Page 18 of Mr. Strategic

Michael slapped his hand down on the desk in front of me, loud enough so some of the other patrons whirled around in surprise.

“Stop this shit. Of course I care. You’re the only one Idocare about.”

“Then why are you cheating on me?”

“Jesus, it’s easy pussy, Lavender. It’s practically served to me on a platter. I get my dick wet for a few minutes and don’t think about them again. What don’t you get about that?”

Bleak despair filled me.

“You’re never going to stop, are you?” I whispered, forcing myself to look up at him, the ice-blue eyes, the way he loomed over my desk with that intense stare.

“Why should I? It means nothing.”

“Oh, and of course if it means nothing to the great Dr. Carrington, nobody else matters,” I said bitterly, dropping my eyes so he wouldn’t see how they filled with tears.

“Don’t do this, Lavender.”

He put his cold fingers on my chin, forcing my face up toward him.

“My job is demanding, and sometimes I just need a release. Trust me, sweetheart.”

He bent to kiss me, even though there were even more patrons whispering.

Something hardened inside me. He wasn’t going to stop, and there was no point waiting around for him to.

There was only one action to take. Even though I didn’t want to. Even though I still loved him.

I had to divorce my husband.

So this time I opened my mouth just a tiny bit for his kiss, and he took it as encouragement, tangling his tongue with mine and letting out a low, rough sound.

“Are we all right now?” he asked, and I said nothing, just gave a quick nod.

It was all right because there was no way to make us right. Our relationship was past salvaging. My husband had godlike powers and influence and there was nothing that could stop him from doing exactly what he wanted.

He scooped up my phone from the desk.

“I’ll fix the settings, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it.”

I said nothing. I let him take the phone.

Then he gave my chin an affectionate pinch and left.

I watched him go, that straight tall form, the easy confidence of his walk and demeanor.

But there was another strange thing I noticed. Usually every line of his suit was pressed, every crease molded to perfection against his body. He was a man known for military precision of everything—body, clothing, job, car. Wife.

But there was a mark on his shiny pale crystal-gold Ferrari, like he had driven too fast. Like he had been reckless.

But Dr. Michael Carrington was never reckless.

I pushed it out of my mind.

And when my shift was over I straightened my skirt, got in my car, and drove to the lawyer’s office.

Chapter Seven

Our lawyer was a sharp-faced man in his 30s and he listened to my tremulous words with a blank face and then began primly to get out various documents.