I exited through the doorway where I’d seen David practically vibrating with anger. Was it my fault? A quick scan of the foyer gave me nothing. My next stop was valet in case he’d decided to leave—but again, nothing. As I turned to go back in, I saw him pacing off to the side of the house, dark and portentous like a brewing storm. I picked up my skirts and ran over to him, not knowing what I’d say, just that I had to know what had run through his mind when he’d looked at me that way now.
“David,” I hissed, careful not to draw attention to us.
His head jerked up, and he froze. “Olivia.”
“I thought you were in New York.”
“I was.” With his mask in a death grip, he resumed his march. “I got back last night.”
“You’re mad,” I said, moving my mask to my forehead.
“I can’t even look at you right now.”
“Me?” My heart fell. “What did I do?”
He stopped pacing in front of me and ran a hand through hair as black as his tuxedo. His grip tightened on the silver mask in his hand when he asked, “Are you happy with him?”
“David,” I said, my eyes darting around. “We can’t do this here.”
“Answer me. Are you happy, Olivia?”
I glared at him a moment before walking further around the house. I heard him tramping behind me as I led us toward a concealed, wooded area that seemed to separate the neighborhood’s sprawling properties.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he yelled and threw his fist into a tree. “To see his hands on you—it’s too fucking much.”
I blanched, unprepared forthisto be the moment David snapped.
“Please, calm down,” I pleaded when he started pacing again. “Let’s talk about this rationally.”
“I should be the one touching you like that, not him.” He fisted the mask so tightly in his other hand that it cracked in half. “It should be me.”
I drew a sharp breath. “David, we need to—to talk,” I said. My heart jump-started as though it were on the verge of exploding. I readied the words in my head, fighting back hot tears.
We’re through. You have to go away. I have to push you away even though what I want is to run to you, to drown in you . . .
“I can’t. I can’t share you like this.” He shook his head hard and gestured toward the house. I gasped when I noticed his bloody knuckles. “It makes me want to just . . .”
“You’re bleeding,” I said, reaching for his hand.
He pulled back. “He has you, and it drives me fucking crazy. It’s all I can think about and then to see you in there dancing with him . . .”
“He’s my husband,” I said, my voice hitching.
“No fucking shit.” He turned away. “I can’t believe I let myself get so involved with this.”
I hated to see him hurt, but what could I say that he didn’t already know? I attempted to swallow the lump rising in my throat. “You knew what we were getting into.”
“So it’s my fault, I guess.”
“Wedid this to ourselves.”
He turned back to me. “You have to tell me what you want, Olivia. I can’t do this anymore.”
I gritted my teeth, fighting back unwelcome tears. “I—he’s my husband.”
“So that’s it? You’re not even going to consider . . .?”
“What, David?”
