Page 33 of The Maverick
I finished my meal, feeling satisfied. “Why do you think there would be any?”
Her eyes darted away from mine too quickly to focus on the document. Had she been thinking about it as much as I had? Was this clause a line she drew to restrict herself?
Curiosity rose in me, and I couldn’t help but ask, “How many times?”
“What?”
“How many times have you thought about it?”
What are you doing?
I shoved my inner voice aside quickly as Nessa’s eyes flashed. An adorable pink bloomed on her face.
I already had my answer without her having to reply. Being a gentleman, I saved her from embarrassment. “I can have the revised document for you to sign tomorrow.”
“Okay, thanks.” She looked relieved that we were no longer discussing that topic.
“Why do you need therapy? I’m only asking because I need to know details about my husband’s injuries.”
“My right leg.” I stretched it out under the table and touched her foot. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Is that why you need the cane?” She gestured to where it leaned against the wall. “How did your leg get injured? Running around trying to seal all the billion-dollar deals?” Amusement flickered in her eyes.
I took a moment to process her question. It wasn’t a hard question at all. But she was the first woman to ask me, as if she was genuinely interested in my injury. Like she wanted to know how I’d acquired it without sounding too nosy or awkward. The women I’d dated hadn’t asked, or if they had, they’d only inquired because it was a conversation filler. Though they hadn’t outright said it, I knew they hadn’t liked that I was physically disabled and needed a cane.
Perhaps one day, I’d share it with Vanessa, but not today.
“It’s an injury from when I was younger. It didn’t heal properly.”
“Things like that take time.” Her expression softened. “Some things take longer to heal.”
“And some things can’t be healed.”
She cocked her head. “Everything can be healed. It just takes time.”
“Are you saying this from experience?”
“Let’s just say it’s a healthy perspective from an artist whose tummy is full and happy. Ask me that again when I’m hungry. You’ll get a different answer.”
Before I forgot, I pulled out my phone and showed her an image of the two thugs. “Do you recognize these men?”
She looked at the pic. “No. Who are they?”
I didn’t want to reveal that I’d been at the auction searching for my curator and had taken it upon myself to track these men down. She didn’t need the extra stress.
“Just thugs on the detective’s radar. Maybe they delivered the box to the gallery opening.”
Vanessa shook her head. “They don’t look familiar to me.”
Her phone rang, and she reached for it in her purse. “Unavailable number,” she muttered.
She was about to put her phone back when it buzzed again, and her face paled.
I yanked it from her hand.
You have twenty-four hours to deposit the money into my account, or this image will be splashed everywhere.
The blurry image was of a young Vanessa in an alley with blood on her hands. Another woman was with her, along with two men. One man was on the ground.
