“Why do you do it?” The words feel awkward on my tongue; our conversations about his job have mostly been his apologizing for working so much and me telling him I understand. But I absolutely don’t, and in this moment I’m mortified that I’ve never really asked him about it. Other than knowing he has a dragon-lady boss, and that this job will give him his pick of positions someday, I really have no idea what he does there.
“Because I won’t be able to find another good position if I leave this one so soon. This is very prestigious, you see. I need to see this lawsuit through.” He only needs to tell me a tiny bit about it—vague details about the corporations at war and the matter of intellectual property and sales tactics at the heart of the case—before I pull back to look at him in surprise.
I’ve heard of this lawsuit. I know the names of the two businesses going head-to-head. It’s such a big case it’s constantly on the news, in the papers. No wonder he’s working the hours he is.
“I had no idea,” I tell him. “How did you manage to go to Vegas?”
His fingers dig through his hair and he shrugs. “It was the only three weeks I wasn’t needed. They were gathering depositions, and I finally had a small break. It is much more normal to take a long vacation here in Europe than it is in the States, maybe.”
I pull him down on the couch next to me and he complies, but his posture tells me he’s only here for a minute. He’ll get up and return to his computer instead of following me into bed.
I run my hand down the front of his T-shirt and find myself looking forward to seeing him dressed for work tomorrow, and then immediately feel a tight knot of guilt form in my stomach. “Do you wear a suit and tie in the courtroom?”
Laughing, he bends and says into the skin of my neck, “I don’t go to court, but no, in court they wear a traditional robe. I’m the equivalent of a junior associate here. Corporate law in France is maybe a bit different from in the States, though both are different from criminal law. Here, maybe more proceedings happen across a table.”
“If it’s different from the States, and you’re licensed to practice there, too . . . why did you come back here after law school?”
He hums, shaking his head a little as he kisses my jaw, and it’s the first time he hasn’t answered a question. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or fascinated.
“I hope you’ll be done soon,” I tell him, pressing my hand to his face and, unable to resist, stroking his bottom lip with the pad of my thumb in his signature, soothing move. “I hope it won’t always be like this. I like it when you’re here with me.”
He closes his eyes, exhaling slowly as he smiles. “You sound like a real wife when you say that.”
Chapter FIFTEEN
I’M ALMOST RELIEVED that he goes into the office Monday so I can go back to the tiny shop in the alley, holding my breath in the hope that it will be open. I think the role play is fun for Ansel; at least I hope it’s as fun for him as it is for me. We get to know each other in these tiny glimpses, revealing ourselves while we pretend not to.
And tonight, I want to get him talking.
The store is open, and the same saleswoman is there, greeting me with the warmth of her smile and the familiar scent of iris. She takes me by the hand, drawing me toward the lingerie, the props.
“What are you today?” she asks.
It takes me several long seconds before I find my words, and even then, I don’t really answer her question. “I need to find a way to rescue him.”
She studies me for a beat before selecting a sexy soldier uniform but it isn’t at all what I mean. Instead, my eyes trip on a negligee so vibrantly red, it looks like it could burn my fingers.
Her laugh is throaty and loud. “Yes, today you rescue in that. This time when you come in, your chin is higher, your eyes a little wicked, I think.” Reaching for the wall, she hands me a single accessory and when I look down at what she’s given me, it seems to vibrate in my hands. I would never have picked this on my own, but it’s perfect.
“Have fun, chérie.”
I’VE DONE MY makeup for the stage enough that I can really layer it on, making my eyes smoky and dark, my lips even fuller and siren red. I put just enough blush on my cheeks to look like I might be up to no good.
Stepping back, I examine myself in the slim mirror mounted on the bedroom door. My hair falls straight to my chin, black and sleek. My hazel eyes have more yellow than green lately. My bangs need to be trimmed; they graze my eyelashes when I blink. But the woman staring back at me likes the shadow they give. She knows how to look up from beneath her lashes and flirt, especially with the red horns barely poking out from a slim, black headband hiding in her hair.
The negligee is made of lace and layered, soft macramé tulle. The layering gives the illusion of coverage, but even in the dim candlelight I’ve set up throughout the apartment, my nipples are clearly visible beneath. The only other thing I’m wearing is a small, matching red thong.
This time I’m not nervous when I hear the elevator doors open down the hall, and the steady pace of Ansel’s feet walking to our door.