The man leaves; Saint slumps back in his chair, blood trickling from a cut in his lips.
My stomach lurches and bile laces my throat. Shit, I can't be sick, not now. I click out of the video, eject the flash drive, then shove it into my handbag.
I turn to leave, then hesitate. I mean, come on, I have access to his computer. Do I dare? I pause. Do I? Fuck it. I swivel to face the screen, open up his email folder and scan through the emails. What am I looking for? Any clue to the woman? Anything to indicate who she is? The subjects of the emails all seem boring...work related. Shit, this is getting me nowhere. I click out of the emails. What now? I open up the pictures folder... Peruse the images. There. I click open pictures of Saint with Sinner, Saint with Weston and the other guy from the Seven... Arpad? Yeah that’s his name... Saint with... I pause. It's a picture of Saint with the girl I saw him with earlier. It's taken somewhere in the open, by a river...? The two of them are fishing. Saint's smiling at her—shit, he never smiles like that.
His features are relaxed, his clothes more weather-beaten than anything I've ever seen him wear. My fingers tighten on the mouse. Damn it, this was a mistake. What do I care what the relationship between them is?
I click out of the pictures, scan the names of the other folders...
Anything else? Anything. Come on. There's a folder called “Gigi.”
I click it open… then open up the file called 'Beatles.' Beatles, huh? It has files…marked in the order of years. From 1963—the year the first Beatles album came out—to the current year. I open the first file… A page filled with facts… Every single detail of every hit, links to relevant events that happened to the Fab Four in that year—the tours, the albums released, girlfriends at that time, news headlines they made. Wow. Did he do all of this research? Nah! Probably had some minion pull it up for him… He is thorough, I have to give him that.
I scroll down to the file marked “Gigi.” Gigi? I click it open…and it is filled with riddles. Questions about the Beatles… So this is how he prepared for his meetings with me, like I was some kind of acquisition. It’s so very Saint. Being thorough, strategic… He’d been planning on how to converse with me…because he’d realized The Beatles were a pet obsession for me? But why? Why would he go about it in such a methodical fashion… Almost as if he—
"Victoria?"
I jump and the hair on the back of my neck prickles.
I look up to see his familiar features towering in front of me.
"Saint…?"
37
Saint
Her features freeze and her gaze widens. I step into my office.
She swallows.
I prowl forward and the color fades from her cheeks.
"What a surprise to find you here, wife."
She draws in a breath, then tips her chin in that gesture of defiance I am coming to recognize so well. My woman will never give me an inch; she’ll make me fight for it. And fuck, if I don’t love that about her.
Love? Fucking love.
There is that word again. A confusing emotion—one which muddles my instincts, clouds my intuition, and causes me to doubt my own judgment.
I reach my desk, pause in front of it with my legs spread wide apart. I prop my hands on my hips, "You have something to tell me?"
She swallows.
"Out with it, Gigi." I glance over the part of her that is visible above the monster hunk of a wood, which— Truth be told, I’d bought the desk in a fit of defiance. I’d wanted it to be the biggest desk among all the Seven. Don’t judge. I’m entitled to spend my hard-earned money how I like it, right? Especially on her. I’ll shower her with whatever she wants, and stuff she doesn’t even know she needs. Hell, I’d trade in all of my riches for one more night of ecstasy with her—under me, in my bed, bent over my desk, ass in the air... Gigi crawling over to me across that wide surface, asking me to punish her for a crime she’d committed. I lower my voice to a hush, "Say the word, sweet thing." She pales. Her chest rises and falls. "Confess to your misdoings and I’ll mete out your punishment."
She bites down on her lower lip. I jerk my gaze to that glistening flesh—pouty, full, pink and sensuous. Like the melting triangle of goodness between her legs. My dick lengthens and her gaze drops down to my crotch. I don’t need to look down to know the crotch of my pants is tented right then.
"Do it," I growl.
She flinches. Her upper body moves, then she rises to her feet. She grabs the arms of my chair, swings her legs up, and hoists herself onto the chair.
"What the fuck?" I blink.
She’s naked from her waist down.
No panties. Nothing except the curve of her hips silhouetted against the light pouring in from the wide windows behind her. Nothing except for the smooth expanse of her creamy thighs marked with reddened scratches. I’d done that, at some point during the last night, when I’d gone down on her. After she’d fallen asleep on my
