* * *
“Are you coming with us to Napa?” I sit at the kitchen island, and munch on a carrot.
* * *
“No.” Drew’s answer, as typical, barely tells me anything.
* * *
“He’s not really in danger, is he?”
* * *
Drew regards me carefully from his place by the fridge. “What do you mean?”
* * *
“You’re supposed to be his security, right?” I hop off the stool and walk to the fridge, pulling open the door and searching for some bit of yumminess that Beth might have overlooked.
* * *
“Among other things.”
* * *
“So if he’s in danger, then who’s protecting him right now?”
* * *
“Mark's with him.”
* * *
I roll my eyes. “I know that Mark is with him, but Mark isn’t exactly intimidating.” Mark’s the type you’d call when you wanted to dump a body, and needed a well-researched, well-thought-out plan. Put him in a dangerous situation, and I’m pretty sure he’d pull out a calculator, toss it at your head, and run.
* * *
“Are you done eating? You should return to the guesthouse.”
* * *
“Stop calling it the guesthouse.” I push aside a gallon of carrot juice, making a face at the soy milk behind it.
* * *
“Okay, time to return to your house.”
* * *
“Why can’t I stay here? Why do I have to be locked away in there all day?” I grab a bottled water and shut the fridge, twisting off the cap as I prop one hip against the island. “Nathan works in development, right? Hotels, apartment complexes?”
* * *
He says nothing, and my boredom takes the opportunity to run free. “Development isn’t dangerous. And half the time, he doesn’t even lock the front door.”
* * *
“Your point?”
* * *
I shrug, taking a swig. “Just seems like you are expendable.”
* * *
“Let me worry about that.”
* * *
“And what’s with making me sleep outside? Why can’t I hang out in the house during the day? Or sleep in his room?”
* * *
“Do you want to sleep with him?”
* * *
His tone gives me pause, and I set the bottle on the counter. “It’d be nice not to sleep alone.”
* * *
I intended the comment to be lighthearted, a flippant response that would be ignored. But he says nothing, and an awkward silence stretches between us. I pick at the label on my water. “How long have you worked for Nathan?”
* * *
He crosses his arms and shoots me a pained look. “Why the sudden questions?”
* * *
I crunch happily on a carrot in a way that I know he will find exasperating. “Answer one of them, and I’ll go on my little way like a good girl.”
* * *
“Which one?”
* * *
I grab a fresh handful of orange sticks. “Is he really in any danger?”
* * *
“Wealthy men are always in danger. Now, move.” He ends the order with some form of a snarl, emphasizing the last word and unfolding his arms, as if he’ll force me from the kitchen.
* * *
I laugh, sticking a new carrot into my mouth and bumping my hip against him as I round the island and head to my prison. “Fine … but your answer sucked. I’ll get you with a better question tomorrow.”
* * *
He glowers at me, a look that would have terrified me a month ago. Now, it only causes me to beam, the brief bit of human interaction well worth the sexy death stare.
* * *
I push open the heavy glass door and step onto the sunlight-filled deck.
CHAPTER 21
I need a hobby. The marital agreement states that I can have one, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my wifely duties. Nathan’s schedule seems to reliably keep him out of the house from nine to five, eight hours open for whatever random hobby I should decide to engage in. It shouldn’t be that difficult for me to find a hobby that will fit during that window. The agreement also states that I may have friends, but unless I stalk strangers at Starbucks, it’s going to be pretty hard to find those.
* * *
Last weekend, we flew to Napa. Nathan was mobbed the moment our plane landed, men and women alike flocking to his side, pulling on his arm, whispering into his ear, and laughing at his jokes. I had been so worried, about our stiff exchanges, but he transformed before my eyes, an easy grin stretching across his face, a casual and affable elegance his new façade. I was shocked, my jaw literally dropping as I stared at the mystery who was anyone but my husband.
* * *
He maintained this exterior for three days straight, entertaining scores of society blue bloods, telling stories I have never heard, and bidding on extravagant auction items, his arm draped lovingly around my shoulder. He planted soft kisses on my neck in the presence of others and ran his fingers lightly over my arm as if he couldn’t touch me enough. I saw the glances, the swoons from other women. She is so lucky. They are so in love. They didn’t know the truth. That when he would lean in and whisper in my ear his words were anything but romantic. Stop fidgeting. Uncross your legs. Sit up straight. I behaved, I smiled, I made the proper social gestures, and said the correct things. I beamed at Nathan, laughed at his stories, and accepted his loving gestures as if they were normal. And in the evenings, when the door to our two-bedroom suite closed, he would reward me. On the soft bed, against the wall, in the shower. On my back, on my knees, standing, and with his mouth. When you subtracted his whispered orders, the separate bedrooms, and the false exteriors, it was the best weekend of my life.
* * *
We returned four days ago, the plane landing with a soft bump that woke me from my nap. I stretched and smiled over at Nathan, glancing out the window and seeing the familiar hangers, the arched display of the airport. “We home?”
* * *
He nodded without looking at me, unbuckling his belt and moving to the front. That was Sunday, and we haven’t spoken since. The first day, I dismissed it as nothing, my weekend high keeping a smile on my face, a bounce in my step. Drew watched me closely that day, his eyes narrowed, his gaze wary. The second day I began to wonder if something was wrong. Now, on day four, it seems clear. I am being punished for something.
* * *
I check my watch. 9:04 AM. Nathan should have left by now. I stand up and slide open the glass door, stepping out on the pool deck.
* * *
His hard glare pins me in the doorway as soon as I step into the main house. He stands in the kitchen, the island between us, six feet of gorgeous constrained by a custom suit. I can see the anger in his eyes, his face turning into a scowl as he mutters something to Drew. Drew makes a sharp gesture with his head, the message clear, and I step backward, pulling the door closed, the summer heat settling around me like a hot, scratchy sweater. I stand there for a moment. Bad Candace. Get out, Candace.
* * *
Anger seeps through me. Why is he so difficult? Am I that irritating, my mere presence that unbearable to his peace of mind? My clothes, the proper blend of luxury and sex, are suddenly thick and constricting, the tight wool-blend top ridiculous in the summer humidity. I feel a sudden surge of recklessness, pushed by the wave of hot claustrophobia that seizes my entire body. I yank at the sleeveless turtleneck, pulling it over my head, feeling a moment of euphoria when the hot fabric hits the white pavers. My skirt follows, one quick zip down. I stare at my nude thigh-high lace stockings, clipping to the bottom of La Perla garters. There’s no need for stockings in June, they had been slid on in the pathetic hope that he might, on this day, grant me a session with his cock. I slip out of my heels, and roll the expensive sheer fabric down my legs, flip
ping my head up to find him and Drew staring at me through the glass, an expression of horror on Drew’s face. Nathan simply watches, a cold look of disinterest in his eyes. Oh, look. There is my wife. Throwing a temper tantrum in front of the staff.
* * *
I stare into his eyes, my body covered by only a sheer shelf bra and a barely existent thong. I can only hope my eyes communicate the fury radiating through my body, my hurt at his neglect, at his snub of me and the corner of his world that I inhabit. Then, I dive.
* * *
The water shocks me. I am forbidden from the pool, my hair stylist repeatedly preaching the harm that chlorine will cause to my now-expensive tresses. Nathan agreed, adding a new rule to my long list. No swimming. So I am unprepared for its cool embrace, the smooth grip of moisture that instantly refreshes my sticky skin, sliding bubbles across my surface. I come up for air, the sun’s heat suddenly friendly and warm on my face, tickling me as it slides droplets of water off my face. Then I duck back into the underwater world and don’t come up for quite some time.
* * *
I swim laps until my muscles cramp, ache, and then cramp again. I am filled with glee at my insubordination, my first act of rebellion incredible in its release. The water cools my aggression, my hatred, my anger toward the black beauty that is Nathan. At the end of each lap, on my backward spin, I peer through the clear water, my eyes searching for a body at the edge of the pool, someone who will admonish me, order me to get out of the pool, perhaps even Nathan. But lap after lap, no one is there, and so I continue. I swim until I am gasping for breath, my heart thudding against my chest, my legs and arms deliciously exhausted.
* * *
I drag myself from the water, lying back on the warm pavers of the pool deck, my eyes closing, a smile crossing my features. Nathan would find some way to punish me, perhaps more coldness, more nights where I fall asleep waiting for his call. But this act, this childish strip down and swim, was worth it. I needed the moment of backbone—at a time when I feel I’m losing all the pieces of myself.
* * *
There, in the warm sun, my skin and lingerie drying out above tired muscles, my exhausted body relaxes, and under the dark stare of Nathan, I fall asleep.
CHAPTER 22
I am in my bathroom, towel-drying my hair, when Drew speaks.
* * *
“Mr. Dumont is requesting you.”
* * *
The sudden words startle me, and I turn and glare at him. “Can’t you knock?”
* * *
He says nothing, his hands in his pockets, and I lean forward, returning to my task. Strange, for Nathan to still be home in the middle of the day, and sending Drew for me. He has never requested me for anything but sex. After four days of ignoring me, I break a rule, and a half hour later, he asks for me.
* * *
“Mr. Dumont—”
* * *
“I know. Is requesting me.” I stand, shaking out my hair and tossing the towel toward the basket. “Should I get dressed?”
* * *
His eyes travel over my silk robe, cinched at the waist over nothing but me, the fabric sticking to my skin, still wet from my after-swim shower. “No. I’m sure that will be fine.”
* * *
I nod, passing by him and toward the door, butterflies starting a nervous dance in my belly.
* * *
In the background, the roar of a weed eater begins.
* * *
“You needed me?” I stop in the doorway, watching him turn from the bar, his expression dark.
* * *
He nods to the pool. “What the fuck was that? Are you five years old? Are tantrums going to be your standard communication tool?”
* * *
I flush. He’s right. I should have stepped back inside. Confronted him with my feelings. Or swallowed it all and retained my dignity. I slide the door shut behind me, and without the sounds of the landscapers, the room is too quiet. “You’re right. I’m upset at you. And I should have just spoken to you about it.”
* * *
He steps closer, his jaw flexing, and when he stops before me, I’m reminded of how much of a man he is. His scent. His build, the suit tight to his muscles. His height, towering above my flats. “You’re upset at me?” He laughs, cruel and incredulously, and anger flares in me.
* * *
“Yes,” I grit out. “You’ve given me the cold shoulder since we returned from Napa. You ignore me and look at me with …” I search for an appropriate word. “Disdain.” I finish. “As if I’m—”
* * *
I lose track of my thoughts when he grabs me, his hands tight on my forearms, my robe’s thin silk doing nothing to prevent what will be bruises. I look at him in panic.
* * *
The controlled version of him is gone, his face a mask of barely restrained emotion; his breath is coming in short bursts, his expression dark. He drags me forward, pushes me onto the leather chaise lounge, until I am on my back and he is towering over me, his hands in fists.
* * *
“Nathan, please,” I gasp, moving away from him, my robe open around my legs.
* * *
“You think this is a game?” he hisses. “Our marriage, our agreement?”
* * *
I open my mouth, searching for something to say, not understanding his anger. Is this our marriage? I ask a question, I voice my feelings, and unleash this?
* * *
He leans closer, until his mouth is inches from mine, his breath hot on my skin. “Answer me.”
* * *
I wet my lips. “No,” I whisper.
* * *
“No, what?” he snarls, yanking the sash on my robe, the silk moving easily under his strength.
* * *
“No, it’s not a game.” I keep my face timid, my voice soft, but inside my teeth bare and my claws flex. No, it’s not a game; this is my life, my worth, my sanity. For a man who doesn’t like games, he should throw out the rules and stop keeping score. His eyes are hard on mine and I’ve never seen him this angry—didn’t know he was capable of this level of emotion at all. I should be scared, but a thrill of excitement courses through me at the presence of life in him.
* * *
He reaches forward, gripping the back of my neck and pulling me up, pressing his mouth roughly to mine as he pulls open my robe, baring my body to him. It’s not a kiss. It’s a domination—strong movements of his tongue that torment my mouth. He nips my bottom lip, fucks me with his tongue, then gently kisses my swollen lips, taking one final journey of my mouth before he pulls off.
* * *
I open my eyes, expecting a softer Nathan above me, expecting the change in his kiss to reflect the forgiveness that had occurred. His fists have loosened, those hands now running rampant over my body, my robe fully open, my legs parted with his knee. His face has calmed, the deep lines faded, the set of his mouth relaxed. But his eyes betray him. His eyes show the fierce anger that still burns brightly. I still don’t know why he’s mad, or what I’ve done wrong, but I understand one thing—my punishment just changed. I didn’t want to be ignored, and now that table is being yanked out from beneath me.
* * *
His eyes flick to the backyard, then return to me, and I understand. This is how he will punish me—putting me on display while he fucks me senseless. He will remind me of where I came from, treat me like the whore that I—that one night—was.
* * *
And he does. “Stand. Go to the window.”
* * *
He puts my palms to the glass, my breasts stiffening in the cool air, his hands taking a generous tour of them as he settles in behind me, the soft brush of his dress pants soon replaced by the bare touch of his thighs, the erect press of his cock.
* * *