He drank the coffee fast even though his stomach complained, still struggling with the after-effects of last night’s alcohol. Last night, what a nightmare that had turned out to be. He’d made excuses for her not being there to cut her cake. A migraine. His knuckles whitened. She was giving him a fucking migraine.
Steven left the cup in the sink and stalked upstairs. He’d break the door down to get in if he had to. He should’ve hauled her out last night. He shook his head. No. Better she acted the fool in private. In public they were perfect, the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Slade, heirs to the Coulter legacy.
He twisted their bedroom door handle. The metal groaned and opened. Last night the handle hadn’t budged. He shrugged off the faint sense of unease gathering around him like whispered accusations. She must have jammed the door and then felt repentant this morning. Pity he wasn’t in the mood to forgive.
He stepped into the room, then reared back at the appalling stench. His bedroom smelled like a party of drunken rats had drowned and then dried under a relentless sun.
“Jesus.” It was worse than the milk.
His wardrobe door hung open. The rails where his suits and shirts had hung were gappy and grinning like an old man missing teeth.
“What the hell?” His face twisted with rage. Every suit was gone.
Steven turned. The bed was empty and un-slept in. Where was she? He spun. She wasn’t in the bathroom but the bath was full. Every one of his suits was stuffed into the tub.
“Fuck, no.”
The stink was wet Italian wool and wine. And was that wine or blood on the white tiles, pooling in the grout?
Steven snatched up the phone from his side of the bed and dialed Eliza’s cell phone. This little stunt was too much. She had no right to do this, after everything he’d done…
A chirp answered his call. Anger congealed into a sharp-edged brick that wedged in his gut. He stomped around the bed and flung open her wardrobe door, knowing what he’d find. Her handbag. He pulled the little black bag down from the shelf. Her phone lit up the interior. Keys. Wallet. Sunglasses. All still inside. His rage exploded. The phone slid out of his fingers and bounced in the soft burgundy carpet.
It could have been the hangover, or the smell of his ruined suits, or that Eliza was gone and he would have to involve the police. His stomach heaved and acid coffee scratched his throat. Steven ran for the bathroom, stepping on the smashed wine glass and slicing his foot. He didn’t have time to curse. He barely made it to the toilet.
If she ruined his plans, he’d kill her, he swore as he threw up.
Chapter 2
Eliza’s handbag sat on the table, small and neat and expensive. But then he’d bought it for her, and it perfectly suited his tastes. Steven had brought it downstairs and placed it in the cloakroom for the police to find. She may be missing, but he didn’t want the police in the bedroom. Not until he’d finished cleaning up. Partners were always the first suspect. Given the spat last night, a giant novelty neon-yellow sports finger was pointed his way, declaring him guilty of a crime he hadn’t committed.
He didn’t need the police uncovering the ones he had.
“So you had a fight at eleven,” the cop read from his notes.
“Approximately.” Steven folded his hands. He stopped short of wringing them; that would be too much.
“Then Ms. Coulter disappeared.”
Steven nodded. “I thought she’d gone upstairs to tidy up.”
“Tidy up?” The cop raised his eyebrow.
“Fix her makeup. She was upset.”
“Give her twenty-four hours.” The cop closed his notebook. “She’s probably at a friend’s.”
Which friend? He knew all her friends and none of them would hide her from him…except the bitch sister- in-law, but she wouldn’t involve her precious brat. Eliza should’ve been in the bedroom. How had she left the party without being seen by anyone? Without taking her car, or cell, or purse? Yet she’d vanished, leaving everything behind, but taking everything she knew about him and his business dealings. For all he knew she was having a chat with the Major Fraud Squad now. His throat constricted.
“I’m worried.” What if she’d planned this and faked her own disappearance just to get the police involved? “She’s never done anything like this before.”
And wouldn’t again, once he got his hands on her. His mind raced. If she didn’t turn up, maybe he could still use it to his advantage. The paperwork pointed at her…that alone gave her motive to vanish with the cash.
“It happens more often than you’d like to think.” The cop made to leave, then turned. “What was the fight about?”
Steven hid his frustration at the cop for lingering. Who cared what they fought about? He fabricated a lie around enough truth that it was plausible.
“She saw me talking to another woman. Got jealous. Women on their birthdays—they just don’t like getting older.” Steven walked toward the door.
He didn’t want to seem overly eager to get the cop out, but if the constable looked hard enough, there would be something that would earn a more detailed investigation of the house. He couldn’t afford that. He was working a balancing act. He wanted Eliza found
Did he want too much?
“She’ll be back by dinner,” the cop assured him.
Steven opened the front door and winced. There was probably glass embedded in his hand. It had been everywhere else—in the bath, in his suits, on the floor. One glass in a hundred pieces.
The cop had noticed and paused. “What did you do to your hand?”
Steven held it up for inspection. “Broke a glass while I was cleaning up the lounge room.”
“Looks like you’ve got more to go.”
“I’ve got cleaners coming in to help.” He’d left enough mess to make sure he looked like the anxious fiance. The bedroom he was going to have to finish himself. It was too much of a crime scene. Like Eliza was trying to frame him and make sure the police would search the house and office. Was she hoping they would find what she couldn’t?
Whatever Eliza was trying to pull would fail. He’d already bagged his suits and put bicarb on the stained grout. Getting rid of the stink was going to be harder. But by the time he was done, there would be no reason for the police to suspect him of any wrongdoing at home, or at work.
If she came back, he would be teaching her a lesson. He needed to pull her into line. And fast. A performance like this at the wedding wouldn’t fly. It would ruin his reputation.
Steven held the front door open. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to see you again.”
If Eliza didn’t come back, he would have to file a missing persons report just to look the part. A flicker of doubt surfaced. What if she were really missing? He pushed the thought aside. Who abducted a woman from her own birthday party?
Roan watched the rise and fall of Eliza’s chest. Her lashes lay against her cheeks as if she were a doll waiting for life to return and reanimate her body. A purple bruise and patterned graze marred her forehead, and her feet were bandaged. Anfri had worked under his supervision, touching only where told, yet still it had been too much.
