Page 8 of Mr. Strategic

“Nothing,” I said.

He glanced over at me, then adjusted the rearview mirror one infinitesimal micrometer and we were off down the road.

Now inside I hadtwothings to be proud of. What I had suggested had pissed him off.

I had never seen my husband angry.

So I didn’t know, then, to be afraid.

“How could you suggest such a foolish thing?” he bit out as we turned into our palm tree lined street, his face immobile. “I would never let mywifehave sex with another man.”

The unfairness of this dug into me like barbed thorns.

“Why not?” I asked. “Youhad sex withher.”

“That is an entirely different matter,” Michael said.

“Why?”

When he didn’t answer, I asked again.

“Why is it different? Why did you have sex with Alix then?”

“Because I could. Because she was there.”

His arm looked lean and strong on the stick shift, his motions controlled and precise.

“That’s why you cheated on me?” I asked. “Because she was there? How many women have you cheated on me with?”

“I’m not going to talk about this with you,” Michael said harshly. “I use protection every time and it has nothing to do with our relationship. It’s simply a release.”

Arelease?

I was not an angry person. I had never been anything but a sweet, quiet, shy person.

But at this, I felt another surge of anger rush through me as the garage door slid smoothly down behind us.

“Well, then, I will use protection too,” I said, still quietly, but as firmly as I could.

Then I opened the car door myself, without waiting for him, and slid out.

There was a noise, and my husband was around the car faster than I thought possible, blocking my path into the house.

“If you think for one goddamn minute I’m letting you do this, you’re out of your mind,” Michael hissed tightly, gripping my wrist with one hand. “Get back in that car and let me open the door for you.Nothing has changed.”

My heart was pounding through my throat, and I attempted to pull away.

“Ouch, Michael! You’re hurting me.”

But he wouldn’t release me, his fingers biting down on my soft skin. His flesh looked drawn tight over his face, his lips a harsh uncompromising slash across the sculptured cheekbones, the elegant jawline.

“Get inside.”

For a moment defiance hovered on my tongue, but he tightened his hold, cold strong fingers wrapped all around my slim wrist and I felt a sharp slice of fear go through me.

“All right.”

My husband was breathing heavily when he pulled me inside, his guttural breath loud in the cool white of our foyer.