He flopped a hand in the general direction of his laptop, still on the coffee table. Oh, no. She didn’t want to see whatever was in that email and stared hard at the glowing Apple logo on the back of the machine, willing the thing to blow up.
No such luck.
Swallowing down the sour taste of dread, she made herself reach for it and turn the screen around. Pictures of her in her wilder days, none of them painting a very flattering portrait of her character. But there was nothing about Steven or her association with The Headhunters or Jason Mallory. She released the breath she’d been holding. The blackmailer didn’t know her entire past. Bits and pieces, maybe, but nothing that was going to get her killed.
The text accompanying the pictures was short and to the point.
Pay up or these photos would be emailed to Irving James.
Shit. Marrying Reece was supposed to protect him from the blackmailer, not make the situation worse. But of course the blackmailer had the ability to find dirt on her. Not like there was a shortage of it out there to find.
And the rest would come out. If he or she had found this much, the rest would follow.
She glanced up at Reece and opened her mouth to—what? Apologize? That would only piss him off more. “Um, are you going to pay?”
He stared back with exhausted eyes. “What choice do I have?”
“Reece—” The words snagged in her throat. “Let’s get the annulment. First thing tomorrow. Then you can just stop paying the blackmailer and if the photos leak…well, make the end of our marriage my fault. Tell James I tricked you. I’m a gold digger and—”
“And you think that will give him the confidence to enter into a business deal with me?” he interrupted with a snort. “In James’s mind, if I’m stupid enough to let a woman get the better of me, I’m not fit to do business with. Whatever I do, I’m fucked. I’m—” He shook his head and lumbered to his feet, moving like a sleepwalker. “I can’t handle this. Not tonight. I’m going to bed.”
Chapter Nineteen
Reece woke up the following morning feeling like he had the flu. He’d only had it once before, when he was twelve, but distinctly remembered the pounding head, the allover body aches, the blasts of brain-melting heat followed by bone-numbing cold.
Yeah, he was reliving it now.
For the first time in his adult life, he considered ignoring his alarm, rolling over, and going back to sleep for the rest of the day. Except he was scheduled to man the Wilde Security office for a few hours this morning, and he needed to see about scraping up a home security contract. He should also spend some time on Vaughn’s search for Lark Warren since Vaughn had held up his end of the deal and looked into the fire at The Bean Gallery.
He couldn’t sleep in. Too many people were counting on him.
Moving required more energy than he possessed, but he still managed to push himself upright. He smacked his lips—his mouth tasted like ash and felt as dry. Had he remembered to brush his teeth before falling into bed last night? Or, for that matter, shower?
Nope. One look down at himself confirmed he was still in his soot-smeared clothes. Apparently, he’d mentally checked out of the real world at some point last night.
Or, wait. It hadn’t been at some point. It had been after the newest blackmail threat hit his inbox. Right. He was fucked good and hard last night, and not in the fun way.
Reece shoved to his feet and plodded to the bathroom to clean up. Twenty minutes later, feeling almost human again, he walked out to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, half expecting to see Shelby had beaten him to it like she had the last few mornings. He’d been surprised by her early bird tendencies and when he commented on it, she’d said owning The Bean Gallery had revised her night-owlishness.
But this morning, the apartment was quiet. Her door was still shut, and he didn’t even hear Poe squawking on the other side. Still asleep.
Probably for the better. He wasn’t ready to face her again after the embarrassment of his actions last night.
He’d thrown the scotch. The memory of it heated up the back of his neck. He’d had a fucking temper tantrum. What was he, thirteen? Jesus.
As his coffee brewed, he studied the living room, searched for the stain on the wall, the broken glass, and found nothing. Guilt and shame hit him square in the gut in a one-two punch. Shelby had cleaned it up.
Yeah, he definitely wasn’t ready to face her yet. As soon as the coffee finished, he poured some into a travel mug, then left the rest on to warm until she woke up. He thought about leaving a note, decided against it, got to the door, and changed his mind. Back in the kitchen, he found a pen and paper…and stalled out.
What should he write?
Something short. Simple. Maybe…I’m sorry? No, that had a ring of finality to it, like the start of a Dear John letter. How about, Your past doesn’t matter because I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you? Yeah, that wouldn’t send her running like her ass was on fire.
He finally settled on: Went to the WS office. Left the coffee on warm for you. Be home later.