Where the hell is he going so early in the morning?
I walk back into the bedroom, take in the messed-up sheets, a pillow thrown to the floor. There's a dent in the pillow on his side of the bed, where we’d both slept. A shiver works its way up my spine.
I’d thought…that he had feelings for me… Love? Nah, that’s too strong a word. Possession. The marriage is a bullshit fake to end all fakes…but perhaps it had elicited some primal feeling in him? Something that made him want to exert his ownership over me…because in some way, he’s made me his.
Am I his?
Is he mine?
Sure, he'd shared more of himself with me. That doesn't mean anything; not when he'd lied to me about the call and left. I chew on my fingernail. There must be a good reason for his actions; there has to be. So why couldn't he tell me?
For that matter, why haven't I revealed the reason I am here?
Why haven't I told him about the hold the Mafia has on me? I could use his help. The thought has crossed my mind. But... I chew on my lower lip... What if I told him and the Mafia found out about it? They'd hurt him...and Nina. Sure, Saint has resources at his disposal...but the Mafia... They’re everywhere, and they are ruthless. I can't play with both of their lives; I can't take the risk of something happening to them.
I curl my fists into my sides. I can't endanger the lives of both of the people I've come to care about.
No, the only way to protect both Saint and Nina is to complete what I came to do. But first, I have to find out why he lied to me.
I need to catch up with him, and find out why or who he keeps rushing off to see.
Walking to the closet door, I wrench it open. Ignoring the clothes he bought me, I cross the floor to my bag on the far end. Strange. I can't find any of my underclothes in the bag. Well, I am not going to wear the lingerie that he bought for me, it doesn't seem right to do so, not when he could be cheating on me as we speak... shit, don't do that, don't make assumptions, not until you find out the truth for yourself.
I forgo the underwear and pull on my jeans and a top; then tug on ballet pumps.
My heart begins to race. Adrenaline fills my blood. I grab my handbag from where I’d dropped it on the table near the door, then race out.
I punch the button to the elevator and the doors slide open. I step in, take it to the ground floor. Moderating my pace, I reach the guard by the door. It’s the same guy who’d come toward us the day Saint and I had had our altercation on the sidewalk.
"Ma’am." He touches his finger to his forehead, in a semi-salute, "Can I help you?"
I bite my lips, "Uh… Actually, yes." I tip up my chin, "Can you get me a rental car or a taxi, please?"
He frowns.
"Saint told me I should ask you for help if I need anything." I add.
He stills, then nods. "I won't be a minute, Ma’am, if you’d wait here?" He disappears out the front doors. I shift my weight from foot to foot. A group walks in, and I shuffle aside.
I wring my fingers together; sweat slides down my back. What am I doing? Will I be too late to catch him?
The doorman walks in. He extends his arm and I take the key fob from him.
"It’s the red Maserati parked right in front."
"A Maserati?" I blink, "Oh, but I don’t need anything that flashy—" Not to mention that it'd stand out on the road. "Isn’t there any other car, a little less…uh... Expensive?"
"Mr. Caldwell specifically allocated this one for you."
"Right."
Had he remembered my tastes from our conversation a few weeks ago? That must be it. What does it mean that he did? And when had he indicated to the doorman to direct me to this, if I asked? Had he guessed that I might want to drive my own car at some point?
"Ma’am?" the doorman prompts me.
I curl my fingers around the key fob, then eye his name tag. "Thank you, Dorian."
He nods, "No problem." He holds the door open for me.
I walk down the steps, press down on the key fob to unlock the car doors. I slip into the driver’s seat, then program the way to Mill Hill East on the GPS.
It takes me 30 minutes to get there on the highway. I ease into a parking lot on the main street, then walk up the sidewalk. I spot Saint's Jaguar almost immediately. It's parked outside a coffeeshop.
Is he meeting someone here? I peek in through the glass wall, but can’t see him. I turn to go…then glance back. There, at the far end, are the unmistakable broad shoulders which could only belong to one guy. His dark hair curls at his collar. He’s facing away, talking to someone. I try to peer past him. Damn it. I can’t see who’s in the seat opposite him. Show me your face. Go on. Do it.
As if she hears me, the woman in the seat rises to her feet. She’s tiny, perfectly curved and wearing black skintight jeans. Her blonde hair flows to her waist. I can’t make out the color of her eyes, but no doubt, they are as stunning as the rest of her. She blows out a breath, folds her arms over her waist.
She hauls her handbag over her shoulder, then throws her hands in the air. Her slim, tight-fitting shirt rides up, revealing a smooth flat stomach. I ball my fists at my sides. Of course, she’s model perfect. Is she his ex-girlfriend? Ex-something? Or maybe...current?
Her gestures are heated as she talks to him.
He
