The problem is I’m not sure exactly what I want to get her. It has to be something very special. Not jewelry—too obvious. Beyond that, price isn’t a consideration. My wife knows I have money, and getting something expensive will appear thoughtless. Unlike most women, she isn’t overly impressed with my bank account.
Perhaps something sentimental and sweet.
Photos? Music, maybe? She might enjoy a concert…or sports. I realize I know very little about her likes, and I feel guilty. I should’ve spent some time getting to know her along with all the seduction, as enjoyable as that is for both of us.
I get a text from Paddington. AU in L.A. and coming your way. Will arrive in twenty minutes.
I almost ask how he knows where I am, but it’s his job to know. I call him.
“Yes?” he says.
“How quickly can you set up surveillance?”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to record our conversation.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s illegal in California to record without her consent,” he says matter-of-factly.
“So make sure to have plausible deniability.”
“I can do that, so long as you don’t think about using it in court.”
“It won’t be for something that silly.” Court won’t stop someone like Annabelle Underhill.
I fool with my phone, checking the market news while making my way slowly to a café. Annabelle’s got to be having me tailed, since she couldn’t know where I am otherwise. I want our scene to take place in a very public venue with no expectation of privacy.
The café I have in mind is faux-Italian. The coffee is horrible—especially if you’ve been to Italy—but it has a small outdoor seating area, and is generally busy enough. It’ll do for what I have in mind.
I tell the server I want an outdoor table. He tells me one’s just opened up. Serendipity.
Without looking at the menu, I order cappuccino and a blueberry scone. The waiter leaves, and I keep fooling with my phone. It doesn’t take long before a shadow darkens my table. I look up.
“Hello, Annabelle,” I purr.
“You fucking bastard,” she spits.
I put down my phone and look at her. Her dark hair is swept up; perfect makeup covers her furious face. Sapphires glitter from her ears and throat, and the sleeveless violet dress she wears looks spray-painted on. The color reminds me of the fading bruises on my wife’s body, and my mood darkens instantly.
I note with derision that Annabelle’s arms are unmarked. Stanton has probably never laid a hand on her.
What a way to squander the one bit of leverage she had over me. Not that it would’ve meant a lot once I knew what she was after. I owed Marlin, but not that much.
“If you must insult me, at least have the decency to sit down first so I don’t get a crick in my neck.” I turn my attention back to my phone.
She takes the seat across the table and slams her palm down. “You think you can get away with that article? I’m going to sue you for libel.”
“It’s libel only if it’s untrue.”
“Oh no. There will be consequences for publishing shit like this.”
“What? You think I did it?”
Her eyes flash with a moment of uncertainty. “Didn’t you?”
The display of anger is just too damn delicious. I shrug with an arrogant smirk. “Yeah.”
“Why?”