Page 166 of Sins of Arrogance

When I came to bed on our an­niver­sary, long af­ter she fell asleep, she’d been wear­ing sleep shorts and a t-shirt. If she had hoped I would not find the out­fit sexy, it had been in vain.

I thought when she thanked me for the roses with that emo­tional catch she gets in her voice some­times that all had been for­given.

The fact she is wear­ing the night­gown on the night she planned to start her life with­out me would in­di­cate that it is not.

More re­cently, she showed anger that I took Dier­dre to din­ner but had not done the same for my wife.

Ap­par­ently, Kara wants us to have date nights. Not that she’s ever said any­thing like that to me, but it’s clear she sees it as a lack in our mar­riage that we don’t.

If she wants dates, I will take her on dates.

Chap­ter 41: Un­done by Ad­dic­tion

KARA

When we are at the door about to step into the hall out­side my old bed­room, I say sweetly, “You may have for­got­ten, but I pre­fer to sleep with­out panties.”

Mick goes ab­so­lutely rigid and swears. “Get a blan­ket to cover my wife.”

Conor, who has been wait­ing in the hall, rushes past us. Soon the throw-blan­ket from the end of my bed is cov­er­ing me from neck to an­kle. The other man is care­ful not to touch a sin­gle cen­time­ter of skin while he’s do­ing it too.

Are his men aware that I am my hus­band’s ob­ses­sion? Maybe they are. Maybe they only know he’s over-the-top pos­ses­sive.

Which­ever it is, the sol­diers un­der my hus­band’s di­rect com­mand are care­ful never to look at me be­low the neck and they keep their at­ten­tion brief re­gard­less.

It never both­ers me when they’re on sen­try duty and I’m swim­ming with Fitz in the pool or sun­bathing with Fiona. Some of the other men make me wish I wore a wet­suit to swim in.

“If you’d taken the cuffs off, I could have got­ten dressed for this lit­tle jaunt,” I snark.

“I like you in cuffs,” Mick says in a sen­sual rum­ble.

My ovaries sit up and take no­tice.

Darn it.

Even fu­ri­ous with him, Mick is still my ul­ti­mate cat­nip.

He fi­nally re­moves the cuffs once the SUV we are trav­el­ing in clears the man­sion’s gates.

Then he hands me my duf­fle. “You’ll be more com­fort­able in cloth­ing that cov­ers more of your body for the he­li­copter ride.”

“You’ll be more com­fort­able if I don’t show so much skin to your men, you mean.” But he’s right.

As re­spect­ful as they are, I don’t want to flash my cooch to any of his men.

I dig in the duf­fle, shocked when I see my box from moma in there.

“You could have used the Eth­yl­ene Gly­col in­stead of ask­ing for di­vorce,” he says, like talk­ing about his own mur­der doesn’t bother him at all.

Maybe it doesn’t.

I pause in my rum­mage for clothes to wear. “How long have you known I had it?”

“Since the week af­ter we were mar­ried.”

“You went through my things?” What am I ask­ing? “Of course you did. You’re my stalker.”

“I am your hus­band.” His tone re­minds me he plans to stay that way.