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"Hard to miss..."

"There must be people down there. Should we stop?" She's craning back toward it as we pass, the surgeon in her already awake, reaching for a problem to fix. "God, that was huge. Could have been the fuel, a gas line, something. We should call 911!"

As she speaks, a few people are rushing toward the scene. They’re in uniform but can’t make out what.

"You see, it’s all taken care of. The harbor has security," I say. "It's not your shift."

She watches the sight shrink in the back window, frowning, and I follow her gaze until the bend takes it out of sight. Then she settles slowly back into the seat, wide-eyed, still a little drunk, shaking her head.

"Someone's having an unlucky night," she says.

"Very unlucky indeed," I agree. I take her hand back into mine on the seat between us, and look out at the scenery while my wife has no idea that she just watched me keep a promise.

CHAPTER 22

Manon

I open my eyes. My throat feels dry and my head hurts. I can't remember much from last night. The room is too bright. Somebody has opened the blackout curtain, and it wasn't me. I can only think Dolores because Laszlo gets up early, before dawn. He's a freak of nature.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. It's nine-forty-five, which is late for me. My shift doesn't start till one, but I want to be in early so I could catch up with Daphne.

I try to remember last night but my brain won’t cooperate. We were at this high-end restaurant that you can apparently never get a table at. This has never been an issue for my husband. No one ever says no to Laszlo Novak. It was the first night out I'd actually agreed to since the wedding. He insisted, and I said yes because something shifted after that time we spoke through the shower glass in our bathroom.

I sit up carefully, telling myself I'm never drinking again, not when I have a twelve-hour shift ahead of me.

Moments later, the door opens and Laszlo walks in. He's already dressed, and my heart skips a beat because that man looks so good. Heat moves down to the pit of my stomach and my nipples stand at attention. Damn it. I'm not attracted to him, to this perfect species of a human with a perfect muscular body, even better hair, and a chiseled jaw. A man who stalked me for years yet treats me like a queen…

His dark shirt opens at the collar, and I’m nearly undone. All I can think of is him inside me. And that one time he was, I really hate to think about it because he’d just killed a man. A man I was attached to for four years.

Christ, I really need … touch. I need to get laid. I can’t go on like this—the sooner this whole contract between us expires, the better. We are married on paper, and I have resisted developing any feelings for him, even though he's proved to me time and again that he cares about me.

He's carrying a glass of water and two tablets on a small plate. Setting them down on the nightstand, he looks at me with mild concern. There is admiration in his gaze, too, but I pretend I don't see it.

"Ibuprofen," he says. "And something for nausea, if you need it."

"What happened last night? I don't remember much."

"You had a very good time." He sits down on the edge of the bed, not close enough to crowd me. "Constantine turned up with a woman, and the two of you talked for most of the evening. Constantine doesn’t really date like a normal guy. He fucks women, that’s it."

"I didn't think it was a date. She told me he'd been cold to her all week."

"He's been cold to everyone all week. But usually it’s a wham-bam thing with him."

I shrug. "She seemed to think it was personal."

"With Constantine it never is. That's the problem."

"You sang in the car on the way home."

"That doesn't sound like me," he says with a smirk.

I take the tablets and drink the water. When I’m done, he refills the glass from a jug that’s already there. Then he leans down to kiss me, and I put my hand up between us, flat on his chest. The smell of his cologne envelops my senses, and for one split second I want to grab his tie and push his head down between my legs. Naughty, filthy brain—this is not happening.

"What are you doing?" I ask, pretending I'm not suddenly hot for him because he looks like a god right now.

"Good morning," he says, moving back, but his blue gaze is wrecking me. I cannot want him. I don't want to have sex with him. I don't want his fat, giant cock in my pussy.

"Don't."