Page 66 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

AVERY

I call my realtor after Rina leaves. “Hey, Brian, it’s Avery Welch.”

“Avery,” Brian booms. “How are you?”

I hold the phone away from my ear. “Good,” I lie. “Listen, I might need to sell my place in a hurry. How’s the condo market looking?”

“You want to sell your place?” He sounds surprised. “You bought less than two years ago. What gives?”

“It’s a long story. I need money in a hurry.”

He whistles through his teeth. “I’ll be honest, Avery.

It’s not a great time to sell. There’s a lot of new inventory on the market.

Your place still has fantastic long-time potential, but right now…

I just don’t know. When you factor in your closing costs and your mortgage, you’ll be lucky to break even. ”

I was afraid of this. Brian, who is really great about avoiding the hard-sell, had more or less warned me that I wouldn’t be able to flip the place when I put down my deposit. I’d gone ahead anyway, absolutely certain that I was ready to put down roots.

“Thanks, Brian,” I say tonelessly. Wiping my palms on my skirt, I try to formulate a Plan B.

“You still want to sell?”

I finally got around to painting my bedroom this spring. I’d painted it a cheerful, egg-yolk yellow. Maggie had looked dubious. “Isn’t that too bright?” she’d asked me.

“Nope,” I’d said confidently. “It’s exactly what I want.”

And now I might have to sell. Brian’s question hangs in the air, and I hesitate. “I’m not sure yet,” I reply. “I’ll let you know in a week.”

Once I hang up, I log into my bank account, hoping against hope that there’s some money there that I don’t know about. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. My savings account had eleven thousand four hundred and thirty dollars in it last week. Then I paid Club M’s exorbitant membership fee.

Will Xavier Leforte give me my money back?

My face heats. Club M’s owner is filthy rich. Begging him for a refund will be humiliating, but if I’m going to help my mother, I need every penny I can get my hands on.

With shaking fingers, I dial the number on the business card he gave me. I’m expecting an assistant to answer the line, but to my surprise, he picks up his own phone. “Ms. Welch,” he says pleasantly, “What can I do for you?”

Here goes nothing. “I wasn’t planning on returning to Club M,” I murmur, wondering what the best way to ask a bazillionaire for a refund. God, this is embarrassing.

“I’m so sorry.” He sounds sincere. “You didn’t have a good time?”

I don’t know how to answer that question. “It was… complicated.” I take a deep breath. “Would it be possible for me to cancel my membership and get a refund?”

“I’m afraid not,” he says, his voice coated with regret. “For obvious reasons, we want to discourage voyeurs at the club. Your membership fee is non-refundable.”

Well, I tried. “Okay,” I say, trying to keep the disconsolate note out of my voice. It wasn’t as if ten grand was ever going to be enough anyway. “It was worth a go.”

“Is everything okay, Ms. Welch?” he asks, his tone concerned.

My mother has cancer, and I can’t do a damn thing to help her. “Everything’s fine.”

I can’t sell my condo. I can’t get my money back from Club M. There’s only one thing left to do.

The ring box is in the bottom drawer of my dresser, shoved behind thick sweaters and woolen gloves. I pull it out and flip it open, staring at the two-carat pink diamond engagement ring.

I’d sent it back when I left Victor. My package had been returned. It was a gift, the accompanying note had said dismissively. Keep it.

He always did like to have the last word.

I haven’t looked at the ring in eight years. Not since the day Victor hit me. I’d slipped it off my finger as I drove back to London, tears streaming down my cheeks.

So many times, I could have sold it. I never did.

All I wanted to do was forget those two years I’d spent in Surrey, married to Victor Lowell.

I worked my way through grad school, waiting tables at high-end restaurants, where drunk customers leered and ogled at me, even though the gemstone would have paid my tuition and more.

I don’t have that luxury anymore.

The one thing about being a therapist? You learn a lot of random things. One of the pieces of trivia I’ve picked up is that best place to resell a diamond is a place called Merrill & Cohen. I pick up my phone again and make an appointment to see them this evening.

“A pink diamond.” Isaac Cohen puts on his jeweler’s loupe and peers at the ring.

“It’s GIA-certified.”

He frowns absently. “Yes, I can see that.” He scribbles something on the notepad next to him. “We see exceptional diamonds every day, but it’s not often that something like this shows up.”

That sounds hopeful. I cross my fingers as I wait. The jeweler crosses over to his computer and types something. “How much does it weigh?”

“I think it’s supposed to be two carats.” Maybe it was the circumstances of my marriage, but the ring had always felt like a mark of ownership. I always felt cheap wearing it. Objectified.

“Two carats. Hmm.” He gets to his feet. “Can you wait here for a minute? I need to talk to my partner.”

“Sure.” He’s holding the ring in his hand. It’s not like I’m planning to rush out of here without it.

He disappears into the back. I wait for him. For the first time since my father’s phone call, my thoughts return to Maddox and Kai. They must have got my email by now, but neither of them has replied. Not that I really expected them to.

If only I’d told them the truth, ten years ago. But I hadn’t wanted to burden them with my troubles. For two weeks, all I’d wanted to do was escape them.

I had no idea how dominant they really were. There had been hints back then. They were more vocal than anyone I’d been with. More direct. They’d told me what they wanted me to do. They’d showed me how to please them, and they’d made me show them how to please me.

I’d been fairly naive in those days. I thought that BDSM was about whips and chains, leather, and handcuffs.

Isaac Cohen is nowhere to be seen. Damn it, where is he?

I don’t want to be here all day. Maggie left me a voicemail about a stress management workshop she wants me to teach.

“I screwed up my schedule,” she’d said in her message.

“I didn’t realize I’m going to be away two of the six Fridays. Please tell me you’ll do it, Avery.”

I made money on the side running workshops like these when I was doing my Ph.D., but I haven’t done one in years. I need to review my old notes and refresh them if needed, and today’s the only evening this week that I’m not working.

The door chimes ring, and two men enter the store, both in dark suits. “Avery Welch?” one of them addresses me.

“Yeah?” This isn’t a client, is it? I have a reasonably good memory for names and faces, but some people come in for just one appointment and decide that therapy isn’t for them, and they’re harder to remember.

“The diamond ring you just tried to sell has been reported as stolen, Ms. Welch,” he says, his voice hard. “I’m going to need you to come into the station.”

You have got to be kidding me. If I’m not mistaken, I’m getting arrested.

Four hours later, I’m finally allowed to leave. I’ve told my story a hundred times. I used to be married to Victor Lowell. When we got divorced, I tried to return the ring to him, but he sent it back. I have no idea why he reported it stolen.

“You can go,” Detective Garrett Breyman, the guy who’s questioned me repeatedly about the diamond, says at last. “But the ring stays here while we check out your story.” He gives me a cold stare. “If I were you, I wouldn’t leave town anytime soon.”

“Fine.” My hands are shaking. I’ve never been in trouble with the law before. Hell, I’ve never even got a speeding ticket. I’d always known that Victor wasn’t happy about my decision to leave, but I had no idea how far he’d go in his attempts to control me.

Now I know.

I step out of the station and look around for a cab. Today’s been a shitshow. All I want to do is get home, heat myself some leftovers, and pour myself a big glass of wine.

But my already bad day is about to get dramatically worse. “So you finally tried to sell the diamond, did you?” a familiar voice asks.

A cold shiver runs down my spine.

It’s Victor. My ex-husband. What the hell is he doing here?