Cecile disappeared. I can’t. I can't run away from Nathan, not without something in place for my father's care. No matter the reason, no matter how unhappy I am as his wife, or whatever danger might exist, I am now in the rare position of being able to actually help my father. To provide for him, visit with him, financially support his care—not just through this sickness, but for the rest of his life.
I can’t just toss this opportunity away.
“What happens to my father upon my death?” I finger the ripped buttons of a Chanel blouse, one I took the tags off this morning, wondering if it is salvageable. Nathan had ripped it open without concern for the fine fabric, his need too great for something as silly as unbuttoning.
Nathan’s head snaps up so quickly that I hear a bone pop. “What do you mean?”
I drop the shirt and reach for my skirt, stepping into it sans underwear, not wanting to hunt for them in the sheets of Nathan’s bed. “I mean, if I die, what happens to my father? Would you continue to provide for his care?” I shouldn’t have said anything. One of the unwritten rules, made clear by Nathan’s attitude, is that I get up and leave after sex. No chitchat, no goodbye kiss, just a quick and silent exit.
“Do you plan on dying?” His face is almost distraught, his question spoken quickly and urgently. My suicide must clash with his current plans.
“No. I don’t think anyone plans on dying. But what would happen if I do? The agreement doesn’t mention anything about that.” An omission which leads me to think that my father will be left high and dry upon my expiration.
He frowns. “I can have my attorney draft an amendment. I guess I didn’t expect your father to outlive you.” His blue eyes lock with mine, a silent appraisal in them.
“I would like that,” I say quietly, zipping up the side of my skirt.
He fastened the buttons of one sleeve, his expression grave. “Then I’ll do it this week.”
This week. I can see the thoughts growing, his mind working through my questions. I ball up the broken shirt in my hand and scoop up my heels, leaving the room and heading outside, putting distance between us before he starts asking questions of his own.
NATHAN
He watches her leave, her posture strong, despite all he’s put her through. He watches her pull at the glass slider, the moonlight softening the lines of her face, then she is gone. She’s left a dozen times, and never has the urge been so strong to ask her to stay. Only this time, it isn’t his heart that tempts the action—it’s his head.
He picks up his phone, dialing Drew’s cell, the man quickly answering.
“Turn on the security system. Then come here.” He ends the call and stands at the window, watching her pull the curtains of her home closed, the cream drapes glowing as she turns on the interior lights.
“What’s up?” The man steps in, his law enforcement bearing present, even in gym shorts and a T-shirt.
“We have a problem. It’s Candy.” He sighs, telling the man of her questions and watching his face pinch in worry. “I’m worried … with her references to dying … Maybe I’ve gone too far in trying to keep her at arm’s length.”
“I wouldn’t call anything about your relationship ‘arm’s length’.” The response is sharper than it needs to be, and Nathan lifts his gaze to the man’s.
“What’s your point?”
“I just don’t want you to forget the goal of all this.”
“We leave for the Bahamas next week. You don’t have to worry about me forgetting anything.”
“Not the money. Her.” An outsider would think they are talking about Candy, but he knows who Drew is talking about, hears the protective growl in his voice, sees the tightening of his jaw.
“I don’t owe Cecile any loyalty. Not after all this time.”
Drew scowls. “And what about Candy? You even care if she’s suicidal?”
“Of course I care.” Nathan crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t challenge me in one breath about developing feelings for her, and the next about not giving a shit. You’re talking out of both sides of your mouth, and all of it’s bullshit considering the way you’ve been eye fucking her.”
“There’s nothing in her contract about loyalty.” Drew smirks, and Nathan takes a step forward, dropping his hands, and fighting the urge to tighten them into fists.
“But there is something in yours.” He tilts his head, watching the man’s face, the pit in his stomach turning into a sharp pain. “Tell me you haven’t touched her.”
In the silence, a piece of him, one recently created, dies. He steps closer. “Tell me that you haven’t touched my wife.”
“Your wife?” The man laughs, and it is a steel blade in between his ribs. “You’re not in love with her,” Drew spits out. “You're in love with Cecile. Candy is a fucking contract. Nothing more.”
“I’ll decide what Candy is.”
“No.” Drew shakes his head. “She’s not a fucking building, Nathan. She’ll decide what she is.”
He fights the urge to punch him, to smash bones and bloody knuckles. But there’s a reason, other than Cecile, that he keeps the man around. The handgun tucked in his waistband. The ability of the man, to take a life, with his bare hands. Still, Nathan's temper rages, and he forces out the next question through clenched teeth. “Have. You. Touched. Her?”
“Yes.” The response is a challenge, and Nathan steps forward, so close that they are eye to eye. He shouldn't care. Their marriage is a business arrangement. It wasn’t designed for love or emotions, and he’d gone out of his way to make sure she didn’t develop any. He shouldn’t care, but he does. Inside, somewhere past the anger with Cecile, the hurt of his heart, the plans that they’ve made … he cares.
The punch comes from another man, one without structure or control, a man he thought he buried a long time ago. It hits Drew’s jaw and the pain radiates through his fist, the crunch and impact of bones and flesh brutal in its ferocity. There is the silent collision of his bare chest against Drew’s shirt, muscles struggling for control. They hit the wall and a Peter Lik print shudders. Drew’s hand moves and Nathan freezes in the cock of his gun.
“What are you doing?” Drew steps back, both hands wrapped around the gun, his stance born from years of training. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Do you love her?” Nathan hisses out the question, his shoulders slumping against the wall as he lifts his hands and rests them on his head.
“Not yet.” Drew moves a step to the right, the position probably better for taking a man's life.