CHAPTER 11
Nathanael let the brushed-metal toned Bugatti skate to an awkward stop in the driveway, not giving enough of a crap to park it in the garage round back. He’d been tearing up and down the country roads for more than three hours, trying to burn off the chaotic emotions that swirled in his chest and distorted his thinking ever since his earlier argument with Shaundra.
He’d been stopped by cops twice for speeding, and one of them, on handing over his ticket, made a comment that if he could also charge him for the crime of abusing one of the most beautiful automobiles on the planet like an ignorant ass, he would have.
The cop was right, Nathanael thought, even as he tore the ticket to shreds, and then carefully scooped the fragments into the ashtray to have one of his assistants piece it together sometime and pay it. By rights, any man who rode such a perfect specimen of Italian engineering so roughly over uneven roads and through dusty trails like it was a souped-up Land Rover should be shot in the head.
But he was so enraged when he left that he could barely see the side of the road. All he could think about was his fight with Shaundra. What a downright jerkhe had been. He’d heard the words coming out of his mouth and they had made him sick. Made him hate himself.
But he couldn’t change how he felt, couldn’t undo the genes that had made him the man he was. He’d seen the play of emotions on her face, her horror, pain, rage and disgust, and acknowledged to himself that he deserved every one of them.
He wondered how long it would take for things to get back to normal between them—if they ever would. Sometimes, words were like a fine blade, slicing things into shreds that couldn’t be taped back together like a goddamn speeding ticket.
He walked into the house, finding it eerily silent. It was late afternoon, and he never liked to have staff there after hours. Apart from the nanny, he ensured that the housekeepers, cooks and everyone else, went home by five. He wanted to enjoy the privacy of his home without interference.
But there was something about the house that made his bones grow cold.
Upstairs, on the landing, he paused, wondering if Shaundra would be in the bedroom they now shared or in the nursery. In which case, he certainly wasn’t going in there. He may have phrased his words harshly, but he’d meant what he—
Boxes. Large cardboard boxes in the hallway, with a miscellany of items hastily shoved inside. The labels told him that they had once contained material from the remodeling, but they were now filled with books and other personal items.
Items that belonged to Shaundra.
“Non.”he murmured.
He quickened his pace, hurrying towards the bedroom at the far end of the hallway. What he found was a mess. A whirlwind had passed through, leaving piles of clothes and shoes. Half-filled suitcases on the floor. A cosmetics case overflowing with makeup and hair products.
His heart fought to shove out the reality, even as his mind wrapped itself around the truth. Shaundra was leaving him.
He fell heavily onto the edge of the bed, letting his head drop into his hands. A headache began like a band striking up, a clashing of cymbals and a pounding of drums.
His wife was leaving him, just as he had left her over a year ago. He was going to be alone again.
“Shaundra?” he called. Surely she was still here. Maybe rushing from room to room, looking to see if there was anything precious to her that she might be forgetting.
But nothing. Not a sound.
Maybe that was a good thing, he told himself. Maybe that was for the best. While his instinct was to find her and stop her from leaving, beg her if he had to and make promises he couldn’t keep, none of that, he knew, would work. They’d been down this road before. They’d been apart before.
This whole damn fantasy of moving to France for a fresh start had been a desperate attempt at recapturing something they were both denying was permanently lost.
Let. Her. Go.
He’d wait for her to contact him, however long it took, and make arrangements to ensure that she and the child were cared for, but that was as far as it would go.
This marriage was over.
Frustrated, angry at himself, and cursing the past, he got up, tearing off his tie and tossing it onto the bed among the piles of clothes she’d clumsily folded.
He needed to get out of here, away from the house. Maybe he’d drive into town and find a hotel, spend the night there, to give his wife the space and privacy she would need to move out.
He got up, not even bothering to pick up a change of clothes. If he needed anything, he’d have the hotel concierge go out and buy it.
He strode down the hallway, his head a cloud of resignation. As he passed the nursery, he spotted a large box filled with knick-knacks, and peevishly gave it a vicious kick. It didn’t make him feel even marginally better to see it tip over, its contents flying, crashing into the wall.
The door flew open at the sound, and Samia hurried out. “Madame Shaundra?” she called anxiously, her voice pitched high. She was holding a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.
She stopped as soon as she spotted him, gasping. Clutching the baby closer to her chest protectively, as if he were a beast who enjoyed tearing children from women’s breasts.