by Nadia Lee
“Me? What about you? You hate these things.”
“I’m trying to make a few appearances with Paige.”
I nod. He doesn’t have to explain further. He’s trying to put on a good show for Paige’s sake. There are still those who think she “stole” Ryder from more deserving women. What they don’t know is that nobody “steals” Ryder unless he wants to be stolen. His relationship with Paige started out much like mine—a simple contract. But he is crazy about his wife now, and they’re expecting a baby together. He would’ve never impregnated her if he wasn’t thinking forever.
“So where is she?” I ask.
Ryder gives a mock long-suffering sigh. “Another potty break.”
“Pregnancy, bro. Get used to it. Any morning sickness?”
“Nah, she’s fine. Just needs to go to the bathroom a lot.”
“Wait’ll the baby pops out. You’re gonna wish she was still just pregnant.”
“How would you know?”
“Some of the managers have newborns. You would not believe the complaining.”
“Can’t be that bad,” he mutters.
“Sounds like it is. And it’s going to be extra bad for you. Your genes, remember?” One of our father’s pet complaints is what a fussy baby Ryder was.
An inscrutable expression crosses my brother’s face for a brief moment, and it pulls me up short. What the hell? He hesitated when I asked him whether or not he wanted the baby a few weeks back, and now this? Is he still feeling ambivalent? If so, it’s too freakin’ late now. Paige is having the baby.
I take a step closer to quietly ask what his deal is, but I never get the chance; Paige walks out of the ladies’ room.
Even before pregnancy, she was never a small woman, unlike a lot of the Hollywood crowd. Her voluptuous body is full of generous curves. And she’s pretty. Her loose golden hair tumbles behind her back, and her brown eyes are warm and friendly. She’s in a bright purple dress with an asymmetrical hem and an empire waist. The baby bump is obvious now, and she glows like only a woman in love can.
It reminds me of the way Belle used to glow. Now she doesn’t. And the fact sits in my gut like a knotted lump of cold noodles.
Ryder wraps his arm around Paige’s waist and pulls her to his side. “Missed you.”
“I was only gone for a few minutes,” she reminds him.
“My heart doesn’t care.” He kisses her on the forehead. “It misses you even when the absence is measured in seconds,” he says, in a faux-Cary Grant accent.
“Silly,” she says fondly, beaming up at him and putting her hand on his. “Elliot, it’s good to see you.”
“Likewise. You look amazing.” I smile easily, as always. “By the way, is Belle in the bathroom?”
“Um, no.” She hesitates for a moment, stealing a quick glance at Ryder. “We should catch up soon.”
That makes me raise an eyebrow. Paige and I have known each other for four years, but we don’t exactly have the kind of relationship that requires catching up. Still, I nod. “Sure. Call anytime.”
“I will.”
The firm tone of her voice indicates she’s not saying it to be polite or friendly. Huh.
Ryder frowns at me over the crown of her head, and I give him a small “I have no idea” look. After a brisk nod my way, he escorts her off.
Not in the bathroom. I wonder where the hell Belle is, worry beginning to gnaw. She’s been so pale. Did she feel bad and have to lie down somewhere? That wouldn’t surprise me a bit.
I pull out my phone, about to call her, but stop when I spot Annabelle Underhill. Her jewelry is expensive enough to scream, “I’m a trophy wife.” But then, she doesn’t marry men with less than a billion dollars in assets. And her skintight outfit leaves nothing to the imagination. If she thought she could get away with it, she might’ve shown up nude. Annabelle is a woman who instinctively understands how to use her body for maximum effect and to get what she wants. What wouldn’t I give to see her in her forties and see if she’ll still strut around like she’s some hot shit. But she will be completely out of my life by then.
Her gaze zeroes in on me, and she starts walking in my direction, her pelvis swaying in an exaggerated motion designed to draw my eyes to her narrow waist and hips. She shouldn’t bother. I have nothing to say to the bitch. Actually…I take that back. I have plenty to say, except none of it is appropriate for a venue as public and high-class as Elizabeth’s charity dinner.
“Elliot! Fancy running into you here!” She starts to put a hand on my arm, but my cold stare freezes her.
“How the hell did you get in?” I ask tersely, not giving a damn who overhears me.
“Stanton donates regularly to Elizabeth’s foundation, and we just happened to buy tickets.” Annabelle tosses her hair over a shoulder, then shrugs carelessly. “And thank you for the information. I knew you’d come through for me.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I say. “I did it for your uncle.” I owed the man a favor, now paid in full.
“Does it matter?” She hesitates, then inhales as though she’s firming her resolve, but I know why she’s doing it—to make her tits rise. Resting a hand on my chest, she moves closer until she’s almost flush against me. “What’s important is that you want to free me from Stanton.”
I remove her hand from my torso, my grip painfully tight on her. The only thing stopping me from shoving her away is that we have an audience and I care about my sister. “If I’d known you’d be such a conniving bitch, I wouldn’t have given you the referral.”
She gasps. “But you saw the bruises.”
And I found them horrifying, but I’ll be damned if I let her know that. Annabelle Underhill is crazy enough to twist any gesture of kindness from me into a sign of certain romance. “Like I should care about them.”
“Elliot!” she says under her breath.
“You didn’t think I’d find out you’re the one leaking that shit about my wife?”
“Are you seriously telling me you care about that…that crass little girl you married?”
“First of all, she’s not crass. Second, yes, I do care.” As I speak, I know I’m telling the truth. I care damn too much about her.
Annabelle tilts her head and looks up at me. Her eyes glitter with malice and something that’s equally disturbing. She reminds me of a starving snake ready to strike at anything to satisfy its hunger. I can’t believe I found her attractive at one point in my life. Proves I’m not as smart as people think.
“Big, strong Elliot, trying to protect his poor little wife,” she taunts me. “I didn’t say anything that isn’t true.”
“No, you didn’t. But understand me. You have your share of dirty laundry, too. Don’t think I won’t air it for shits and giggles if you keep hurting my wife.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, but I would”—I give her my most beatific smile—“with immense pleasure.”
“You think you’re immune to dirt?”
“Nope. The difference is, I don’t give a shit if people know about my dirt. Sugar daddies, on the other hand, don’t like girls with too many skeletons. And if they knew what I know about you…well, you might find it hard to replace Stanton.”
She jerks away from me with a glare. “You’re despicable.”
“Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”
“I’m going to win you back, Elliot. We’re destined to be together. And no small-town tramp is going to stop me.”
I shake my head pityingly. “Your problem is, you’re too stupid to realize you never had a chance.”
Her eyes narrow until they look like venomous incisions on her face, and she storms away. The smug expression on my face slips.
As enemies go, she isn’t particularly formidable. What she is is persistent, which, unfortunately, is just as difficult to deal with. Both types of enemies require drastic measures. I’m going to have to cut her off at the knees and make sure she never gets back up.
&nbs
p; Remembering why I came to the restroom area in the first place, I pull out my phone and text my wife.
Where are you?
If I could convey emotions with text, it would be irritation. It annoys the hell out of me that she wanted to attend this farce in the first place, and now she isn’t around and I have to deal with Annabelle Underhill.
Somebody taps my shoulder. I let a low growl vibrate through my throat. I don’t have time for more bullshit chitchat.
I spin around, a curt dismissal on my tongue, then stop. Belle.
Her pale face is pinched. Not even the expert makeup can hide the strain. Pain has turned her emerald eyes glassy, and I take her hand. It feels like ice. My irritation instantly vanishes, replaced by concern. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and she sags against me for an instant, as though she’s absorbing my warmth and strength. But a moment later she straightens and gathers herself. I feel the loss keenly.
“Are you all right?” I ask, keeping my voice low and soothing.
“I’m fine. Just a little tired. Where’s the dining hall? I couldn’t find it.”
She doesn’t meet my gaze, and I know she isn’t telling me the entire truth. There is no way she couldn’t find the dining area, since the most of the guests went that way. And she is not at all fine. From the listless way she’s talking, I know she’s autocorrecting her real answer with what she wants me to hear.
Hating the awkward tension, I offer her an arm. She hesitates, starts to slip her hand in the crook of my elbow, then slowly lowers both hands to hang by her sides instead. “Let’s go.”
I don’t want to go. I want to talk to her, make sure she’s all right, but what choice do I have for now? I escort her slowly, all the while knowing that I have to do something soon. My problem: I don’t know what that something is.
Chapter Eight
Elliot
The dinner commences without any drama, but then, people behave themselves at events like this. I’m annoyed that Annabelle Underhill has been seated in my line of sight, which means she’s also in Belle’s. What I wouldn’t give to have the earth open up and swallow her whole…and then spit her out in the middle of the Mongolian desert.
Interestingly, she isn’t with her husband. A man in his late twenties or early thirties is with her, and I recognize him the moment he turns his head and looks straight at me. He has hair entirely too long, the black locks brushing the top of his collarbones. He isn’t classically handsome the way Ryder is, but he’s striking in his own way, and women check him out with appreciation in their gaze. His icy blue eyes assess me clinically and thoroughly, and I return the favor. He’s a self-made billionaire himself, most of his money made in real estate and online media, if I remember correctly. What the hell is he doing with Stanton’s wife?
And if she has him as her friend, why the hell did she try to feed me that line of bullshit earlier about us being fated to be together? Her date is a much better target than I am. He’s plenty rich, and—unlike me—probably doesn’t know what kind of a viper she is.
But I dismiss the two of them. I have other things to worry about—mainly my wife.
Belle is seated next to me. She is stunning, absolutely gorgeous in that ice-blue dress. It brings out the fire in her hair and deepens the color of her eyes to forest green. More than a few men look at her admiringly, and I give them a warning glance. Most get the hint; for the ones who don’t, a second long, cold stare while fondling my steak knife gets the point across.
This isn’t like me. I don’t usually go all caveman over a woman, but I don’t give a fuck. Belle is my wife, and I’ll be damned if some loser is going to drool all over her. Even the huge Asscher-cut diamond and wedding band on her finger seem inadequate to show our union, and it doesn’t help that she’s careful to not touch me…which, perversely, makes me want to touch her. And I do—my elbow brushes hers and I let my fingers caress hers when I hand her the salt. Each time, she gives me a reserved smile. She gives the same smile to the other people around us, but it becomes strained every time she happens to glimpse Annabelle Underhill.
Belle’s mood affects mine.
No, that isn’t entirely a fair assessment. It is her mood plus Elizabeth’s vodka-infused comments earlier.
I study the way my wife lets her mouth smile. Her eyes are watchful and dark. Never once do they brighten with good humor.
Is this how people slowly retreat? Is this what happens when they start to become indifferent?
Even as I wonder, resentment stirs inside me. Why should she be upset when I’m the one who was wronged? I’ve given her chances. If she’d come clean at any of those times, I would have never held it against her—
“Great fish,” a man who’s been sitting to my right says, looking at me expectantly. He’s at least in his late fifties, his hair more gray than black.
I look down at my plate. Sure enough, it’s some kind of white fish with some kind of white sauce, and I’ve already had a few bites. The problem is I don’t remember how it tasted. “Yes…succulent,” I manage.
“Your sister always knows how to put these things together.”
“That she does.”
I signal for more wine, and drink while pretending to enjoy the meal. Gavin and Amandine didn’t come—she isn’t feeling well—and now I wish I’d canceled, too. Elizabeth wouldn’t have minded as long as she got my donation.
“Your brother and his wife seem to be quite the happy couple,” the man continues.
“Ryder would’ve never married a woman he didn’t love, and I can say the same about Paige,” I answer, taking a quick glance in their direction.
Ryder whispers something in her ear; she flushes and giggles, slapping his shoulder affectionately. Even if I had no clue how they really felt, watching them would dispel any doubts. My brother can pull off the lovesick routine. He’s a brilliant actor, after all. But Paige? She couldn’t act for shit, even if her life depended on it. Her reaction to him is one hundred percent genuine.
“Surprising, isn’t it? Didn’t really seem like she’d be his type.” The man looks at me expectantly, like he honestly thinks I’ll pursue this brain-cell-killing line of conversation. When I ignore him, he says, “Don’t you think?”
“Think what? Who says she’s not his type?” I ask tersely.
“Um. I’m saying…she’s a little on the heavy side. Not”—he clears his throat—“your usual Hollywood beauty.”
Shallow asshole. “Ryder prefers inner beauty. At least it doesn’t decline with age or need periodic plastic surgery to maintain.”
“Ah. You’re probably right.” He leans forward and looks at my wife. “Inner beauty. That is indeed important.”
Doing my best to rein in my temper, I put down my utensils. I turn to face the annoying bastard fully, my tight fists on the table. “You have a point you’d like to make?” My nerves are frayed, and if the other man weren’t so damn old, I would’ve knocked his teeth out by now, Elizabeth’s function or not.
“Nothing, really.” He eyes my fists uneasily. “It just seems odd…you and your brother marrying so quickly, back to back.”
“Maybe true love found us back to back.” I give him a hard stare. “What’s odd is people being ungracious about others’ good fortune.”
The man flushes and turns away. He starts chatting with the woman seated on his other side, but I can sense he’s talking about what I said about Ryder and Paige. Just what the hell gives him the right to question what Ryder and I do?
My wife excuses herself and leaves the table, her face pale and strained.
I watch her go. That expression probably isn’t convincing anybody that we’re happily married.
That she’s gone for the rest of the dinner and the following dance and social mingling doesn’t help either. Other women come over with pointless smiles, and I pretend to be happy dancing with them, but I’m not. I want to leave, and to hell with everyone. This is why I hate coming to events for my sister. I have to behave fo
r her sake. After a fourth dance with a simpering socialite who makes my teeth grind, I’ve had enough. I go to the bar. “Scotch. Neat. To the brim.”
The crisply dressed bartender raises both his eyebrows, but gives me what I want. I hand him a twenty and chug it down rapidly.
“Goodness, is that scotch?”
I sigh at the rotten timing. “Yes, Mommy,” I say, turning to face Elizabeth.
She eyes my drink with disapproval, then raises her gaze. “Come on.” She takes my hand.
I resist when she tugs. “Can’t. Waiting for Belle.”
She takes a quick look around, then leans upward and whispers into my ear. “She’s not coming. There’s been an accident.”
Chapter Nine
Elliot
It takes an hour to reach the Sterling-Wilson Medical Research Center. And during the entire trip, my heart stays in my throat. I don’t know what the hell happened. There aren’t any security cameras inside the mansion, and the staircase is very well lit.
Why would my wife fall down the stairs?
I don’t believe it was the heels, even though she isn’t used to wearing them. Besides, people who aren’t used to them tend to be more careful. The steps have been specially sandblasted to prevent slipping. In addition, there’s a very sturdy railing.
Nonny’s late night comments slither over my mind. Apparently Belle tried to hurt herself the same way when she was younger. But surely her life with me isn’t so miserable that she would do this.
You haven’t been exactly open and understanding. She never got a chance to really talk to you. For all you know, she might have an ongoing propensity to hurt herself when she’s under stress. If my conscience had a hand, it’d be wagging a finger at me.
I grit my teeth. I refuse to believe my wife would harm herself that way, no matter what. She’s too strong, too responsible.
It was probably an accident, I tell myself, since that’s the least objectionable scenario. It doesn’t matter I don’t quite believe it, either; the other possibilities are intolerable.
