“Are you seriously asking if I know who the man I married is?”
“Do you know about his reputation?” His expression looks troubled. I am such a hypocrite, but I won’t share the origin story of my marriage with him.
“I don’t care about his reputation. Anything I need to know, he told me himself.”
“The Lavender I know is no one’s fool. She wouldn’t take his word for it.”
“I know it all, Whit. I know about the clubs and the casinos, the legitimate and otherwise. I was at one of his parties. I know. Do you hear what I’m saying? He hasn’t hidden anything from me.”
“Right.” His face is harder now. “So tell me. These numbers… do they have anything to do with him?”
“Yeah, I suppose they are.”
“Right.” He sits straight, and his jaw flexes as he reaches for his laptop again. “Explain,” he demands, snatching it open.
“All right, control freak.” I frown. What does he take me for?
“Lavender, come on. This is serious.”
“Fine, so, there was this dinner we held a few weeks ago, and I met some of Raif’s friends. Maybe some were just associates.” I give a tiny shrug. “I don’t know. Anyway, one of them was called Turkey Teef Keef,” I say, laying on a thick East London accent.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath as he begins to stab at his keyboard.
“What did he buy?”
“Nothing.”
Whit glares at me from over his laptop. “Nothing?”
I give my head a quick shake. Idiot. As if I’d be stupid enough to get caught up in something illegal.
“I never saw him after that.”
“Right.” He stabs the keyboard again—in the same place—deleting something. “Okay,whichof his associates bought something from you?”
“The Right Honorable Amelia St. John Smythe.”
“The politician?”
“Yes. She’s also Europe’s largest landowner’s daughter. Did you know that?”
“Yeah, of course I do.”
“She and her husband, John? They’re lovely people. Posh but lovely. They’re building a house for their Siberian huskies and bought a couple of paintings for the place.”
“They bought paintings for their dog kennel?”
“No, not a fucking dog kennel. They’re building the dogs a four-bedroom house,” I say as though I find this completely normal. “One bedroom for each dog and one for guests. For doggy sleepovers. They’re also considering a few other pieces for their place in Saint Tropez. John was very complimentary when they visited the gallery but said their UK home is full of stuff they inherited.” I expect they’re classic period pieces. Old masters and Roman-Greco statuary. “Apparently, they live in a castle.”
“Who else?”
“From dinner? No one.”
“No one?”
“Not to my knowledge. All I know is Tod’s exhibition went great. I think it’s probably word of mouth,” I say, using my husband’s lame excuse. Hopefully, Whit believes it more than I did. Iknowthe gallery’s recent run of success has something to do with Raif. I just haven’t worked out exactly how, but I also know there can’t be anything illegal about it.
“You’re right. The Lavender you know isn’t a fool. I wouldn’t put the gallery at risk. I’ve worked too bloody hard to throw it all away.”
