She touches the pearls instinctively, biting her lip.
"You're mine, remember?" My voice drops lower. "And I protect what's mine."
A shaky breath, then a nod.
I help her clean up her face, wiping away the streaks of mascara with a damp towel. She reapplies lipstick with trembling hands, and I steady them with my own.
"Better?" she asks, studying her reflection.
"Perfect." I spin her to face me. "One more thing."
"What?"
"When we get back out there, I'm going to kiss you. Really kiss you. In front of everyone. And you're going to let them see exactly how much you enjoy being mine. Understood?"
Color floods her cheeks. "Yes, Sir."
The honorific sends heat straight to my groin, but I push it down. Later. Right now, we have a party to return to and a statement to make.
I take her hand, threading our fingers together, and lead her back to the party.
The crowd parts as we approach, conversations dipping to watch us. I pull Grace close, one hand sliding into her hair while the other grips her waist.
And then I kiss her.
Not chaste. Not polite.
I claim her mouth like I own it, tongue sweeping past her lips, swallowing the small gasp she makes. Her hands clutch my jacket, body melting against mine as I deepen the kiss.
When I finally pull back, her lips are swollen and her eyes are glazed, and everyone at this party knows exactly who Grace Caine belongs to.
Charles arrives at my office on Tuesday morning, crisp suit and that perpetual British composure firmly in place. He drops a manila folder on my desk without preamble.
"Richard Caldwell," he says simply.
I lean back in my chair, eyeing the folder. "That was fast."
"Marcus." He settles into the chair across from me, crossing one leg over the other. There's no further explanation needed. Marcus is an employee in the IT department who we usewhenever we need information on someone. He's good at his job and paid well for it.
I flip open the folder. Photos, documents, a timeline stretching back years.
"What am I looking at?"
Charles's expression hardens. "First, why do youcare?"
I look up to see Charles studying me, one eyebrow lifted.
I've ruined people before. It's not like I'm a saint. That's how you get ahead in business. But Charles has always been along for the ride. Now I'm asking him to dig up dirt on someone and not telling him why.
How do I say,because I'm obsessed with my wife and want to make anybody who’s ever hurt her pay for their mistake?
Is that kind of obsession normal, even in real marriages?
I trace my tongue over my teeth while I debate my answer. Charles doesn't give me time to come up with one, though.
"Is it because of Grace?"
"Why would you ask that?" I sit up straighter.
