That night is the longest of my life.
For a few hours, I’m in denial. I sit on the edge of the mattress in the dark, telling myself he’ll be back any minute, and that this is all just a game. A little payback for not showing up when he ordered me to. Just a small time-out for me to reflect on my behavior, then he’ll show up again, smirking and annoying as hell.
But sometime around midnight, cold, hard reality sets in, and I accept my fate.
I roll onto my back, scoot around on the mattress, and grab a pillow from the head of the bed with my feet. Drawing my knees up, I manage to grasp it with a hand, then settle it under my head. I pull the covers up from the bottom of the bed until I can wriggle under them one-handed, then I lie on my back in the dark and stare at the ceiling, vowing I’ll find a way to make Callum regret this.
Finally, when the sky beyond the windows is lifting from deep sapphire to pearl gray, I fall into a fitful sleep.
I don’t know how long I’m out, but when I wake up, I’m looking at an upside-down view of Arlo. He’s leaning over me, smiling.
“Good morning. I trust you slept well. Coffee?”
I try to roll over, but am painfully reminded why I can’t when I almost yank my arm from the socket.
I look at the handcuffs binding my wrist to the bedpost. Then I look back at Arlo.
I say calmly, “Yes, coffee would be wonderful, thank you. Right after you call the police to report a kidnapping.”
He clucks. “You haven’t been kidnapped. This is your own home, after all.”
“Oh good. Then nobody should mind when I burn it to the ground.”
From his shirt pocket, he produces a small silver key, which he holds up. “Shall I?”
Playing along with this polite insanity, I smile. “So kind of you. Thanks ever so much.”
He unlocks the cuffs with a practiced twist of his wrist, then turns around discreetly as I sit up, pull them off, and angrily fling them against the headboard.
I suppose I should be embarrassed that I’m stark naked, but I’ve got more important things to worry about at the moment than modesty.
Rising from bed, I hold the sheet up to my chest and face Arlo. “Is my husband home, by any chance?”
Turning around to face me, he says, “He left for work early this morning.”
“I see. But the chef is here, I presume?”
“He is. Would you like me to have him make you something to eat?”
“Yes. I’d like a Denver omelet, four pieces of bacon, a side of cut fruit, an apple juice, and coffee.”
Revenge should always be carried out on a full stomach.
“Perfect. I’ll be up with it soon.” He inclines his head, then leaves.
I shower, blow-dry my hair, and dress, choosing an elegant red silk dress that Dani insisted I buy though I thought it made me look like a game show hostess. She said I’d need things like this for all the lunches I’d soon be having with wealthy society ladies or when I audition for the next season of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
I told her I’d rather live in the Ballona Wetlands than do either of those things.
She said I normally look as if I have been living in the Ballona Wetlands, so get the damn dress and shut up already.
Needless to say, she was right. I look respectable. Conservative, but with a hint of sex appeal. Stylish, but not flashy.
In a word, I look rich.
Satisfied, I slip on a pair of nude-colored high-heel sandals to complete the look, then come out of the master closet to find Arlo setting up my breakfast on the writing desk.
“Lovely. Thank you, Arlo.”
He pulls out the chair for me, settles a napkin in my lap, and stands back, watching as I take the first bite of the omelet.
“Delicious.”
“I’m so glad.”
I take another bite, swallow that, then take a sip of coffee. The whole time, Arlo watches me as if he’s a stray dog waiting for table scraps.
“Is there some reason you’re lurking over my breakfast?”
“Mr. McCord instructed me to make sure you have everything you need this morning.”
I smile at him. “Actually, I don’t. Will you please bring me a hatchet? I’ll need that for later, when my darling husband comes home.”
I think I glimpse a fleeting smile cross his lips, but it’s gone so fast, I can’t be sure.
He says, “He was very concerned about your mood.”
I say archly, “Was he? How thoughtful. And how odd that if he was so concerned, he wasn’t here to gauge my mood for himself.”
“I’m sure he wanted to be.”
I snort and stab the omelet with my fork.
“It’s just that he’s extremely busy. He’s under immense pressure at work.”
I mutter, “That man hasn’t seen immense pressure yet.”
After a pause, Arlo says, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but…” His sigh borders on melodramatic.
I look at him with raised brows. “What?”
He runs a finger along the carved edge of the writing desk, gazing thoughtfully at the wood. Then he taps it twice as if he’s made a decision and looks up at me.
“He cares for you, Emery. In a way I’ve never seen him care for anyone before.”
“If this is his way of showing he cares, God help me. The man requires a straightjacket.”
He chuckles. “I know he’s different.”
“Different is an understatement. He’s an alien species.” After another sip of coffee, I ask, “How long have you worked for him?”
“Six years. Since he was first inducted into the—”
Stopping abruptly, he clears his throat. “Since he took over from his father as CEO of McCord Media.”
Carefully watching his expression, I say, “Inducted into what?”
“I apologize. That was a wrong choice of word.”
We gaze at each other. Both of us know he’s lying. I decide to let it go because I know I won’t get more out of him, but I tuck it into the back of my mind for further exploration later.
“If I wanted to have you drive me somewhere, is that doable? Or do you only work for Callum?”
“I’m at your service. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
“Good. Meet me in the garage in twenty minutes.”
My smile is dismissive. I can tell he wants to ask where we’re going, but he doesn’t.
He’ll find out soon enough.
When we pull up in front of the Wilshire Grand in downtown, I get out before Arlo can open the door for me and strut into the lobby of the seventy-story building like I own it.
Which I suppose I might, considering whom I’m married to.
Smiling at the uniformed security guard seated behind the impressive black granite reception desk, I say cordially, “Good morning. I’m here to see Callum McCord.”
The security guard, a nice young man with broad shoulders and a hideous bowl haircut obviously given to him by his archenemy, says, “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
“No, but I shouldn’t need one.”
His expression indicates otherwise. Before he can tell me to take a hike, I say, “I’m Emery, his wife.”
He stares at me, blinking rapidly. The other security guard sitting next to him stares at me in shock too.
Apparently, my darling husband hasn’t shared the blissful news of our marriage.
I say, “Tell him that if I don’t see him within the next two minutes, I’m going to throw all his clothes into a big pile in the middle of Sunset Boulevard and set it on fire. And make sure you say that verbatim.”
I walk over to the nearest chair and sit down to wait.
It doesn’t take long. After only a minute, the security guard approaches me, looking nervous.
“Ma’am, Mr. McCord says to send you straight up. I’ll escort you to the elevator.”
“Thank you.”
I rise, holding the brown paper bag I’ve brought with me, and follow him through the bustling lobby to the elevator bank. He uses his security badge to gain access to the floor, then presses the button for me when I get inside.
When the elevator stops and the doors slide open again, they reveal a beautifully decorated penthouse lobby with a floor-to-ceiling water feature on one side and a reception desk on the other. I approach the woman behind the desk. She’s about my age, with wavy dark hair, a pretty, heart-shaped face, and an enviably glowing complexion.
“Good morning. I’m Emery. And can I just say I love that shade of lipstick you’re wearing? A bold red lip is my favorite.”
She looks up at me as if starstruck. “Oh my God. You do exist.”
“You say that like I’m Bigfoot. What am I missing?”
Leaping to her feet, she comes around the corner of the desk and takes my free hand, shaking it vigorously.
“I’m so sorry, please excuse my manners! I’m Tracy. When Mr. McCord told me a minute ago that his wife was coming up, I almost keeled over. I mean, his wife?” She laughs. “A miracle! Nobody thought it would ever happen!”
I say drily, “Yes, he did wait right up until the last minute, didn’t he?”
She stares at me quizzically for a beat, then shakes her head. “Please consider me your assistant as well. I’m here to help you with anything you might need, from travel arrangements to reservations to, well, anything. I’m just so excited to meet you. And congratulations! Oh, this is such unexpected, wonderful news—”
“Tracy.”
The growled word cuts through the air like a knife. Tracy stops pumping my hand and freezes.
We look over to find Callum standing in his open office door, shooting poisoned darts at his secretary with his eyes.
Terrified, she drops my hand as if it burned her and scurries back to her desk, where she busies herself by frantically clicking around on her computer.
I send Callum a dour stare. “Good morning, Sunshine.”
He presses his lips together and stands back to allow me to pass by.
Entering his office, I look around. It’s impressive. The artwork, the furnishings, the view of the LA skyline—all of it screams money, power, and prestige.
I expected nothing less.
From behind me, Callum says, “This is a surprise.”
“I bet.”
I turn to face him. He’s wearing a beautiful charcoal-gray suit that probably cost more than my annual employee payroll. He shuts the door, then glances at the bag I’m carrying.
“I brought you lunch.” Sashaying over to his huge oak desk, I set it next to the telephone. Then I perch on the edge of the desk and smile at him.
He sends me a smirk in return. “You look well rested.”
This arrogant prick. I hope he enjoys his fucking sandwich.
I say airily, “I am, thank you. That mattress is so comfy.”
We gaze at each other as he slowly walks closer, his smirk growing with every step.
“I came to discuss my car. You remember it, don’t you, darling? The VW you had hauled away for scrap?”
“It was a death trap.”
“It was my death trap. You had no right to get rid of it. Just like you had no right to handcuff me to your bed.”
“Our bed,” he corrects, his gaze sweeping down my figure. Licking his lips, he says in a husky tone, “That dress is incredible.”
“Oh, this old thing? I bought it with your ridiculous limitless credit card at some fancy boutique in Beverly Hills where the salespeople looked at me as if I’d given birth to Satan’s scaly, forked-tongue baby and was dragging it around by its bloody umbilical cord. So charming, those boutique ladies. They made me feel as if suicide was my only viable option.”
“Tell me which ones, and I’ll have them all fired.”
“A tempting thought, but I don’t want to be responsible for the spike in the unemployment rate it would cause. And you can stop right there. That’s close enough.”
Only a few feet away, he stops and stares at me from under lowered brows.
When his hungry gaze drifts over my body again, I say succinctly, “I don’t give you permission to touch me.” Then I slide my butt onto his desk, lean back on my hands, and cross my legs.
Swinging one foot slowly back and forth, I smile at him.
His eyes flash. A muscle in his jaw flexes. He inhales slowly, his nostrils flaring when he exhales.
It’s a dangerous game I’m playing, but holy hell, it’s fun.
“My car, Callum.”
He growls, “It’s gone. I’ll buy you whatever you want to replace it.”
“Fine. I want the same make and model. The same year and color too. And I can tell by the way your nostrils are flaring you don’t like that idea, but tough titties.”
His heated gaze rakes over my breasts. “Careful, wife.”
“No, you be careful. Because if you think you married a pushover, think again.”
“I know exactly who I married,” he says softly, his eyes piercing. “Do you?”
“Yes. A psychopath with too much money, too little patience, and too much confidence for his own good. When are you going to introduce me to your family?”
That muscle in his jaw flexes again. “When the time is right.”
I laugh. “Oh, interesting! Will that be the same time you let literally anyone know that you have a wife? Because apparently, I’ve caused some shock waves just by showing up here this morning. I thought your poor secretary was going to need oxygen.”
“I don’t disclose my private life to anyone outside the family. I told you that.”
“So, what, then? I’m supposed to hide in the castle and pretend I don’t exist?”
He’s getting more and more agitated. I’m not sure if it’s my flippant tone or the way I’m swinging my leg seductively back and forth, but either way, I can tell his blood pressure is rising.
I hope his aorta bursts.
“No,” he says through clenched teeth. “Now give me permission to touch you.”
Twirling a lock of hair between my fingers, I say sweetly, “Dearest, darling husband, it will be a cold day in hell when that happens.”
“Emery,” he warns, eyes flashing.
I pretend to shiver in fright. “Ooo. So scary.”
“Don’t test me.”
I giggle at the look of fury on his face. Winding him up might be my new favorite thing.
“Or what? You’ll do your big bad wolf impression and growl? Sorry, but I’ve seen that routine before. You’ll have to do better.”
His expression hardens. His lips thin. He curls his hands to fists.
Electric and sweet, a thrill runs through my body. My pulse races, my nipples harden, and my breath catches in my throat. Reveling in my ability to piss him off and also in my newfound power of holding him in place with nothing but a denial, I laugh out loud.
I realize I’ve made a terrible miscalculation when he lunges at me.
