my snark, ‘June was hogging the computer earlier—’

  ‘I was asking Dr. Google about my bunions!’ calls June’s voice somewhat farther away. ‘Leave the poor girl alone,’ she then calls. ‘She might have had to sign one of those Fifty Shades documents. You know, one of them none-gots-clothes-off agreements.’

  ‘Away with your nonsense.’ That Natasha’s voice sounds distant means she’s turned her head from the phone. ‘Nondisclosure, woman, and she’s no’ with Christian Grey!’ ‘So,’ she says, her voice becoming clearer again, ‘I was doing my wee morning celeb cyber stalk on my phone when I came across a photo of someone who looked an awful lot like you.’

  I don’t so much as comment as I make a vague noise down the line.

  ‘Aye, taken outside of what was labelled, Dylan Duffy’s Love Nest. Long range camera, but she looked like you. She even had a pair of those trousers on that Fin brought you back from Italy—you know—the ones; those yoga pants?’

  ‘Did her bum look as good in them as mine?’ I manage a weak laugh. ‘They’re only pants. I bet you can get them all over the world.’

  ‘That’s the thing; Fin says they were a one-off. Only one bolt of the fabric ever made and designed just for you. Just to be sure, I kicked June off the laptop for a proper look.’

  ‘I can’t think why,’ I bluff. ‘The material must be similar because I’m pretty sure I’m not at Dylan Duffy’s house.’

  ‘I didn’t say hoose. I said love nest ‘cause he apparently lives in the city somewhere. So are you shacked up with him—livin’ large at his shag pad?’ The latter she whispers into the phone sort of avidly. ‘You can tell me—just me—June has’nae got her hearing aid in.’

  ‘I am not.’ I am not shacked up with him. I’ve just got a temporary stay in purgatory. A waiting room for hell where at least the vodka’s decent. I top my glass from the bottle as Nat sighs.

  ‘I didn’t think so, but I thought I’d check, especially as you have a backstory of sorts.’ Understatement of the year. If only she knew.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint.’

  ‘I’d be as green as a leprechaun’s arse if you were.’

  ‘Why?’ I sound sort of incredulous, probably a reflection of my not-so-pleasant stay.

  ‘He’s one big hunk of dickalicious, isn’t he? Even if he wasn’t meant solely for woman-flesh.’

  ‘Not meant for—what? You mean you think he’s gay?’ What a hoot. I might not like him—might despise him even—but no one who’s ever met Dylan would confuse him for anything other than straight.

  ‘All those women he’s supposed to be fu—f—fondling? Come on; there are just too many for it to be feasible.’

  ‘You think he has lots of women?’ I almost choke on the words.

  ‘He’s had loads of women on the go these past few months.’

  My heart sinks. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely; an article online said so. It had a great headline: Some like it Scot. He was linked to dozens of names.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything, necessarily.’

  ‘I say there’s no smoke wi’out a hard-on.’ She snorts at her own rubbish joke. ‘And he loves a blonde. Lucky for me, eh? Given the chance, I’d show him blonde,’ she adds, ribald.

  ‘You’re a redhead,’ I answer distractedly.

  ‘He’d never know. I’ve no ginger anywhere except on my head, and I’ve bleached the hell out of that. Anyway,’ she adds with a sniff, ‘I reckon that man has a well-cultivated image. There’s just something about him that says too good to be true, y’ken.’

  ‘I detect a fault in your reasoning.’ Because he’s not too good to be true. Just look at his fucked-up plans for my evening. I slam the glass down.

  ‘Whassat?’

  ‘It was my glass,’ I reply, contemplating filling it again.

  ‘No, the fault you detect, numpty.’

  ‘Oh. I meant that video.’ The one I can’t believe I’ve brought up. The one where my arse has a starring role.

  ‘I didn’t say it was a foolproof plan, did I? Could it have been a ruse or a PR stunt?’

  ‘Looked pretty real to me.’ Felt so, too.

  ‘Yeah.’ She sighs. ‘I might have to watch it again. Maybe re-evaluate. Probably just wishful thinking that those women were beards.’

  ‘You’re obsessed, you know that. Truly obsessed with facial hair.’

  ‘But I didn’t say I was convinced. If I was, I’d have described him as gay as a spooge-covered moustache.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye,’ she responds with utter delight in her voice. ‘You can’t have a go at me for spooge. It’s not swearing. Not technically. It’s just cum!’ she adds with delight.

  ‘Where the hell do you come up with this stuff?’

  ‘It’s a gift. I thought you said you’d met him at that party, anyway.’

  ‘And I thought I’d asked you not to bring that up again.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she replies. ‘June and Fin are in the kitchen.’

  ‘And,’ I say, ignoring her, because if she thinks I’m engaging in this conversation, she’s sorely mistaken, ‘that’s not the sort of stuff you ask a stranger.’

  ‘But you let any old Tom or Dick drink out of your cleavage, tequila tits?’

  ‘I’m ruing the day I ever recounted that story. You have the memory of a flippin’ eggplant.’

  ‘A straight man would’ve copped a—’ Nat bursts into laughter, deep raucous laughter. ‘Ah, man, you keep me entertained. It’s elephant, daftie. The eggplant is what he keeps in his pants! In fact, that’s what I’m gonna call him from now on; the man with the mighty aubergine, on account of his magnificent head!’ she says, her accent rendering the word heed.

  ‘How do you know he didn’t?’ I cut in. ‘Cop a feel, I mean?’

  ‘Ivy Adams. Have you been holding out on me?’

  ‘You’ll never know,’ I taunt. ‘But gay or straight, Dylan Duffy doesn’t have me stashed away in his lair.’

  And he doesn’t expect me to go out with him tonight to find someone to fix my non-adulterous status with. Or at least, I don’t think he’s really going to insist on it. He’s just posturing—making me suffer. I have to believe this of him.

  ‘That’s actually a bit disappointing,’ Natasha says, bringing me out of my thoughts. ‘Tell me you’re getting a little downtime at least. Drinking a few cocktails before getting your flirt on?’

  Through the mirror, I glance at the dress I’ve laid out on the bed.

  ‘Wear something nice,’ he’d demanded. ‘Something that shows a little skin.’ I was tempted to do the opposite until I’d decided I was going to play him at his own game. Hence the liquor bottle.

  ‘Nothing as exciting as that,’ I reply. ‘I’m only here for one thing, I’m afraid.’

  And I am afraid. Quite a bit, actually.

  Chapter 12

  Dylan

  The click of high heels heralds her entrance, but I can’t say their echo prepares me for the sight. I said to wear something nice. Something that shows a little skin. I was ready to see both, but I wasn’t prepared for her to still possess the ability to take my breath away.

  Her dress looks almost bronze in the ambient light. I know, even from across the room, the tones will bring out the honey in her eyes. Long sleeved and high at the neck, the garment is barely a whisper longer than a belt. She makes her way to the liquor cabinet without realising I’m in the room, and as she turns her back to me, I have to consciously tighten my grip on my glass. The entirety of her spine is exposed, the fabric of her dress—if you can call the scrap that—almost skimmi
ng the top of her pert ass, the dimples of her spine visible.

  Glass mid-air on the way to my mouth, my movements are frozen, my gaze mesmerised by the dip of her spine and the elegance in her slender neck, exposed as it is by the way she’s styled her hair. Her slim fingers hover over a bottle of Hangar One, moving on to grasp the Belvedere instead. She pours herself a large shot, knocking back half of it immediately.

  ‘Quit staring,’ she says quietly and without turning.

  ‘If you didn’t want anyone to look, you shouldn’t have it on show.’

  ‘I don’t want you looking,’ she says softly. ‘I didn’t say anything about anyone else.’ My stomach turns at the same moment as her body does. ‘Besides, you said to wear something like . . . sexy. I think that’s what you meant.’ She glances down the length of her creamy, toned legs as I tighten my jaw against an answer that’s likely to be an imprudent one.

  ‘It’s not like you to pay attention,’ I reply, taking a swallow of Macallan.

  ‘Why would I not?’ Glass in hand, she rests her forearm against the cabinet, leaning back. ‘You’ve made it quite clear you’re the one calling the shots.’

  If she’s itching for a reaction, I’m not giving her one. In fact, right now, I’m reminding myself I’m not here to give her anything. And that includes the satisfaction of my hard dick. I’m thankful I happen to be sitting down to avoid her acknowledging it. She looks so fucking hot. Sultry, raw, and absolutely relaxed. And that’s not how I want her to be. She’s not anxious or hurting. This isn’t fun payback. And my dick fucking aches, which lessens my fun.

  ‘Are you drunk?’ My gaze falls to the row of bottles at her back. It’s hard to tell, but my guess is this isn’t her first shot tonight.

  ‘Did you upgrade my flight?’ she asks, suddenly serious; the light in her amber eyes bright.

  I force myself not to react—not one muscle. Not in the slightest sense. Did I upgrade her flight? Sure, because who the fuck else would have. My reasons? Well, my reasons make fuck all sense. I wanted her well rested? I wanted her relaxed? I’m soft in the head?

  ‘Or maybe you’re high, Edera babe?’ I answer instead.

  She looks away but not before I see the amber dim.

  ‘Stop. You don’t get to call me that. Not anymore.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  She shrugs, bringing the glass to her mouth and shielding her cupid’s bow lips behind it. ‘Pretty sure you’re used to it.’

  Her gaze suddenly widens as I rise from the chair, following each step I take across the room until we’re toe-to-toe and I’m staring down at her.

  ‘Yes, my wife, I am. No more of this, now.’ She doesn’t resist as I take the glass from her hand. In fact, she doesn’t make a move beyond tilting her head. Her breath hitches as I lean towards her, smiling to myself as I place both our glasses down before pulling back. ‘It won’t be fun to watch if you’re comatose.’

  She drops her gaze, as though it’s too telling; as though she can hide. When her head rises again, her expression is one of malice.

  ‘You know, I hear there are specialised places for people like you—clubs where you can get off watching other people fuck.’

  ‘Baby, now I know you’re half drunk.’ Half drunk on liquor, mad, or fucking; these are the circumstances Ivy uses those lips for anything other than nice.

  ‘Or maybe I’m just really angry with you.’

  ‘Good. A hate fuck.’ It used to be that I was the only one who could make her scream curses at the top of her lungs. Whisper them breathily while I was between her legs. I’ve no intentions of fucking her, but that I can still make her curse other ways gives me pleasure. I turn from her honey eyes, making my way across the room. ‘Car’s waiting,’ I say without turning back.

  I have this night planned to the tiniest detail, and so far, everything’s going as it should. Adjusting the cuffs on my white button-down, I reassure myself this is still the case—that she’s not in the car yet because she’s grabbing her coat or reapplying lipstick. Minutes pass as the engine of the car idles. I avoid raising my eyes to the mirror, unwilling to let the driver see my unease.

  I’m going to have to go get her. Then what?

  Moments later, I breathe out a long exhale as the front door opens, the light from the hallway illuminating her lithe shape.

  ‘No.’ I motion to the driver as he makes to open his door. ‘She can open her own damn door.’ This time, I do catch his gaze, shooting him a look that says do as I fucking say.

  She’s not wearing a fresh layer of lipstick, and she doesn’t have a coat, but what she does have is a glass in her hand. Pretty fucking full; ice, limes, and a liquid that is very obviously vodka. Her tipple of choice since when?

  ‘Take it easy.’ I take the glass from her hand as it precedes her entrance, the contents spilling onto the leather upholstery. She all but collapses into the seat, shocking the fuck out of me as she reaches out to rub a finger between my furrowed brows. I don’t think she notices me flinch at this tiny piece of physical contact. A first touch after so long.

  ‘Don’t be such a grouch.’ Her head hits the back of the chair, and she tilts her chin, oblivious to my reaction, clearly unperturbed and very obviously buzzed.

  This is an issue. A big fucking issue. Why can’t she do as she’s bid? Why is nothing simple with her?

  ‘Gimme my roadie,’ she says suddenly, snatching the glass from my hand.

  ‘Sir?’ I raise eyes to the driver, nodding my assent, and the car begins crawling down the driveway.

  ‘How much of this stuff have you knocked back?’

  Her button nose scrunches, causing my chest to pinch at the familiarity. ‘I think . . .’ she says, pondering, ‘the answer to that question has got fuck all to do with you.’

  I laugh, unexpectedly, shocking us both.

  ‘Whatever you tell yourself, baby girl.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ Her words are more like a groan. ‘We’re not fucking now.’

  ‘We’re not fucking period,’ I recount. ‘Remember, you’re here to secure a divorce. After tonight, you’re free to return to the pristine Ivy. Ivy, the unsullied.’ Tonight, though, she’ll play Ivy, the whore.

  She exhales long and loud, refusing to look at me now. ‘After tonight,’ she repeats, taking another sip of her drink. She sits bolt-straight, her gaze swinging to mine. ‘Exactly what are your plans for tonight?’

  I smile, and I know it’s unnerving. I can see the evidence of it in her gaze.

  ‘I told you. Tonight, you’re going to get fucked. And I need to be sure you’re telling the truth this time, which means I’ll be there, watching.’

  ‘I never had you pegged for a voyeur.’ Her words lack conviction—an automatic comeback as her gaze falls to anywhere but me.

  ‘You’d be surprised by the sick shit I’m into these days.’

  Chapter 13

  Ivy

  The vodka turns to cement in my gut. Yes, I’ve spent the afternoon drinking while thinking, somehow convincing myself his intentions were nothing but fear. Never in a million years, I didn’t think this was his real plan.

  ‘Y—you’re really going to watch?’

  He nods his head, full of faux sincerity, like he’s reassuring me when the opposite of his intentions are written across his face. ‘A better alternative than the whole internet owning world seeing you give me head in our home movies. How would you keep your pristine image, then? Imagine your family—your brother—watching. Now that would make for some awkward family gatherings.’

  If I didn’t feel sick before, I do now. If Nat saw the first video, then no doubt Mac already has—something that hadn’t occurred to me until right now. I could truly hurl—vomit my guts out at the thought. My only conciliation is that he won’t know he was watching me, his sister. Being shagged. Not now and not ever because after tonight—

  ‘You have to delete all copies of the recordings,’ I say suddenly, the vodka
from my glass splashing the leg of his pants.

  ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to negotiate.’

  ‘I’m not negotiating. I’m telling.’ I slap my free hand on the upholstery. ‘This is a hard limit for me, Dylan.’

  ‘I think you mean hard line. Those are clearly not the same.’

  ‘Limit-line—lemon-lime! Clearly, you can’t be trusted, or else you wouldn’t be blackmailing your wife.’ Take that, you bast—cad.

  ‘My lying wife.’

  The inflection in his tone almost renders the statement a question. He quirks a brow and shoots me a half smile, and I’d like to say it does nothing for my libido, but I’d be lying. I’m blaming the vodka. And my proximity to him. Plus, isn’t there supposed to be some correlation between love and hate? They’re both extreme emotions—passionate ones.

  Blame the vodka and pheromones. His aftershave? And maybe the fact I’ve always had a thing for the alpha dog, especially this one.

  What is it about arseholes?

  ‘The sensation. The limited space. That first ring of tight muscle that grips like a fist.’

  As he clenches his fist in front of me, I bring my hand to my face, hiding my mortification. Because as well as making me horny, vodka seems to have made me a gobshite—and given me a runaway mouth.

  ‘Please be serious,’ I almost whine. ‘I need to know you’re going to delete the files.’

  ‘I am not. At least, not now. But once we have solid grounds for divorce, I promise I won’t share.’ He shoots me that sly smile again. ‘I won’t even watch.’

  ‘But why would you want to keep them?’

  ‘Because I can.’

  ‘You’re a sadistic bastard.’ How come I never realised before?

  ‘You know it,’ he says, turning his gaze to the front of the car. ‘You married it, and you enjoyed it before you fucked it all up.’

  ‘We fucked it up, Dylan. You can’t pile it all on me.’

  ‘Regardless,’ he replies coolly, ‘this is your path to a divorce. The one you chose, at least.’

  ‘Some choice,’ I spit, immediately regretting the truth in my words. I promised myself I’d play it cool—play him at his own game because I didn’t believe he’d really force me to sleep with someone else. Even the video he so maliciously shared, he’d somehow kept me to himself by not revealing my face. I thought he was posturing; making me feel bad—like I need any help, given the choices I made—because sharing was never his thing. He didn’t even like other men looking at me. But now? Let’s say I’m beginning to stress, even if I am acting like having sex with another man is no big deal.