Page 5 of The Billionaire's Wife

“It smells good.”

I glanced over. She had her hair wrapped in a towel on top of her head but had dressed in threadbare flannel pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt bearing the name of my college. “Is that my shirt?”

Faith looked down, then back up at me. Her cheeks were red. “You never noticed it was gone?”

I shrugged. I had. But I’d figured I’d lost it somewhere. It never occurred to me that Faith had taken it. “Why don’t you fix a plate, have a seat, and fill me in?”

2

FAITH

The Chinese food smelled amazing, but my stomach was in so many knots, I had no idea if I’d be able to keep anything down. If I’d thought it was an option, I would’ve stayed in the shower, letting the hot water pound on me, until Tristan gave up and went to bed. But ignoring problems never made them go away. And Tristan wasn’t likely to let me get out of spilling the details tonight.

I blew out a breath and reached for the empty plate. I put a couple of dumplings on it, then scooped some fried rice. It wasn’t a lot, but hopefully it was enough to keep him from nagging me about eating more. I went the long way around the island to avoid brushing past him, and sat.

I hadn’t missed the frisson of electricity that had passed between us earlier. And as much as I might love to explore that again, it was a bad idea for hundreds of reasons.

I reached for the chopsticks, a tiny tendril of warmth worming into my heart at their presence.

“Can I pray?”

I jolted, cleared my throat, and nodded. “Sure. Yes. Of course.”

I looked away from Tristan’s piercing gaze and bowed my head.

I didn’t hear what he said when he prayed. It had been so long since I’d even gone through the motions of prayer that the whole sensation was strange.

“So.” Tristan scooped a forkful of fried rice and held it over his plate while he spoke. “Start at the top.”

I couldn’t stop the quick, tight smile. It was so like him. Or at least like the Tristan I’d known all those years ago. Except, when I looked over at him, he was clearly not the same man. That was part of it—he was definitely a man now. Back then, he’d really been a boy. We’d both been children.

I cleared my throat and set down the chopsticks without eating anything. “I guess it goes all the way back. My dad, you know about him. Obviously. He traded information in return for a lighter sentence. It’s why I left.”

Tristan tipped his head to one side. “Because your dad went to jail?”

“No.” I blew out a breath. Why couldn’t he make this even a little easy? “Because some of the information he gave them made his bookies angry. They had threatened to use me as collateral before. I didn’t want to risk them showing up and you getting sucked into the mess farther than you already had.”

“You were my wife, Faith. I would have protected you.”

“That’s just it. I know you would have tried. But—” I cut myself off as Tristan’s face turned stony. Maybe it was better not to go down that road. “Anyway. I stayed under the radar. I’ve always been good with computers, so it wasn’t too hard. Moved around a lot. And I thought I was doing all right until six or seven months ago.”

“What happened?”

I paused to pick up a dumpling with my chopsticks and dunk it into the sauce. I took a bite and chewed. Tristan was going to hate everything about what I had to say. But I couldn’t gloss over it, either. I needed his help. And he needed the truth in order to help me.

I set the chopsticks down again. “So. I had to support myself. Right? And I couldn’t get a regular job with all the tax reporting and so forth. But it turns out there’s a pretty good living to be made with computers that isn’t technically all aboveboard.”

Tristan sighed and put down his fork. “Tell me you haven’t been hacking for hire.”

I couldn’t meet his gaze. I kept my head down and scooped rice into my mouth. Maybe it wasn’t all hacking, but I was pretty sure that qualification wasn’t going to mean very much to him.

Tristan scooted back his stool and stood. He strode across the kitchen through the living room, and stood staring out the glass that made up the far wall of his condo. He raked his hands through his hair. “I knew you’d be trouble.”

I winced. He probably hadn’t intended to say it aloud. I could give him a break there. It still hurt. “I always am. Tried to warn you.”

He turned and his gaze skewered me. “Do not make a mockery of what I felt for you. What I tried to do for you.”

I hunched my shoulders. The past tense verbs shouldn’t have been able to hurt me, but they did. “Sorry.”

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