Page 78 of Stud

His answer came shortly. Only if I get to see you tonight.

You drive a hard bargain. I’ll pencil you in.

I’m around until noon but need to hit the hardware store, then I have a meeting at Ellen’s barn.

I’ll try to swing by before you leave. My fingers hovered over my screen, itching to hit the I and L and O and V and E. My belly felt bubbly, effervescence rising until I giggled. God, I was pathetically in love, but I wouldn’t waste the opportunity for us to have ridiculous I-said-my-first-I-love-you sex by typing it on a phone.

I also had no intention of showing up while he was home. This was a stealth operation: Mission Mad Love. Show him what he meant to me by turning his most prized possession into a pendant I’d wear over my heart.

I texted Rachel instead, who texted Jimmy, who gave me Emmett’s number, who then agreed to lend me his key. Next I called Volikov’s and made an afternoon appointment. The jeweler was a gem virtuoso. He also owed me a favor. (Acquiring him Versace Medusa-strap sneakers at half price had been a miracle.) I could wait to steal some of Owen’s glass tonight, but I was too pumped to get rolling. Plus, working on it might help balance the horrible-awful confrontation I’d planned for the morning.

My mood dipped. But if I truly wanted to fulfill my resolution and be a better person, there was no avoiding my fate.

A fate which began by writing e-mails to each douchebag client and firing their cheating asses. My website was almost finished, my calendar clearer to focus more attention on this new venture. I still had Felipe and a few upstanding clients. The rest could kiss my Miu Miu-clad behind. I sent the electronic pink slips, elation tickling my fingers. Next came the hard part.

I parked in front of Sloane’s home, my hands gripping my steering wheel like it was the last Prada purse on a sale shelf. Thomas Arlington the Third’s car wasn’t there, but I’d pathetically hoped to find it. If he were home, I wouldn’t be able to knock on the front door and tell a lovely woman, who had bought me ballet tickets, that her husband was scum.

I’d rather be locked in an elevator than face Sloane, or stuck on one of those reality shows where I’d have to eat bugs or bats or sheep intestines.

I hadn’t developed as close relationships with the other duped wives, wasn’t comfortable e-mailing them about their husbands’ indiscretions. But Sloane was a friend. Breaking Thomas’s confidentiality could damage my reputation, but she deserved to hear the truth from me, in person.

I wiped my damp palms down the front of my gingham wrap dress, the same one I’d worn the first day I’d met Owen in all his manly glory. I considered it my lucky dress. I hoped it would give me strength to face my fears. Here goes nothing.

Attempting not to hyperventilate, I rang Sloane’s doorbell. The kind woman answered and smiled, clueless that I was about to dismantle her life. I may have been in my lucky dress, stilettos, makeup and hair primped, but I was pretty sure I looked like a hideous troll.

“Ainsley, what a nice surprise.”

She opened the door wider, but I couldn’t step inside. The news I brought didn’t deserve a warm invitation. “I need to tell you something. I should have told you ages ago, but…well, I won’t make excuses, because there aren’t any, and you deserve to know. It’s just tough to say, and I’ve been a coward.”

Already tall, her posture straightened farther, one hand on the door. “You’re not making sense.”

Because I was a babbling idiot, and there was no sugar-coating this atomic bomb. “Thomas is cheating on you.”

Sloane’s chin didn’t tremble. She didn’t choke on a sob. Her eyes darkened. “What are you talking about?”

Bile burning my throat, I confessed it all. How I’d met three women during my time with Thomas. That I was often asked to buy them gifts and clothes. That he was currently involved with someone and had spun a web of lies. “It’s not your fault—I want you to know that. I worked for a number of men like him, and they thought they were beyond reproach or something, that their actions didn’t—”

“Go.” She spat the word, her stare hardening. “I don’t know what your angle is, but I won’t stand here and listen to such filth.”

She moved to close the door, but I put my trembling palm on the wood. “I know it’s hard to hear. I was in your position once, duped by a man. But I’m not lying. I have met these women. I have been in their homes. I have listened to your husband tell them he’s getting a divorce. This isn’t second-hand information.”

She cocked her head, her disgusted gaze raking me from my honey highlights to my stilettos. “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you? Is this your way of getting me out of the picture? Forcing us apart? Well, it won’t work. I love Thomas and he loves me, and you and your lies can go to hell.”

She slammed the door in my face, the force of it blowing back my hair.

I winced. My knees weakened as I hurried to my car. I’d expected to face devastation—tears and anguish as the news I’d brought sunk in. Never had I considered she wouldn’t believe me. The blind devotion was even worse. She either wasn’t willing to risk a lifestyle change, or she loved him so much she couldn’t face the truth. Such misguided loyalty, but it was her choice to make. Her life. I’d done what I could.

Frazzled, I picked up Owen’s key from Emmett’s mailbox. I drove home to spend a couple hours on my website, distracted the whole while. Making this gift for Owen was a smart move. I could focus on real love. Remind myself some men were devoted and true. When the clock read 1:00 p.m., I got ready.

He would be gone by now, and I could sneak in. Surprise him with the necklace in a month or so. Maybe I’d have them make him cufflinks, too. Something he could wear to think of me.

Buoyed at the prospect, I opened my door, but frowned. A manila envelope sat on the floor. Peeking my head into the hallway, I scanned left and right, but couldn’t see a soul. Curious, I dropped my purse, scooped up the package, and turned it over. No address. Nothing written. I wasn’t a prime target for terrorists, but I sniffed the edges. Did anthrax have an aroma?

Or Sloane could have sent a bomb to my home, but nothing protruded at sharp angles. I flipped open the flap to find photographs. Maybe Owen had thought of his own gift, dirty photos sent as a tease for tonight. I bit my lip as I pulled them out…

And nearly fainted.

My hands shook. My breath clawed at my chest. Lowering to my knees, I dropped the photos and pushed them around, sure my mind was playing tricks on me.