“What happened between the two of you?” I whisper. “I saw pictures of you at the same hotel.”
“Fucking parasites.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “Let me guess. They said I was there to bang her, didn’t they?”
“Something like that.”
“I put the fear of god into her after I extracted some information.”
“I see.” But I don’t. Not really. He didn’t have to take her to a hotel for that. And as inane as it is, I don’t want Caroline or any woman with Elliot in a location as private and conducive to an affair as a hotel room. Given the events of the last week, I should be relieved that Elliot and I are finally on better footing, but I’m not because I recognize I’m being jealous.
The emotion is entirely pointless. Even though I’m his wife, I know where I rank in his life, especially after our horrible argument on Sunday. The peace between us is temporary, like everything else we have. When Annabelle Underhill goes through with her threat, who knows what will happen? Just imagining how Elliot might react deflates me like a popped balloon.
I close my eyes. My time with him is almo
st a quarter over. I can do this.
“What are you thinking?”
Why did you choose a hotel to talk to her? “Nothing.” I look away, then roll off him. “I should clean up and get dressed. It’s late now.”
“We don’t have to be at the airport for another five hours.” His slightly pinched eyebrows say I haven’t really fooled him.
“Then let’s see a little bit of the area,” I say. “I’ve never been in San Francisco before.”
He studies me, his gaze moving over even the smallest lines on my face, then nods. “If you wish.”
Chapter Thirteen
Elliot
By the time we check out, there aren’t that many hours left before our flight. We end up at a seafood restaurant for a light lunch of shrimp cocktail and grilled wild salmon, then I take her shopping. I figure that should cheer her up—I’ve never met a woman who doesn’t like to buy a handbag or three. Or shoes. Jewelry works too, but I didn’t check with the concierge for an acceptable jeweler.
Belle glows like a polished diamond inside the stores. Her unbound red hair frames her face and bounces around her delicate shoulders. The green of her eyes looks even more vivid under the display lights, and the mustard-yellow maxi dress with floral lace trim is casual and feminine, perfect for a lazy shopping excursion. She’s paired it with a light, cream-colored cardigan for extra warmth and to hide the bruises.
The weather is chilly compared to Los Angeles, and I’m glad I packed a pair of slacks and a sweater. I shove my hands into my pants pockets, my untucked blue button-down shirt covering my wrists. I watch my wife examine the selection of bags the clerk has brought out.
Although I pretended to be calm earlier to play it down, I’m anything but. I forgot the condom. I’ve never been so careless. I should’ve known better, protected both of us.
At the same time, it’s not like the idea of tying ourselves together with a baby hasn’t crossed my mind. That probably makes me an underhanded son of a bitch. How craven I’ve become with my need for her. It isn’t like me to want anyone this desperately. Not even Annabelle Underhill got to me like this.
I study Belle to see if she’s in pain, but she seems okay so far…other than moving with extra care to not to bump into anything. I would love nothing more than to find the person who pushed her, but I know the chances of that are nil. If anyone had seen something, Elizabeth would’ve heard by now and she would’ve called me. I keep going over potential suspects, but discard them all. Keith is a coward and doesn’t have the guts to engineer something like this, not at an event with so many eyes. Annabelle Underhill had a date, although I can’t remember if she was in the dining room when my wife left the table. Dad is an asshole, but he’s not into physical violence, even by proxy. Sneaking around and backstabbing people is his MO.
Of course, it could be something less sinister. Maybe somebody was moving something—equipment used at the dinner function, perhaps—and bumped into my wife or something…
I shake my head. Ludicrous.
Belle runs her hands over various bags, admiring the fine stitching and luxurious leather. Even from here I can tell everything is high quality and ridiculously expensive. Still, she pushes them away.
Undeterred, the clerk brings out more items. My wife smiles wistfully, brushing her fingertips along the supple material, but shakes her head again.
I frown, wondering what’s going on. I can’t believe she didn’t like any of them. A couple items managed to snag my attention, and I have about as much interest in women’s handbags as a dog does in carrots.
But maybe she doesn’t want to buy anything because she doesn’t want to splurge on herself. Now that I think about it, she hasn’t spent a penny on herself other than when I insisted. I make a face. Belle is entirely too frugal for my taste. I already told her she can charge whatever she wants to her credit card and I’ll take care of it.
I push myself off the wall and hand the clerk my plastic. “We’re getting this, this and this, and those three over there.” I gesture, pointing at the items my wife lingered over in particular.
The salesperson gives me a professionally poised “Very good, sir,” but I can see her eyes light up as she takes my card and goes to gather the merchandise. Another clerk immediately comes out with a tray of champagne; I pluck a flute and instruct them to bring out some freshly squeezed grapefruit juice for my wife. A picky order, but I don’t care. They can kiss my wife’s feet after the amount of money I just dropped.
Belle is staring at me with her mouth slightly agape. “You shouldn’t have.”