Finally, we head back out into the living room. I motion for her to sit on the dark brown leather couch, which has a rugged, black-and-white Native American-patterned blanket thrown over the back and similar accent pillows. She sits down, grabbing one of the pillows to hug.
Her face tightens as she asks, “What are your thoughts?”
That’s the wrong question to ask right now. I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves. Then, I sit down next to her, maybe a little closer than I should. But we’re both still whispering, and she doesn’t back up, so I guess I’m okay. Besides, I can’t resist the temptation of her rosewater-scented perfume. It smells like coming home, a sensation I haven’t had in a long time.
Clearing my throat and working hard to steady my voice, I ask, “Did you know what you were getting into when you started at the museum?”
She shakes her head, looking down at the pillow she hugs. “No, and I don’t know how long it’s been going on. I can’t dig too deeply without raising suspicion because artifact management isn’t a part of my job description as director. So, these are likely only a few pieces of the larger puzzle.”
I stare at her for a long moment, longing and regret filling me. I can tell by the look on her face she’s nervous and scared. What I wouldn’t give to comfort her physically, hold her in my arms again. Instead, I must rely on words alone to make her feel better. And I’ve never been good at words.
But first, I need her to understand how dangerous the situation is. “You’ve got to be careful, Izzie. Not just for your job but for your safety. The people involved in this have everything to lose. They’ll be desperate and dangerous, especially once they feel cornered. Please promise me you’ll take the warningyou highlighted seriously. We have to assume whoever’s doing this isn’t bluffing.”
She nods. “That’s what Kurt told me earlier. He also told me you were the best man for this job.”
“I haven’t talked to Kurt in a while. How’s he been?”
“Still bounty hunting.”
“That’s a helluva job. He tried to recruit me after I first got back to Hollister.”
“Did he?” she asks, her voice rising with surprise at the end. “I could see you excelling at that job.”
I grimace. “Yeah, but it’d put me right back where I was as a PMC—traveling all the time. I’ve made an effort since I’ve been back to turn over a new leaf. Be available for you… I mean, for the kids.” I shake my head. Fucking Freudian slips.
Her face darkens, and it takes everything in me not to bring my hand to her cheek and palm it. I can’t keep from giving her a tender look. I know it must be warmer than I intended by how her breath catches in her throat. I can’t help it. I still love her.
“Back to the matter at hand. At first I thought I was looking at museum theft, and I’m still not ruling that out. But this seems more like artifact laundering to me.”
She replies, “Agreed. They’re using the museum to forge provenance for what I’m assuming are stolen or black market items.”
“Yep, and just like you alluded to this morning, there’s no telling how high this may go. Although if Dr. Watts is involved, he may already suspect the way you lobbied for my company, considering our personal history.”
She nods. “The same goes for any other museum directors who may be involved in this. I hope it doesn’t go that far, though.”
“I’d be curious to see who may have links to other companiesthat tried for the contract,” I reply, making a mental note to do more research.
“This wouldn’t be possible if every docent and their dog didn’t have access to PastRecord, the computer program we use to catalog and preserve artifact records. There are so many guest and anonymous accounts, and I can’t begin to sort them out. Every account that’s ever existed, even from old employees, looks active. As for access to artifacts, any volunteer can get to them. On top of that, we’re still using handwritten records from the turn of the century for about thirty percent of the collection. And the oldest, and often most valuable, artifacts have up to five different catalog numbers from previous directors’ attempts to straighten things out. Or perhaps muddy the waters further. There’s no telling what is missing, and I’m not in a position to start wading through artifact storage, although I’ve done enough to confirm a significant problem. Honestly, I wish I’d never taken this job. It’s a nightmare!”
“All of the chaos is certainly convenient for those involved. And there’s no telling who has which usernames and passwords. Who handles IT requests at the museum?”
“A company through the state.”
“I’d like to get Rutger on the IT side of things. He should be able to do some digging unnoticed.”
Her face hardens at Rutger’s name like it always does. She thinks he was a bad influence on me or some shit like that. All because of a handful of stupid Facebook photos. The fact my own wife doesn’t understand nobody can influence me is beyond me. And when it comes to cheating, I’ve never wanted to. Never been remotely tempted.
But she won’t believe me, and I can’t prove it. So, she resents Rutger and hates me. It still cuts me to the quick, realizing the one person in this world who should know me inside and out, better than anyone else, doubts my fidelity. Loyalty is everything to me, and I don’t know how to make her believeme, let alone move past how deeply her doubts have wounded me. If I ask her forgiveness, I need to be ready to return it. As much as I thirst and hunger for her, I can’t say with certainty that I can offer that forgiveness.
She looks down, shaking her head, and says, “I trust whatever you think is best.”
Her words blindside me, and I inhale sharply. If only she felt that way about me outside of a professional context, we’d still be together. But then, again, every time I talk to her, I try to figure out what would need to be different for us to be together still. I’ve got to quit doing that. It’s a terrible habit that gets me nowhere except fixated on the past.
Izzie isn’t looking directly at me now. Instead, she’s staring at my lips. I lick them and watch her face flush, and her eyes dilate. My body is inches from hers, and I’ve got my arm on the couch behind her. I let it slip down until it drapes over her shoulders, gauging her reaction intently. Her face relaxes, and her eyes offer an invitation. This is a far cry from the right place at the right time, but I doubt I’ll get another chance like this. And I can’t let things finish on that damn parking lot memory.
Scooping her into my lap effortlessly, I go for her mouth before thinking. Time and distance have done nothing to lessen my soul-crushing thirst for her. Her lips part with a sigh, and I ferociously claim her with my tongue, sweeping into her mouth and devouring her hot, velvety sweetness. My arms wrap tightly around her, and she drops the pillow she cradles, freeing her hands to thread through my short-cropped hair. She pulls me frantically against her, enveloping me in her rosewater perfume.
Her deliciously familiar, juicy tongue mates with mine, and it’s as if the hurt, pain, and angst of the last year evaporate. It’s just my wife and I loving each other. Passion wells tooverflowing inside me, and I growl against her lips, wanting so much more of her.Everything.
