We walk into the penthouse together. Nonny’s probably in her room, sleeping. She’s surprisingly easy to look after, despite the fact that she’s a teenager. I’ve lucked out; it would probably kill me to have to look after an adolescent who was doing the same things I did.
I kiss my wife’s mouth gently. She smells so damn good, like warm honey. What wouldn’t I give to be able to lick her from head to toe? “Go ahead and sleep if you want. I should probably take care of this.” I pat the envelope.
“Okay. Don’t take too long. It’s already late.” Her smile brightens her eyes, warms them. I hang on to her hand as long as possible, then stand at the bottom of the steps until she’s gone from view. Then I finally go to my office to take a look at what’s in the mystery delivery.
Settling at my desk, I pick up a five-inch katana from a black metal pen holder. It was a gift from Lucas when he went to Kyoto a few years ago, back before he turned into a hermit. I pull out the letter opener from the sheath and run it along the edge. As I suspected, photos spill out. I pick the first one up.
It’s taken through a glass… Starbucks. I see Belle on the other side, sitting in a booth, a man seated across from her. He looks familiar, but it’s hard to see his face with the glare on the glass. I pick up the second one. Same basic shot, but with less glare. Now I can make out the other guy. Dennis Dunn. That intern at OWM.
So he outright lied about not knowing my wife. Belle later told me he was someone she’d rather not talk about—an ex with an ugly past. So why were they meeting for coffee? The time stamp on the photo indicates it was just this Monday.
If Annabelle Underhill stalked me at a café, I would’ve told her to go fuck herself and left. I wouldn’t give a shit about making a scene or making her look bad. That’s not my fucking problem.
But my wife doesn’t look like she wants to leave in the pictures.
I stare at the two photos, every cell in my body alert. Just what the hell is the deal between the two of them? Gavin said the intern’s background was iffy and implied that he’d gotten inside help to get hired.
Sighing impatiently, I pick up the envelope to shove the pictures back in, but a piece of paper falls out.
Neatly typed block letters in all caps state: FOLLOW THE MONEY.
Not a bad piece of advice, but I’m not sure whose money I’m supposed to be following or what I’m supposed to be looking at. As far as I know, my wife has no assets—her shitty car with rusting quarter-panels doe
sn’t count—and her bank account balance is pathetically small. Like pocket change.
Should I dig into the intern’s background as well? Gavin probably can’t tell me anything since his investigation is being done through his company, with its strict set of rules about privacy. And he isn’t necessarily looking for a link between Dennis and my wife.
I, on the other hand, am looking for exactly that. There’s no reason for Gavin to get involved. As a matter of fact, it would be better if I did it on my own without telling anyone.
But…
Why not just ask Belle? She might tell me outright. It could be that she saw no reason to mention her meeting with her old flame.
I dump the memo, photos and envelope into the top drawer of my desk and go upstairs. My wife’s just coming out of the shower, her face freshly scrubbed. A thick towel is on her head like a turban, and a thin white robe wraps around her petite frame.
She looks even younger without any makeup. Her glowing skin is flushed from the hot water, and there’s a softness to her that’s utterly touchable. My hands itch to trace the smooth curves of her body, set it to writhing underneath my bigger, heavier one.
I need to know everything about her, bare all her secrets and discover all the things from her past. The most primitive and raw part of me desires to have her soul unveiled.
But only to me.
I want to be the only man who has ever seen her stripped to the core.
What were you doing with that intern?
* * *
Annabelle
“Is something wrong?” I ask, stopping in the middle of dipping a couple of fingers into a jar of moisturizing cream.
“Nothing.” Elliot smiles, but he’s taut with a tension that wasn’t there before he walked into his office.
I spread the whitish stuff on my face and watch his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Unsure about his mood and the awkward silence stretching between us, I blurt out, “I saw someone from Lincoln City today.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Traci Burton. She was my best friend since elementary school.”