Does she enjoy it when he fucks her?
I clench my fingers at my sides. What the hell is wrong with me? She's taken, married to another. I should let her go. So why does every pore in my body insist that this is not over?
I head inside the townhouse that belongs to my friend Sinclair Sterling, aka the groom of the wedding. Striding to the bar, I lean over the counter, "Where the fuck did she come from?" I slide my fingers into my pocket, searching for the pack of cigarettes that isn't there. Shit, why did I quit again? Whose bloody idea had it been to give up smoking? I sure could do with a puff now.
Weston tops up my champagne flute. "Who are you talking about?" he asks.
"Victoria," I mutter.
"You mean the woman you've been ogling—"
I snarl.
He snickers, "—I meant ‘staring at’ for the last half hour."
"Fuck off." I reach for the champagne.
"She's married." Weston pours the remainder of the bubbling liquid in his glass.
"Yeah." I raise the flute to my lips.
"Isn't that off limits, even for you?" He overturns the bottle, places it in the bucket of ice.
He's right. I stay away from married women... Normally. Don’t need the kind of emotional baggage that comes with them. Hell no, I prefer my hookups to be neat—swoop in, decimate, get out.
I chug down the drink, then grimace. "Isn't there any real alcohol in this place?"
"That's £20,000 you chugged down there, ol' chap."
I stare into my glass. "Could have fooled me." I survey the shelf of liquors behind the bar. "Whiskey," I growl. "Why are you bartending anyway?"
"Because Damian decided he preferred the company of one of the fairer sex than our esteemed selves."
"Right," I mutter.
Weston half turns his body, reaches for the bottle I'd have chosen myself. Good man.
He places the bottle on the counter, pulls out tumblers, then proceeds to pour in a generous measure. I dunk my hand into the bucket, pull out ice-cubes that I plop into my drink.
"Classy." Weston grimaces, uses ice-cube tongs for his. "So, you interested in Summer's stepmother?"
"She's Summer's age." I glower.
"You’re not seriously considering this, are you?"
"Why not?" I swirl the liquid in my glass. "Besides, something about that marriage is not right."
"You can never tell from the outside," Weston retorts. "Only those in the relationship have an inkling of what's happening."
"Come on." I jerk my chin, "Watch the two of them. You really think she has feelings for that piece of shit husband of hers?"
Weston glances past me. He takes a sip from his glass, "Didn't think you were the kind to indulge in speculation."
Me neither. I rub the back of my neck. What the hell am I doing thinking about possibilities, about could-have-beens? Hadn't the events of my past taught me to move on swiftly? To never look back, never dwell on the piece of shit hand I'd been dealt. I chug down my drink.
"You're right." I set down the glass with a thump. "I am going to find out everything about her, ex-boyfriends, what food she likes, her taste in clothes—"
"Wouldn't you rather ask her about it?" He tilts his head.
"What would the fun be in that?"
He stares at me, then nods. "True. Knowledge is power and all that."
"I am going to dig out every piece of dirt on her and why she’s married to that fucker of a husband." I tighten my fingers about the bottle.
Weston pulls out his phone, moves his fingers over the screen. "I know just the person to help you."
2
What is always in front of you but can’t be seen?
Answer: Your future
5 days later
Victoria
Sunlight shines off the polished casket of my husband. Adam Rhodes died 4 days ago in his home city of London of a heart attack. He was fifty-five years old.
If I sound like I am reading the words from an impersonal obituary, it's because I didn't spent much time with him. I had played the role of his wife for less than two months. Nevertheless, I should cry, shouldn't I?
I bite down on my lower lip, stare as the casket disappears out of sight into the ground. No one deserves to die that young. I hadn't spent much time with him... Yet the fact that he was breathing one second, gone the next is...a shock.
A wind blows and goosebumps dot my skin. That's London for you. One moment you are warm in the sun, then the breeze brushes over you and it's as if someone walked over your grave. Not a good comparison right now. My lips twist. I hunch my shoulders in my jacket—okay, Saint's jacket. It dwarfs me, and I had rolled up the sleeves so it would fit. Why the hell had I worn it? What the hell had I been thinking? It had seemed like a small act of defiance, one way to exert control over my life, I suppose. Had I wanted to be surrounded by his scent? I huddle into its warmth.
Next to me, Summer's shoulders shake. She clings to her sister Karma. Both girls had reconnected to their father after so long, only to lose him again. This wasn't supposed to happen. It means I am on my own.
An electric current surges up my spine. I stare past the open grave. Blue eyes bore into me. The force of his physical presence crashes into me. The impact of his dominance pulls at me. The hollow feeling in my belly intensifies. The melting sensation in my core deepens. Shit. My 'husband' is in his newly-dug grave, not a few feet away, and I can't stop eye-fucking the man—the almost stranger—the man who'd threatened to hurt me if
