“Maybe I was different before,” I whisper.
“Maybe.” He brings his hands up to frame my face and adds, “Or maybe this is who you really are, underneath all the pretense.”
“What pretense?”
But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans down and kisses me.
It’s soft at first, like he’s giving me the chance to pull away. I don’t. I lean in, and his mouth takes over with the confidence of a man who knows how to kiss his wife.
My body responds like it remembers, even if my mind doesn’t.
My heart hammers against my ribcage like it’s trying to escape, moisture gathering between my legs. I press closer to him, my hands fisting the front of his shirt, wanting more of whatever this is.
He tastes like coffee and secrets and promises and things I shouldn’t want but desperately do.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing harder than we should be from a simple kiss.
“See?” he murmurs against my lips. “Your body remembers me, even if your mind doesn’t.”
And he’s right. Whatever else might be wrong with this situation, whatever my subconscious is trying to warn me about, my body knows this man. Wants this man.
Trusts him in ways my logical mind questions.
“I should clean up the glass,” I remark, though I make no move to step away from him.
“Leave it. I’ll have someone take care of it.”
“Someone?”
“The housekeeper. She comes every afternoon. She’ll be here any minute.”
Of course we have a housekeeper. Because we’re the kind of people who can afford to have someone else clean up our messes.
Staff. Imported food. A penthouse with perfect views. None of it feels like my life. I’m playing house in someone else’s fantasy, wearing designer clothes that fit too well, and trapped in a world too polished to be real.
But Dmitri’s hands on my face feel real. The way he looks at me like I’m something precious and dangerous at the same time. That feels real, too.
Even if nothing else does.
Either my body is lying to me, or my husband is.
3
Dmitri
The waiter at Beluga bows when he sees me.
Katya can’t know about that.
I decided this morning that taking her to dinner would serve two purposes: Keep up the act of a devoted husband and see how she behaves in public.
And, of course, I want to find out if being around normal people sparks any more of those inconvenient memories that keep popping up at the worst possible moments.
She’s in the black dress I chose for her.
Looking at her now, I’m not sure why I brought her here. The silk clings to every curve of that athletic body I can’t stop noticing.
Platinum hair spills over one shoulder, and her makeup is perfect, enough to make her ice-blue eyes pop and hide the explosion’s bruises, but not so much that she looks like she’s trying.
