“Mrs. Knight.” The older detective I’d spoken to in my house was standing in the corridor. His face wavered into view, but I made no response. He went on with, “Your husband is conscious but he’ll be going into surgery soon—”
“I want to see him.”
I didn’t want explanations or anything other than Marcus. I wanted to see Marcus. So they led me into his private room, and the moment I cleared the doorway he said, “Lou!” as if his life depended on me being there. Amid the tubes and wires taped to his body and the large white bandage across his upper chest, he held out his arms and I went straight to him.
I was used to him being impeccable groomed, but his dark hair was mussed and his normally energetic body seemed fleshy and pale. I slid onto the edge of the bed to hold him, and despite all that had happened between us and the stupidity of his recent reckless activities, I smelt that minty mouthwash scent and a kernel of tenderness cracked open inside me.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, holding me as best he could, and before I even knew it was happening, I started to cry—big heaving sobs that pulled loose all the pain I’d stuffed into corners, hoping I’d never see it again, never feel it again. But it all came out and saturated me as I saturated his chest, crying for the childhood that still stabbed me and the marriage that had burned me so deeply I didn’t know how to extinguish the remnants.
But beyond all that I was crying for Marcus because I loved him so much, I didn’t want him to die. It didn’t matter what he’d done. Nothing mattered but that he live, because I couldn’t imagine a world where he wasn’t laughing and teasing and making someone happy, even if it wasn’t me.
Finally, my sobs settled and I lay against his chest while he patted my hair and said, “I’m sorry,” again and again. But I noticed his breathing was raspy and eventually I pulled back to look into his face which was pale—far paler than I’d ever seen it.
When we’d stared at each other for several seconds he asked, “Where’s Adele?”
“Paris. Do you want me to get her here?”
He nodded, then he closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping, and I stood up and backed away from the bed.
“He needs to prep for surgery,” the nurse said beside me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Knight, but I need you to go now.”
“Of course.”
I’d been selfish, indulging in an emotional display when there were more important things that needed to happen. Outside in the corridor I was confronted by Nicholas with his bodyguard ‘face’ and the older detective who said, “Mrs. Knight, I need the phone number of your husband’s sister. Adele. She’s his only relative?”
“Correct. But it’s in my phone—”
Nicholas handed over my phone which he must have picked up on the way out.
I scrolled though it clumsily and handed it to the detective who copied Adele’s contact details. “I’ll phone her now,” he said. “And I’ll give her the details. If there’s any change in your husband’s condition, we’ll call you.”
My ex-husband.
I didn’t bother to correct him. I looked at Nicholas who gestured toward the corridor, then took my arm to lead me when I was unresponsive. The police drove us home and we said nothing to each other, but I was too emotionally empty to care about that. When we arrived, Nicholas gave Betty a brief overview of Marcus’s condition and that’s when I learned that initially scans showed that the bullet hadn’t hit any organs, but because of his deteriorating condition, they suspected internal bleeding, and were going to open him up and investigate.
I went into the study and phoned our family doctor, appraised him of the situation and ensured that he activated his network of contacts to ensure the best treatment was given to Marcus, and that I would be updated at every turn. Then I rang Adele, and although she was crying at the start of the call, by the time I’d assured her I’d seen Marcus and he looked fine pre-surgery, she’d pulled herself together and was packing for a flight that would get her here tomorrow night.
I rang Jill and left a message on her answerphone about Marcus, so she’d get that when she touched down in Sydney. After that I rang Fritha and Angela, managing to make the calls matter-of-fact, reassuring them I was fine and that I’d keep them updated about Marcus.
He was friends to them all, and only Jill knew he was gay, so the other two would be surprised when they eventually heard the tawdry details, but I wasn’t rushing into that. I wanted to wait…until he pulled through this first.
Finally, I rang Jill’s ex-boyfriend Doug, and told him that Marcus had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up in a police shootout, which was the truth, although obviously not as ‘accidental’ as I was making it sound.
He was genuinely sympathetic and agreed to come down and visit Marcus as soon as he could. I knew that would cheer Marcus up. Or at least, I hoped Marcus would be in a condition to be cheered up soon.
I didn’t ring anyone else. His business colleagues and associates would be too avidly curious about the details of the shooting and…I simply couldn’t bear the idea that they’d work out the truth, particularly if they discovered the discrepancy in the company accounts. I still wasn’t sure if Marcus could be charged with misappropriation. So I didn’t poke that bear.
When I was finished with all of that, I felt even more empty, so I curled into one of the wingback chairs and somehow managed to fall asleep. I woke to fading light, and had the presence of mind to know I had to talk to Nicholas. I found him in my black marble kitchen, stirring something on the stove.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sliding onto one of the swivel chairs at the breakfast bar. “That must have been awkward for you.”
His back was facing me, so I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but I saw him nod as he went on with stirring something that smelt like a rich bolognaise.
“Is Betty gone?”
He nodded again, and it was then that I realized the not-talking meant something.
“Are you angry with me?”
“No. I’m angry with me.” He kept stirring, and I suddenly wasn’t sure I had the energy to deal with this. But then I remembered how gentle he’d been when I’d had my meltdowns, and I did find the energy then. I’d probably had one too many for him to cope with and I felt sorry about that.
But before I could speak, he turned to face me and said, “The police have no idea whether Jute was working with the money lenders or trying to line his own pocket. He brandished a gun and they shot him. So we have no clue whether Marcus is still a target, or if they’re coming after you. So as far as we know, your life is still in danger.”
His chest was rising and falling, as if he really was angry, but his face was devoid of emotion as he went on, “I should have been thinking about that. I should have been realizing that you do love your husband, so I could stop dreaming up some stupid fucking fantasy and concentrate on my job, which is protecting you. Not being your friend, or your fuck-buddy. But your bodyguard. I am your bodyguard. That’s my job. That’s what I do. I keep people safe. That’s all I do. I don’t fuck my clients. And I sure as hell don’t fall in love with them.”
Chapter Nine
Fall in love?
I stared at him in shock. “Are you in love? With me?”
He breathed in and out several times before he said, “No. I just said, I’m a bodyguard. Bodyguards don’t fall in love with their clients. That’s professional suicide.”
“I see.” That’s what I said when I didn’t know what to say. Was he lying?
“I’m making food.”
“Thank you.” I didn’t want to eat it, but I appreciated the gesture.
“I sent Betty home. She was crying.” He turned back to the pot on the stove and started stirring again. Then more softly, “I’m not good with tears.”
That was a lie. He’d been very good with my tears. What he clearly meant was that he didn’t like tears, which made his gentleness with me all the more poignant.
“I’m goin
g to get changed,” I said calmly. “When’s dinner?”
He glanced at the wall clock. “In an hour.”
“Fine.”
I went upstairs and showered, washing off the tear-stained face, but when it came time to reapply my makeup and select clothing, I suddenly didn’t want armor. Nicholas had enough for the both of us. So I settled with a swipe of mascara and pulled my hair back into a ponytail, then I slipped on some pink Capri pants and a matching light sweater and flat sandals.
He was setting the table in the dining room when I came downstairs—one place at each end of the ten-seater Edwardian oak dining table.
So he wanted distance.
When he turned and saw me in the doorway I said, “Can I help dish up?”
He shook his head. “Wine maybe. A red?”
“Sure.”
He walked out without looking at me until he almost reached the door, then because I was watching him, I saw his glance slide sideways, checking me out as he left the room. I busied myself with organizing a Lambrusco, setting a glass of it at each end of the table, and was seated on the stiffly buttoned red leather when he came in with two steaming plates of pasta.
“There’s bread,” he said as he put a plate in front of me, then he continued to the other end of the table and placed his. “I’ll get it.”
I’d expected a bread basket, and I wondered how we’d share it, sitting so far apart, but he came back with two side plates laden with crusty, olive oil soaked bread. It smelt so delicious my stomach woke up and I realized I was actually hungry.
“This smells wonderful,” I said, and picked up my fork. Then after a mouthful I had to add, “And it tastes delicious. Are there vegetables?” I pushed a fork through it and saw finely chopped… “Carrot?”
“And celery. Fresh basil. One of my girlfriends was Italian. She taught me to cook.”
Girlfriends. I felt a sting of acid at the thought of him touching another woman, which surprised me, but I quickly pushed it aside. “Not your mother?”
He shook his head and continued eating, but he was frowning. I could probe about his family but the fact that he was talking to me now, after his recent prickliness, was a relief. I didn’t want to upset our truce. Instead I said, “My mother insisted that my brother learn to cook. She said, Men should always know how to care for themselves so they could leave a relationship and survive.”
“Romantic.”
“And ultimately unrealistic. She had the cook teach us both Filet mignon and Beef Wellington, which I’m sure my brother promptly forgot. Toasted cheese sandwiches would have been more practical.”
“What’s his name?”
“Zachary.”
“Where is he? And where are your parents while this is going on?”
This being Marcus in trouble, and now shot. I’d wondered where his questions were leading. “Oblivious,” I replied, and when he raised an eyebrow I added, “We all get on better if we know nothing about each other’s lives.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re in physical danger and your husband might die.”
Ex-husband.
I put down my cutlery and rested my hands on my lap, working to suppress the anxiety that arose whenever my family was mentioned, let alone the bald reference to Marcus dying. I could see, however, that Nicholas was genuinely concerned, so I said, “If I told my parents about my situation they would wonder what I was asking for, and then they’d berate me for not handling the matter myself, discreetly. We don’t exchange information for the sake of keeping in touch.”
“And they clearly don’t offer support. No wonder you have girlfriends.” He stared at me a moment longer. “And your brother?”
“The same.” That wasn’t true, but there was zero benefit in airing the longstanding argument between Zachary and I, so it was easier to lump him into the ‘uncaring’ basket along with my parents.
Nicholas stared at me a moment, then went back to eating. I wondered what he was thinking, but instead of asking, I said, “Jill and Finn will be stopping here on their way home from their honeymoon. Tomorrow, around midday. Probably for an hour.”
I was reverting into my old pattern of telling him my schedule so he could plan security around it. He nodded, so I went back to eating. We were silent then, but it wasn’t awkward. Even when he was tense and uncommunicative, Nicholas was comfortable to be with.
Which was strange. I normally abhorred conflict, and found arguments of any type—particularly histrionic scenes—to be undisciplined and unnecessary. That aversion probably related to my own comfort levels around emotion, and perhaps experiencing some of those heightened emotions myself, had given me an appreciation for their ability to unlock relaxation on the other side.
Because I was relaxed.
Nicholas was still prickly, but I was starting to feel quite Zen.
Until out of the blue, he asked, “What if Marcus dies?”
My wineglass was half way to my lips and I forced myself to continue the gesture and take a sip. Then I put it down carefully, some of my calm evaporating. “Do you think he will die?” Nicholas obviously knew more about gunshot injuries than I did.
“For your sake, I hope he does. Because it’s pretty damn clear he’s a fucking albatross around your neck.” He’d delivered this insult in a flat, matter-of-fact manner, but I could see color on his cheekbones. He wasn’t as calm as he appeared.
I shook my head, and struggled for an even tone. “You imagine that would benefit me in some way? Or is this about you? What would benefit you?” I stopped myself saying Do you think I’d fall into your arms, because I actually might. I knew I’d find comfort there.
And that shocked me, so I was only half-listening when he said, “I’m talking about your security. If he dies, the threat might die with him. You might be safe.” Unfortunately, that comment did nothing to calm me down.
“And then you could leave, is that it? Do you want to leave? I’m sure I could find—”
He stood up from the table, his body vibrating with some inner disturbance, but his voice came out softly to start with. “Let me make this absolutely clear. It doesn’t matter what we’ve said to each other in the past, what we’ve done. I’m not leaving this job to someone else. I’m the best person to protect you and I’m damned well doing it!”
He is in love.
All the fight went out of me, and I even said, “I’m sorry. Of course you’re right,” not to be subservient, but because it was true. From a security perspective, I would be safer if Marcus died. I could accept that on logical basis. And Nicholas was the best person to protect me. He clearly had a vested interest, and while we weren’t distracting each other with sexual tension, he could do that very well. I had no doubt.
After staring at me a few moments longer, he said, “You’re doing the dishes. I cooked.”
His grumpiness made me smile, and when he noticed that, his frown faded. “You look different tonight. Softer.”
I touched my ponytail selfconsciously. “I don’t always wear makeup at home.”
“So…I like it that you feel relaxed enough to be at home around me.”
I was stupidly starting to blush, so I stood and picked up my dishes to distract him. “You’re living in my house. That gives me two choices. I decided on try to feel comfortable.”
I’d stepped away from the table to finish speaking, and I didn’t miss the momentary flicker as his gaze ran down my pink Capri pants and then back up over the clinging sweater. “I’m glad,” he said, and though he didn’t smile, he wasn’t as tense as he had been.
We walked to the kitchen and I tried not to imagine him scoping out my backside in the figure-hugging pants. Failed. So I was starting to feel flushed again as I rinsed our dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher, bending over of course.
Nicholas was silent behind me, and I weathered the embarrassment of feeling like I’d deliberately worn something provocative when I hadn’t at all. It was simply a casual outfit that anyone would we
ar to the supermarket or the park—assuming they went to those places, which I didn’t. These were house clothes to me, and Marcus had often teased me about dressing down at home, despite the fact that they were designer labels.
I was quite sure Nicholas wasn’t thinking about fashion, however, as I turned to face his steady gaze. He was close, and because I was wearing flat shoes for the first time in his presence, I suddenly realized how much taller and more muscular he was than my slim five foot six frame.
Rather than being intimidated, however, the differences between us only highlighted my femininity to me, making me feel softer and more attractive than I normally did, despite knowing I had a steel core to draw on if required.
He wasn’t saying anything, and because the throbbing was back, filling the space between us, I felt I had to say something. So I waved a hand at the dishwasher. “All done, although hardly fair. It took you far longer to cook.”
“That was therapy,” he said quietly. “I needed something to do with my hands.”
I had to glance away then, because I knew exactly what those hands could do on my body. But while my life was in an uproar, that felt like the last thing I should be thinking about. Unfortunately for my equilibrium, Nicholas was standing in front of me, every muscular inch of him pulsating with testosterone. It was almost as though he had a sign that said, Fuck this man and feel good about yourself.
Because I would. There was no doubt in my mind about that.
At last, when I thought the tension would crush me, he said, “So I see the television flickering on the windows at night. Is that how you relax?”
I nodded. “I watch movies.”
“Would you like to watch a movie with me? It might be a good distraction.”
I had a second of thinking he was talking about the sexual tension between us, but then I realized he meant Marcus. The hospital.
“Should I ring and see how the surgery went?”
He shook his head. “They’ll ring you.”
He was right. And even if the police forgot, my medical service would be monitoring the situation and preparing reports. I should relax while I could.
Husband Heel (Husband #3) Page 12