by Nadia Lee
“Now your five minutes is up. Good-bye, Annabelle. Don’t ever come back.” I step forward to go into my penthouse, but she doesn’t move.
“I’m not going anywhere until you promise to help.” She tilts her chin, her mouth tight. “You’re going to have to put your hands on me if you want to move me.”
There’s no way I’m doing that, especially after having seen the bruises on her. I don’t like seeing women abused, even if it’s someone I can’t stand. “Fine. I’ll leave then.” I’m not going to bother calling the police since no male officer would be able to drag her out when she pouts and thrusts her tits out.
I spin around and go inside the waiting elevator. As the doors close, I hear her growl of frustration and allow myself a bit of satisfaction.
Chapter Two
Annabelle
The right thing to do after closing the door is to go away and let Elliot deal with that brunette. But I can’t.
I stand by the door, straining to hear their conversation. They’re either talking very quietly or the penthouse has better sound proofing than I thought. I can’t hear a thing. And the brunette has the peephole blocked with the back of her head.
Giving up, I grab my coffee and drink it by the kitchen island. The caffeine finally jolts my brain awake, and the warm brew seems to thaw my body.
Who is she? She’s too pretty and too expensive-looking to be just anyone.
And it had to be her Elliot was calling Annabelle, not me. Is she the reason why he won’t call me by my real name? If so, she must’ve had an enormous hold over him somehow. Why didn’t he marry her then? She seems better suited to be his wife than me anyway—more worldly and sophisticated.
I clench my hand around the mug handle. More time passes. A sick feeling rips at my gut. I hate the way the other Annabelle looked at Elliot—proprietary and familiar, like he’s her husband. I wanted to claw that damn hand she laid on him. She dismissed me like a piece of garbage. Then again I do look like a wet rat at the moment.
No wonder Elliot is spending time with her right now. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t invited her in and taken her to his office.
I wonder if they’re planning a rendezvous. Does our marriage contract prevent us from having affairs? I can’t remember. I never cared about that since it wasn’t really important back then. Sex had never been good enough for me to risk losing a million dollar divorce settlement. And if Elliot wanted to sleep around, the only thing I wanted was for him to be discreet.
When did things change? Now I’m acting like I’m jealous. No, I am jealous. Of the brunette. Of the women he’s fucked. Unlike me, he has no hang-ups about sex. I’m sure every woman he screwed gave him a good time.
I breathe roughly and grip the mug even while the urge to throw it beats at me. Breaking stuff won’t solve anything…no matter how good it might feel.
I finish the last drop of coffee and place the mug carefully into the dishwasher. I’m expending entirely too much energy on a man who’s only going to be my husband for a year. Not even a year really. My focus should be on the end goal—my freedom from Mr. Grayson’s influence, money to finish college and take care of Nonny. That’s all that matters.
After grabbing a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin, I go to my sister’s room. She’s lying there with her head buried under the blanket, but I can still hear her groan. I put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Morning, sweetie,” I whisper. “How are you feeling?”
“Dead,” she moans. “Really, like, dead.”
“Well, thankfully you’re alive.” I shake out a couple aspirins. “Here. Take these and you’ll feel better.”
She lowers her blanket and gives me a bleary look. Her straight golden brown hair is flat, her milk chocolate eyes slightly bloodshot. She got Mom’s looks, while I have Dad’s. She squints. “What are those?”
“Aspirin. Come on.”
More moaning. Finally she sits up and swallows the pills and water.
“Drink all of it. You’re dehydrated.”
She obediently finishes the entire glass then hands it to me. “What happened?”
“Julian’s wife spiked your punch,” I say, placing it on the nightstand.
“Ugh.” She buries her face in her hands. “I don’t remember that much from last night.” Suddenly she gasps. “Did Ryder Reed show up?”
“Yes.”
“Oh no, I missed my chance!”
I almost shake my head. The biggest worry she has is that she didn’t get to meet her favorite actor. Guess that makes her young and resilient. “You did meet him. Sort of.” Of course, she passed out at his feet. “You don’t remember?”
She starts to shake her head, then instantly thinks better of it. “No.”
Guess not even her favorite actor can top the effects of alcohol. “You fainted.”
Her eyes grow huge on her wan face. “I did?”
“Well, yeah. That’s what happens when you drink too much.”
“Oh no. I’m so embarrassed. He probably thinks I’m the stupidest kid ever.”
I put an arm over her slumped shoulders. “It is not your fault. It’s Tiffany’s.” She’s lucky I didn’t try to kill her. I so wanted to, even if she is technically my mother-in-law.
“But—”
“Everyone knows she’s the one who spiked the punch. So don’t go crazy worrying about it.”
“But I missed my chance,” Nonny whispers.
“There’ll be other chances.” I’ll make sure of it.
She slowly lies back, putting an arm over her eyes. “I probably made a fool out of myself.” She pulls the blanket over her face. “Oh my god. What am I going to do? I’m so embarrassed.”
“Nonny, nobody thinks you did anything wrong. Everyone was just concerned. Please, don’t worry.”
“But Ryder Reed…!”
“He knows.”
“How?”
“Tiffany confessed to the whole thing.”
Nonny lowers her blanket and blinks up at me, her eyes owlish. “She did?”
“Yes.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She…didn’t have much choice.” I made such a scene last night. It was so bad that none of Elliot’s siblings stayed for dinner afterward. I sigh. If anyone’s embarrassed, it’s me. I should’ve at least controlled myself enough that the dinner could proceed as planned. Now I’ll have to redo the event. “It’s all fine, sweetie.”
She sighs. “If you say so…”
“Do you want to get up or sleep some more?”
“Sleep. My head feels like it doesn’t want to stay attached to my neck.”
Of course not. A hangover was the reason why I didn’t realize that a boy…or boys… had taken advantage of me while I was passed out, drunk, until much later. My head hurt too much the next morning, and my stomach roiled until I thought I’d throw up…and eventually did. I was too sick to notice anything else was wrong. And I was already sore all over from a particularly grueling hockey game the day before against a team that liked to play rough. One of the opposing players slapped my upper thigh so hard with his stick that it bruised black.
“Why don’t you get some more rest?” I say. “Maybe another hour? And after that, you ought to eat something.” I don’t know what you eat to cure a hangover, but I’m sure the internet will have some useful advice.
She sighs. “Okay.” Closing her eyes, she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Anna?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
I squeeze back. “My pleasure.”
I watch her body slowly relax, then finally leave. I really do feel bad about what happened last night, and I need to write every guest, except Tiffany, a letter of apology. I don’t want to go into my past or explain myself. I regret telling Elliot so much in my emotional upheaval. It doesn’t concern him, and it’s not like anything will change from talking about it. The only thing it accomplished was to repel him and reveal more about myself than
I feel comfortable with. People don’t like to hear about ugly things, especially someone like Elliot who grew up in wealth and privilege.
The marriage is only for a year. Less, now. All I have to do is suck it up, and Nonny and I can leave with a cool million. It’s stupid of me to jeopardize the future I can secure for us.
I inhale deeply. I even stripped because I had to. Surely I can survive a year in this fancy home, even if Elliot does screw around. I just need to refortify myself, rebuild the wall around my heart, one brick at a time. It can be done. Sure it can. The new wall’s going to be so strong that not even kindness to my sister can put a crack in it. And so tall no one will be able to even see the top.
I go back out. Elliot’s still not back. Probably still with the brunette. I take a quick peek out the peephole, but don’t see anyone. Where did they go? Maybe some place more private for their “talk”?
The second the thought enters my mind, I shake my head. That is precisely not what I should be thinking about if I’m going to survive the year.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. Frowning, I check it. A text.
Don’t you dare think you can get away with it.
Dennis again. What does he think I’m getting away with? Is he bitter that I snagged Elliot, and thereby am getting a better life than him? If so, he shouldn’t be. On the other hand, it could be something else. He seems to think I’m trying to ruin him somehow. The last thing I want is to have our lives tangle anymore than they have to. We both suffered so much loss and pain. There’s nothing between us except an ugly past we’re trying to forget.
Isn’t that why he got a new name? To signify a new start?
I start typing, We can talk later, but I don’t like the way you’re abusive to me. Then I hit send.
I wouldn’t be so “abusive” if you weren’t trying to screw me! he responds. Not even a second passes before another message arrives. When?
Don’t know yet.
Pick a time when your husband’s not going to be around.
I scowl at that. Why?
It’s important.
How about Monday at ten? Elliot almost always has conference calls Monday morning.
Damn it. I can’t leave for long then.
Is it going to take a while? I can’t get away otherwise if you really want me to not let Elliot know. I want Dennis to say fuck it and not bother. I don’t really want to be reminded of my past. We didn’t have the healthiest relationship, to put it kindly.
There’s Starbucks a block away from the office, he responds. That work?
Not really, but I’m afraid he won’t stop texting until I see him. If it takes a few minutes of my time, fine. Let him be reassured that I’m not trying to ruin what he has. I don’t wish anybody from Lincoln City any ill. Even though I don’t like the way they treated me and Nonny after our parents’ death, I can also understand why they were so angry. I can’t be sure that I would’ve acted more nobly.
Fine, I type.
Just as I hit send, the door opens and Elliot walks in.
His clothes are the same ones from last night—a dove-gray shirt and black slacks—only they’re rumpled now. His dark hair is mussed, like it’s had fingers tunneled into it—his or the brunette’s? I can’t tell. An ugly feeling unfurls in the pit of my belly, but I rein it in as viciously as I can.
Tight lines bracket his mouth, but that doesn’t detract from its sensual fullness. Dark stubble shadows his strong jaw.
It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing or how unhappy I am with him. The man is simply gorgeous. No, not just gorgeous. That would be his brother Ryder. Elliot radiates a sexual magnetism that short circuits my brain and heats me from the inside out. Whenever he looks at me, I feel like I’m melting while a fine electric charge ripples across my skin.
I’ve never hated his effect on me more than now. Why couldn’t he just be some disgusting asshole?
Wordlessly, he grabs a cup of coffee. Tired lines crinkle around his dark eyes. In spite of myself, I allow myself to feel concerned.
“Where were you last night?” I ask, my tone neutral.
“At Ryder’s.”
I start to cross my arms defensively then stop. I haven’t done anything wrong. “Who was the woman?”
He takes a sip from his mug, his dark gaze watching me over the rim. Wariness fleets through his eyes, as though he’s regarding a dog of uncertain temper. “Nobody you need to concern yourself with.”
His words are like a slap, and I feel my face turn red. If he wanted to make it clear what a temporary fixture I am in his life, he couldn’t have done a better job. But until the year is up, I am his wife. “I’m going to ask again. Who is Annabelle Underhill?”
“Nobody.” He places his mug in the kitchen sink.
“Really?” And I’m the queen of Egypt. “Then why won’t you call me by my name?”
His face impassive, he doesn’t answer.
His calmness only fuels my anger. “Who’s Gigi?”
“Just a name I like.”
“I don’t like it. I want you to call me Annabelle.”
“No.” He speaks that one word like it’s the only answer.
“I’m calling you A for Asshole until you acknowledge me by my real name.”
“You already agreed to be called Gigi. It’s in the contract, if you’ve forgotten.”
“How can I forget? I’m reminded every time I hear the name.”
He scowls darkly. “Why are you being confrontational? You didn’t object when you signed the damned thing.”
“Because you’re trying to change the deal too.”
Sharp lines appear between his slanted eyebrows. “How?”
Furiously emotional words choke me, all trying to get out at the same time and failing. He’s supposed to be a self-centered rich jerk who couldn’t accept the idea that I didn’t want to get on my knees and suck him off like he ordered me to. But that’s not all of him. He’s sweet to his siblings, especially his half-sister. His kindness to Nonny and being considerate of my future after the divorce have been beating at the thick wall around my heart. I can feel cracks forming and widening, and I don’t want them. Not when he won’t call me by my name or acknowledge that I have the right to ask him about the woman who called him “love” in front of me. Our marriage contract may come with a one-year expiration date, but until our divorce, I am his wife.
Stop wasting your energy and rebuild the wall. Make sure it’s so strong that nothing can break it. That’s the right path. But I can’t seem to focus when he’s in the same vicinity.
“Just remember, the only thing you’re getting out of our deal is my body.” I opt for the safest of the things I want to hurl at him, my voice taut.
A small muscle by his left eye ticks. “I won’t.”
He comes closer. I remain standing in my spot, my spine straight. His hand shoves into my hair, entwining the damp strands around his fist. But he’s careful, and somehow it’s forceful without hurting. He tilts my head and crushes my mouth in a brutal kiss. I attack him back, using my lips and tongue. There is a neediness inside me that wants to wound him the way he’s been wounding me.
It’s becoming clear now: I’m not a substitute for some girl named Gigi he can’t forget. I’m being punished for whatever Annabelle has done.
Well for the last two years I’ve been paying for what my dad did. And I want to show Elliot how wrong he is to do that to me, and the only way I can do that is with my body because that’s all he’ll accept.
He pulls me closer, one hot hand palming a breast. Its tip grows tight and pointed; pleasure arcs through my body and his touch elicits a sweet ache between my thighs. My hands clutch his shoulders, and I cling to him even as our mouths are still fused in an openly carnal and savage kiss.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he orders before thrusting his tongue into my mouth again.
I obey wordlessly. His hands grip my ass and position me so that his thick erection nestles against the
most sensitive part of my flesh. Even through layers of clothing it’s hotly stimulating. I gasp as he carries me upstairs to the master suite. Every step rubs deliciously, sending zings of pleasure through me.
All I need is his scent and his nearness and I want him. It’s as though my body remembers the heights of ecstasy he can push me to. My head falls back, and he latches onto the sensitive skin at my neck, licking and sucking lightly. Shivers ripple over me.
When we reach the master bedroom, he puts me down long enough to pull the dress over my head. It lands in an unceremonious heap on the floor. His dexterous fingers unhook my bra and yank down my panties, and both of them join the dress. He rains feather-light kisses along my smooth thighs, and I quiver with anticipation. I know what he wants to do, and I want it very much. But not if he doesn’t acknowledge that I’m not her.
His thick finger probes my wet slit. Lust shines in his dark eyes, and he inhales softly. “Call me Asshole if you like, but I can smell how much you want me.”
“I do.” There’s no way to fake that I’m not wet for him. “But you know something else?”
He looks up at me, a brow arched.
“I’m not her.”
His hands flex on my legs.
“I’m not—”
His mouth covers my dripping flesh, pulling my clit in. My voice breaks, and I cannot continue as sharp pleasure winds in my belly. Without thinking, I dig my hands into his hair, and his groan vibrates through me, making me jerk as the pleasure intensifies.
He licks and sucks in that ruthless way designed to make me lose my mind and come. A finger rims my opening, and my muscles clench reflexively, wanting him to fill me as ecstasy mounts.
I feel the first wave of orgasm approaching. My core tightens in anticipation, but I breathe through my mouth, reining myself back.
Elliot increases the power of his suction, and his tongue flutters furiously against my swollen nub. His two fingers drive into me, filling me and stretching me.