CHAPTER 1.
MONICA
The newspaper was open to a seemingly random page toward the back, but when it caught my eye, I had to examine it further. Discreetly. Because studying such a thing would draw attention from the man I sat across from. The girl in the paper was naked, on her back, with her legs thrown over her head. The light cast the seam between her legs in shadow. Her hands were tucked behind her back, and she was gagged with black cloth. She looked uncomfortable. She looked unhappy. Worse, the picture’s appeal was in her miserable expression and the pleased yet benign expressions of the men watching her.
Only when I heard metal tapping against porcelain did I return my attention to the man across the table or, at the very least, to the ring clicking against his coffee cup. He picked up a business card he’d let drop next to the creamer.
I was ambivalent about the pinkie ring.
On the one hand, it ate at my trust. Who could have confidence in a man who wore one? On the other hand, its oddness was intriguing. Will Santon’s fingers slipped down his business card, pivoted it, rested it on the coffee shop table, and slid down its long side again. The fingers were thick and well-formed I imagined them sliding inside me two at a time, the ring resting against my ass**le as the thumb teased my clit. I found the thought as unarousing as the woman in the paper. What normally would have sparked my desire, sparked exactly nothing. My mind was on sex all the time, but my body had taken a powder. I couldn’t feel a damn thing between my legs no matter how hard I thought about f**king.
“I promise you,” he said. “Your place is clean.”
“I believe that you believe that.” I twisted my teacup in its saucer. The pink roses were worn, and the saucer didn’t match. All the décor in the café was found, thrift-shopped, or rescued.
“I’ve been doing this a long time,” he said.
How long could he have been doing it though? He was thirty-five, tops, without a grey speck in his dark hair or his two-day-old black scruff. His eyes, grey as a rainy day, looked as though they’d seen their share of nastiness. His gaze did not waver, but I knew his peripheral vision was as clear as my narrow field. His jacket fit perfectly, but it was the open shirt collar, the haircut around the ears, and the comfortable shoes that told me who he was.
“You’re military,” I said.
“Marines.”
“Something ending in ‘ops,’ I bet.” He didn’t answer. “My dad was killed in Saudi escorting a second-rate prince to some mosque.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You have kids, Mr. Santon?”
“Daughter. She’s four.”
And no wedding ring, I noticed. “Would you let your daughter go into that house?”
His gaze slipped to his empty cup. Black coffee. He’d finished his black coffee in a single swig when it was burning hot. “I got a call from your boyfriend—”
“Ex.”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“Ex-lover.”
“He asked me to reassure you. I’m reassuring you.”
“You know what would reassure me?”
“For us to sweep it again?” His head was cocked as if he thought that would be an acceptable answer.
“Find out who it was.”
“We’re working on it.”
“I believe you are. And I’m sure he paid you a lot of money to come here and tell me my house was clean and you were working on it. But I’ll be reassured when I know who did it, not when Jonathan Drazen says it’s time to be reassured. Thanks for trying.”
“He also asked me to see if you looked okay, how you sounded. He said when you’re upset, it’s in your voice.”
I swallowed, feeling scrutinized in a way I hadn’t a second earlier. My chin went up a notch, and my shoulders straightened. I couldn’t help it. “I’m sure you’re not supposed to tell me that.”
“Do you know what I’m going to say to him?”
“No, and I don’t care,” I said, caring a great deal.
“You’re terrified.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ve heard terrified women. Some were scared for a moment when bad shit was happening, and others got beaten down by a daily, low-grade fear.” He arched an eyebrow, as if asking me which one I thought I was.
I stood. “You can tell him whatever you like, but if you tell him I’m anything but perfectly all right, he’s going to worry, and that’s going to make more work for you.”
“I don’t need the extra work.”
“Then you know what to say.”
Will stood and handed me the card he’d been fingering. “If you want the place swept again, call me, and I’ll have it done.” When I took the card, his pinky overshot its destination and brushed mine. Though the touch surprised me, it did not rouse any feelings between my legs.
CHAPTER 2.
MONICA
The desire to be touched, to connect, to find commonality between myself and someone else overwhelmed my common sense. It wasn’t just anyone I wanted to touch. It was him.
Though I was alone by choice, I was desperately hurt. I carried around an ache in my chest and a cloying desire on my skin. I missed Jonathan. I missed his sharp tongue and his strong arms. Yes, I missed his dick and all our play, but it was the loss of his stare, the warmth of his attention, and the emotional safety of his sphere of influence made me feel unmoored.
Did I look scared? I leaned into Darren’s bathroom mirror. I looked the same to me. I could call him. I could see him just one time. Maybe I would. I put my mascara down and looked at my phone.
It was 8:59 in the morning. In one minute, my phone would bloop with some short, pithy message from Jonathan. He sent me a text at nine every morning on the dot. I never texted him back, and I never told him to stop. I had two weeks’ worth of pings from him, making sure that at least once a day, I thought of him. It was controlling in such a precise and unemotional way that on day four, when I realized what he was doing, I tapped him a livid response. But I never sent it. I thought of him so much more often than once a day anyway.
—Bring an umbrella. It’s going to rain—
I scrolled back. He had reports from DC:
—It is truly awful here—
—Another lunch meeting. Bullshit on the menu—
—You belong with me—
And when he got home.
—Debbie said you aren’t living in the house? Will Santon is going to call you—