Then I’m left with my husband, wondering what the hell Justice could want that would demand my attention so suddenly. And what the hell he and Ransom could be talking about right now.
Under normal circumstances, I would have shown up at the guesthouse where Justice lives at least five minutes late. Ten if I was feeling feisty and wanted to piss him off. But knowing that he’s alone with Ransom, and considering our conversation over the phone about open marriages, I can only imagine what conclusions are being made. I know that Justice won’t divulge any details, but would Ransom? If he felt it would benefit him in some way?
“Ten minutes, eh?” Tucker muses from behind me. He’s closer than I expect, close enough that his warm breath stirs the hair at my nape. “I can think of a few things we can accomplish in ten minutes.”
He brushes the hair from my shoulders and presses his lips against the back of my neck, a move that has successfully made me dissolve into warm honey on many occasions. I’ve always craved physical affection from Tucker—yearned for it like a starving child. Now it just feels like a distraction . . . an annoyance. My husband’s touch is annoying me. And that’s a serious problem.
“Later,” I say, shaking him off. “We’ve been traveling all day. I feel gross.”
I escape to the bathroom to freshen up and to put even more distance between us. When I reemerge, I find Tucker on the balcony that overlooks the courtyard. The sparkling turquoise, negative edge pool is surrounded by couples in plush loungers, talking, laughing, sipping fruity libations from the newly installed in-pool bar. Such a vast difference from a year ago, when only fragile, disparaged women frequented the estate. These people are here solely by choice. Not out of desperation.
“Wanna take a dip after your meeting?” Tucker asks without looking at me. His voice is level, as if he can’t feel the tension crackling between us, but I know he does. He’s a smart man.
“Sure,” I tell him, knowing damn well that won’t happen. I tell myself it’s because I’m working and can’t afford the luxury of lazing around the pool, but even my own denial reeks of guilt.
I kiss his cheek and tell him I’ll be back, suggesting he order up some drinks and food. I even recommend some of Riku’s specialties before anxiously dashing out the door and away from the whispered judgment of those mirrors in the Reflection room.
Just as my hand retreats from the cool hardness of the doorknob, I hear a husky chuckle from behind me.
“Your friend . . . has a way with innuendo,” Ransom drawls. I take a deep breath before turning around to face him, only to find that he’s half dressed and looking more luscious than I remembered. I open and close my mouth a half dozen times before speaking.
“Uh, yeah. He’s a riot. Forget something?” I ask, lifting a questioning brow, my eyes roaming his taut frame from the soles of his sneakers to the earbuds that dangle onto his bare, tanned shoulders.
He looks down at his low-slung (seriously, how can he be wearing underwear?) black basketball shorts and shrugs. “Thought I’d get in a workout. Too hot to wear anything else.”
He’s right, but I can’t help the pang of possessiveness that urges me to demand he turn his sexy ass around and go put on a shirt. So what if all the women here are married or in serious committed relationships? They’re not dead. Take me, for instance. I was so very alive when I spread my thighs for Ransom and took him inside me, mummified him in my warmth and wetness, and made him a permanent memory on my soul. Actually, I can’t remember feeling more vital than that night I spent with him, crying for God yet worshipping him. And that feeling has only been amplified with every stolen moment since.
So, no, Ransom isn’t mine to feel ownership of, or mine to boss around and tell what to do. But he’s mine, goddammit. And sharing isn’t an option.
“Heidi?”
I blink, abandoning my fervent reverie, and look back up at him. He licks his lips, goading me, tempting me, and smiles. “I said, going somewhere?”
“Justice,” I rasp, my voice splintered. I clear it and press on. “I need to speak with him.”
“About me?”
I answer with a frown. “No. Why would I? Did you . . . say anything to him that would invite any questions?”
He snorts and looks away before shaking his head. “No. I haven’t. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
Even though I’m sure he’s being honest, I feel the need to reiterate just how dire his confidence is. “Good. Because, if that got out—if someone found out about . . . us—it’d hurt us all.”
“Hurt us?” His eyes flare on the word “hurt” as if the prospect excites him.
“Our careers, yes. The press would be relentless.”
He nods, the small smile on his face turning smug. “Sure. The press.”
He gazes down the hallway, searching for an escape hatch, and I release him by saying goodbye. I contemplate inviting him for dinner later, but think better of it. We’re not here together. I’m simply here to ensure that he doesn’t completely fuck up or get fucked up. And I’m here for Tucker, of course.
When I knock on Justice’s door, a sense of anxiety, almost fear, has me tempted to turn back around. But before I can make a run for it, he swings open the door, nearly ripping my arm out of the socket as he pulls me inside.
“What the fuck did you do?” he asks as soon as the door slams behind me. He’s pacing the floor, breathing heavily, pulling at his short, spiky hair. He’s positively pissed. And it has nothing to do with being tardy.
I stand perfectly still, the soles of my sandals planted in marbled quicksand. “What do you mean?”
Suddenly, he’s in my face, not threateningly, but he’s challenging me. Challenging me to lie to his face and try to deny what he so obviously can see. “You think I’m fucking stupid? You think I don’t know what you did with that boy? Dammit, Heidi! I thought we talked about this? I thought you understood the gravity of your decision, and how it would cost you everything. Everything! You think some romp with a rock star will replace a damn decade with your husband? Fucking hell, Heidi. I thought you were smarter than this.”
“Justice . . .”
He keeps pressing, keeps digging into me. And I just stand there and let him. “I should have fucking known when you said you needed to bring him. This isn’t about drugs or alcohol, is it? You want him here so you can fuck him, yet play the good wife for your husband. Well, not in my house. I don’t do affairs, DuCane. You wanna fuck around, take your ass back to the city. Tucker deserves better than that, and I won’t have him believe that I was an accomplice.”
“Justice . . .” I try again. “He knows.”
“What?” That makes him retreat a few steps. “What the fuck do you mean, He knows?”
“Tuck . . . he knows. About Ransom.”
Justice heaves out an aggravated breath and resumes his pacing. “I’m not a marriage counselor, you know. I can’t fix your marriage now that you’ve screwed it to hell.”
“I know.” I step toward him, humbled, defeated. “And it’s not like that. I didn’t screw it up. We screwed it up. Together.”
“We?”
“He was there. Tucker was there when I was with Ransom. He watched. He . . . instructed. And he loved it. At least he did at the time.”
“Did?”
I shake my head, not wanting to believe what’s happened—what’s been happening for some time now. “What I need . . . he can’t give it to me. And he knew I found Ransom attractive. We were all drunk, high . . . it just happened. And I . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about him. I thought letting Tucker see what my body needed from him would help him accept it, and he would eventually be able to provide. But he can’t. He won’t. And ever since our little tryst . . . ever since I felt what it was like to be so completely sated, so undeniably fulfilled . . . I can’t go back to how it was. Shit, I refuse to go back to that.”