“Those articles…” I inhale harshly, buying myself time to gather my thoughts. “They’ve exaggerated your sister’s past. A lot. She was never a prostitute.” I don’t know why I’m defending my wife to Nonny. I should be furious with Belle.
She digests that, then lowers her head. “But she did strip. For guys.”
“Yes. That’s how she and I met, and there’s nothing wrong with stripping. She did it to provide for you.”
“I didn’t ask her to.”
“But you couldn’t take care of yourself,” I point out.
“I could have gotten a job! I could’ve provided for us!”
“On minimum wage, working less than twenty hours a week? And gone to school? And done well enough to get into a decent college?”
She looks away.
I sigh. As teenagers go, Nonny seems easy to deal with, but I don’t have any experience with this kind of mess. “The kids at your school can’t make you feel bad unless you make a big deal about it. Do you know how much crap gets published about me? But this is Hollywood. Nobody really takes that stuff seriously because we all kn
ow most of it is bullshit. But if you fly off the handle, get angry or embarrassed, then people are going to wonder if it’s true after all. So. Keep your chin up and just shrug if anybody comments. Make them feel stupid for believing what the tabloids write even for a second.”
I can see her thinking it over. She swallows, then nods. “Okay.”
“Good girl.” I mentally give myself a half-hearted pat on the back for averting a total disaster, but somehow the image of my wife’s dejection just moments ago won’t go away.
Once Nonny leaves, I make a call.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Elliot
The hotel is happy to give me a suite on the top floor at the last minute. I’m sure flashing my black AmEx didn’t hurt.
I study the vast space, opulently appointed with thick rugs and plushy chairs in some ornate style. Some fancy European chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling with murals. It’s not to my taste—I like my space more modern and hip, but I’m certain it will impress the snake I’m about to confront.
At eight thirty sharp, the lock on the door chirps, and Caroline Wiseman walks in. She’s in a trench coat like before. Underneath she’s probably almost naked. She wears a pair of cherry-colored “fuck me” heels, her red hair artfully disheveled as though she’s just rolled out of bed.
She struts in, her slim hips swinging, then stops short when she realizes it’s me watching her from the armchair. I’m in a black suit with a black shirt for effect, my mouth set in a contemptuous line. The expression isn’t something I can control though.
“Mr. Reed,” she breathes out the words. Her eyes dart back and forth between me and the door, then she pushes her shoulders back, her chin tilting up. “I don’t know what Annabelle told you—”
“Shut up. I didn’t ask Madame G. for you to chat.”
She closes her mouth.
“Come to the middle of the room.”
She does, her steps small. Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips, a gesture more from nerves than an intent to seduce. Or at least I hope it is, since it’s a singularly unsexy tic. Finally she reaches the spot I want and stops.
“On your knees.”
Her throat works once, but she drops to her knees.
I get up slowly, and unbutton my jacket as I approach her. She looks up at me, greed and curiosity in her eyes.
Like this, she’s in the perfect position to suck me off. She’s just tall enough that she wouldn’t have to twist or strain to reach my cock. The notion strikes her too. I can see it in the way her eyes flare.
I deliberately tunnel a hand into her hair. Her lips part. She’s so fucking self-absorbed that she doesn’t seem to notice I’m not hard.
Anger surges within me. I hate her for hurting my wife, and I hate it that I give a damn. I shouldn’t—not after all that shit Paddington dumped on me. Secrets, lies, and all those little inconsistencies that I ignored because I was being stupid…again.