Page 39

sheer spite and annoyance

Christian

Dorinda Wallace looks like she swallowed a lemon, peel and all, and is trying to find a way to avoid it getting stuck in her throat as she leaves the room.

The metal door latch hitting the strike plate in the frame is loud. I’m left with my wife, who I look to, waiting for her to meet my gaze. She doesn’t make eye contact and has a similar sour look on her face.

I thrum my fingers on the table. “Any idea how you plan to transport fifty thousand dollars out of here to the car?” I’m baiting her.

One envelope will do it. “Or where you plan to stash it in our house?” I can’t help the humor in my voice.

“Princess, you have a will of steel. I love that about you. You can make a plan out of sheer spite and annoyance.” More to myself I add, quietly, “I love that about you too.”

Her eyes whip to me. “She didn’t ask you. She didn’t even look at you, really. I was waiting for one of you to say something to stop me. You suck as a warden.”

I stand and lean toward the woman who infuriates me, intrigues me, and who turns me the fuck on.

“My love, I am not your warden, and you are not my ward. You are my wife. That entitles you to half of everything of mine and me to half of everything of yours. At least where our finances are concerned. Our businesses are not combined for tax reasons, but legally, you have rights to that too.”

“I—Uh… What?”

“Do you want to discuss this here?” I point to the cameras in the room. “I would prefer to do so at home. But you’ve been consistent in not believing me. Would the public nature of this help? Or would you prefer to do this at the house? Would it help if your brothers came as witnesses?”

“My brothers?”

“Same mother. Same father. Male. You know the concept.”

“Shut up.” Her eyes have humor and relief in them as well. “We may need the muscle for boxes of money.”

“You can cancel the transaction.” I retake my seat, stretching my legs out in front of me.

Suspicion lines her features. “You’d like that, huh?”

“Ayla, I want you to listen to me. More so, I want you to trust me. If that won’t happen without the piles of dollar bills?—”

“Oh, please tell me it won’t be in ones.”

The bark of laughter that escapes me isn’t my norm. Or hasn’t been since September. “Raiding their stores today may come in the manner they have it available.”

She stands and walks to the door, poking her head out, but saying to me. “I feel foolish. This was…”

“This was something you needed. They don’t need to know why. You can cancel it or ask me to. Or let it play out. Your call.” The look on her face is everything I needed today. It is an ask and her saving face at the same time. “Want me to go fix it?”

She shakes her head no, but mouths yes at the same time.

“Which is it?”

“Please,” she whispers.

“Oh, I love when you beg.”

The growl she releases as I walk out of the room is enough to make me laugh.

“Excuse me,” I ask the same teller we first encountered. “Would you get Ms. Wallace for me?”

The teller does the same as before, returning with the bank manager who looks a bit haggard and worn.

“Ms. Wallace, my wife needs less than she originally indicated. Would you mind reducing the amount to twenty instead of fifty and pulling it from our main account? Hundreds would be preferable, but fifties would be fine if that’s easier for you. ”

She looks to the room where Ayla is surely pacing before returning her focus to me. “If twenty is better for you both, I will get that done immediately.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your assistance and your willingness to be flexible.”

“Of course, Mr. Barone.”

I return to the room. Ayla stands and throws her purse onto her shoulder, scratching her coffee cup with her thumbnail as she moves.

“We’re not quite ready.”

“We’re not?”

“No. It’ll be a few more minutes.”

“For what?”

“You’ll see.”

She plops back down in her chair still scraping the cup with her thumbnail, her focus solely on the corrugated cuff.

For several minutes she looks between the cup and the door.

I could put her out of her misery, but I don’t.

When the door opens, Ms. Wallace returns and sits in the seat she occupied prior.

She slides an envelope across the table to my wife.

“Twenty thousand dollars, Mrs. Barone. Your husband mentioned that you determined you needed less. I hope it’s okay that we made the adjustment without coming back to you.”

Ayla flips her gaze to me before settling on the bank manager. “That’s fine. Thank you. Plans changed, so, yes, it was okay.”

The woman turns the tablet back to my wife and asks her to sign for the withdrawal.

She does and places the envelope in her purse, draining the dregs of her coffee before tossing the cup in the garbage.

Ms. Wallace leads the way out and extends a hand to Ayla and then to me before we leave the bank.

I open her car door, waiting for her to move the bag of sweet treats out of the way and get settled, before rounding the trunk and starting the car.

She’s got a chunk of muffin halfway to her mouth when I pull out of the lot. “Why are you stress eating?”

“What am I supposed to do with twenty thousand dollars?”

“Anything you want.”

“What I want is my freedom back.”

“Anything but that.”

My words might as well be a nuclear bomb.

My wife—whose feisty spirit mirrors her fiery hair—doesn’t get it. Everything I do, absolutely everything, is for her. To protect her. To show my adoration. To give her the life she deserves.

Controlling her is like trying to stop a hurricane from churning. The impossibility is laughable. She is wild and free, smart and cunning, and quick to remind everyone she’s her own woman.

I love that about her. And will protect it at all costs, even if I have to fight her to protect her from herself… or the threats that somehow keep looming.

Ayla

My temper swarms like a kicked hive of bees vibrating inside me. I want to explode. I want to scream and yell, claw and hit. I want to run away just because I fucking can. Hell, I have a purse full of cash and the obvious authority to get more if I need it. I could run away.

If I didn’t think Christian would find me. And if I weren’t so predictable as to go to my brothers’ homes or Halley’s.

It’s not like me. I’m generally a react first, simmer and consider later person. Instead, I need to think. Straight emotional explosion won’t help me now.

I need a strategy.

What about me—about my life—makes people think they can control me? My father. My husband. My mother has expectations, too, even if they aren’t as explicit as the domineering men in my life. My brothers dote and care. I love that they do, even if it is overbearing and, at times, smothering.

I am not weak. I need their love. I need their support. I do not need their protection…

Except maybe from whomever was on the ridge that day.

My words are tentative. “You said you don’t think this was an accident.” I point to my temple.

He nods. “I said I don’t think you tripped and fell.”

I take a swig of his cold coffee as he makes a turn facing the Front Range. “How often did I go to the ridge at Beaver Brook?”

“Since I’ve known you? A dozen times, maybe more. It’s a quick drive, the hikes are fairly easy, and it never takes you long to find what you’re looking for.”

“So I go there enough that I know my way around?”

He nods.

“And can I assume other people know that?”

He nods again. “You mention it enough on your socials and have it tagged at the gallery. Besides, you’ve never been one to horde that information. You make no bones about the fact that anyone willing could get the same shot. Not that that’s accurate.”

“Of course, it is.”

“Princess, it’s not. I’ve been with you plenty and never see what you do. Why the questions?”

“Did you dig into anything regarding my ‘not fall’?”

His lips purse as his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “I did. I still am, actually, but as far as crime scenes go, if it was one, it was ruined by the multiple hikers that day, the EMTs, the evacuation helicopter blowing leaves, dirt, and debris everywhere.”

“Will you take me there?”

His foot hits the brake and the jolt startles me. “Sorry.” He ignores the honks and one-fingered waves from the cars around us. “Sure. You want to go today? ”

I stare down at the outfit I should never have thrown on yesterday morning, the one still haunting me with poor choices more than twenty-four hours later. “I need a shower first, and more appropriate clothing, but yeah.”

He turns onto our street and presses the garage door opener. “I could use the same. I’ll get some work done while you get ready.”

I grab my purse and the bag of sweets into the house, dumping his now-empty coffee cup in the trash as I go.

An hour later, I’ve showered and shaved, have my hair in a high ponytail and am rocking sunscreen and mascara when I find Christian chatting with Fitz in his office.

They go silent when I approach. “Shower’s all yours.

” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder as I turn on my boot to head upstairs to my studio.

I grab one camera before zoning out with a stare at the blue sofa where Christian fucked me with abandon a few nights ago. I pause and make eye contact with the moose as I turn to leave. What are you trying to tell me?

It’s all I think about as I return to the bottom floor to find my husband standing in front of Georgio, coffee drawer open wide, placing syrups onto the counter while putting powders away. “I know you’re there.”

I won’t ask how mostly because I’m distracted by how easy he still makes the process look. Also, because today I don’t care.Let him hear me coming.

“I’m here,” I offer as I reach the bottom step of the huge staircase.

He turns and extends a mug as he places an espresso cup in the sink. “Are you ready?”