“Then this is good,” Colette continues, her voice still like honey. “A moment for you both to decompress together. Come, let’s switch sides, Paige.”
I walk around the table to his left side and reach down to take his hand. That’s when I notice a jagged dark-red scar along the side of his torso, at least eight inches long.
My movements pause, his hand in mine.
What the hell?It looks old and fully healed, but it’s big enough that it must have been life-threatening. That’s not something that happens from falling off a bike as a kid.
It must have hurt like a freight train.
I look up at Rafe. He’s watching me, his expression sharp.Don’t you fucking dare ask,it says. The hand I’m holding curves, gripping my fingers. I glance over at Colette. She’s right there, working on his other shoulder, her head bent.
If I were his wife in truth, I’d have seen this scar a thousand times. I would know the backstory. So I look down at his hand, at the wedding ring on his finger, and I gently squeeze his fingers back.
I won’t ask.
He relaxes against the table and I continue to follow Colette’s instructions, even as my mind spins. I always thought he had a privileged background. And he clearly did. But something caused that scar.
The only thing I can think of is his brother’s death. It was mentioned in a few articles, but never more than a sentence or two. An accident in the mountains many years ago. Are the two related?
Despite my hatred of this man and his tactics, of his ruthlessness in pursuit of profit and Maison Valmont’s never-ending greed, I find myself…
Curious.
And that might be the most dangerous emotion of all.
“How are you two feeling?” Colette finally asks. “Are you ready to trade places?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I say. There’s a tingle of nerves down my spine. I showered before this and I’ve gotten plenty of massages before. I’ve never been a prude.
But it will be his hands on my body.
“Great. I’ll leave you for a few minutes. Get comfortable beneath the towel,” Colette tells me, and steps out of the guest bedroom.
Rafe immediately sits up. He keeps the towel at his waist, and I turn to face the wall.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says.
“We’realreadydoing it.” I hear the sound of rustling fabric and keep my eyes locked on an abstract painting across the room. “It would be suspicious if we didn’t keep going.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t have to,” he says.
“Can I turn around?”
“Yeah.”
When I turn, he’s back in a pair of dark slacks, and he’s pulling on a t-shirt. His hair is mussed and there’s a flush to his already tan face.
“It’s just a massage,” I tell him in a low voice. “And that’s Sylvie’spersonalmasseuse.”
“I’m very aware of that.”
“Why do you want to end it?” I can feel the burning of my own pulse. “I managed to play my part. It’s fine. It’s all for the cause.”
His jaw tenses. “I’m just offering. In case you don’t want to.”
“Are you worried you’ll like touching me a bit too much?”
Rafe’s face remains carved from stone. “You’re too damned mouthy for your own good, Wilde.”
