Page 42 of Hush Money

I tell myself not to, but I look at the bed anyway. Now, suddenly, I see it all as though I was there in bed with them when it happened. Their perfect nude bodies twined together as he thrusts inside her with her shapely legs wrapped around his waist. Their open-mouthed kisses with glistening tongues. Their moans and cries. Their whispers and their mutual pleasure. I see it all—wallow in it all—until I feel the gorge rise in the back of my throat. I don’t know what’s worse. Is it that she stole from me and pretended to be me? Or that he got all the way through the act and never noticed that it wasn’t me? Either way, this rabid jealousy is enough to drown me. Worst of all is the fact that I always knew that Ravenna would come between us, dead or alive. Now that she’s resurrected, I’m sure he was only looking for an excuse to fuck her again. Why would he want me when he could have her?

“Say something,” he says, his voice husky. Urgent.

“What should I say?” I say with a strangled laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you thought it was me while you sleep-fucked her?”

He recoils. “I didn’t fuck her, Tamsyn. It never got that far. I woke up. She didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel like you. How could she? How could anyone?”

Wait, what? He what? He woke up? Just in the nick of time? How convenient.

Still, there it is. The implausible lifeline that I desperately want to grasp and hold. God, I want this all to be true. I want to believe he means all these pretty, romantic words about me. I want to believe that I’m the kind of woman capable of inspiring them even if I’ll never be the sophisticated temptress that Ravenna is. “How far did you get?”

He gives me a long and hard look. During the pause, I see him considering telling me everything and struggling with his answer. It’s so obvious. I also see the exact moment he decides not to and slams the door in my face. “We don’t need to get into that. I don’t want the images in your mind.”

I laugh again, and the sound creeps toward hysteria. “Too late. It’s imprinted on my brain already. Tell me.”

“No.” He drops the sheets, grabs my upper arms and hunkers down in my face. “We can’t let her fuck with us, Tamsyn. This is what she does. She gets inside your brain. Don’t let her win. Don’t let her manipulate you. Trust your gut. You know me. You know me.”

I go rigid and try to break free. I don’t want the hands that touched her—for whatever reason—to touch me. Especially on the same night. But he’s not letting go.

“Please, Tamsyn.”

There’s something in his eyes. Something compelling. Frowning, I turn into some TV-style detective at that point, sifting through pieces of evidence and trying to nail down the culprit. I think about how wounded Lucien seemed earlier, when he wouldn’t let me touch him. I consider his long, hot shower, as though he wanted to scrub all traces of her from his body. And the sheets, of course. So it all looks good for Lucien. At least initially. But then I think about the box of happy wedding pictures and that terrible picture of Ravenna with a black eye and bruised face. And suddenly I don’t know who to believe, no matter how much I want Lucien to be the clear choice.

“She showed me pictures of your wedding earlier,” I say. “And there was a picture of her with her face all bruised.” I hesitate because I can’t quite bring myself to make the accusation. “As if she’d been beaten.”

He looks shocked as he drops his hands. Horrified. “What the hell are you talking about? From the time her doubles partner hit her in the face with her racket, you mean?”

And there it is. Another lifeline. I feel a surge of hope. “A tennis injury? She implied that you’d done it.”

Lucien goes still, the color draining from his face. “And you believed it.”

I quickly open my mouth, but there’s no available answer to give. I think of his dark and brooding side, which is a good chunk of him. Let’s be honest. I think about the flashes of anger I’ve seen, like those bursts of jealousy on the cruise. But then I think of his tenderness. The patience and kindness he’s shown me. The gentleness of his touch. Would this man raise his hand to a woman? Even if he hated her?

Then I look back into his eyes and it’s all there. Everything I need to see in this turbulent moment: unmistakable hurt. Vulnerability. Openness. Intensity. Wounded pride. Banked outrage and anger that I’d think the worst of him, even in passing.

How dare you accuse me of that, Tamsyn? he’s thinking. How dare you?

It hits me then, all the damage I’ve done to our fledgling relationship by doubting him about this. Doubting him about cheating is one thing. And it’s bad enough. But doubting him about raising his hand to a woman is a bridge too far for his honor. It’s borderline unforgivable.

“No. I don’t believe her,” I say. My no makes up for its tardiness with its fervency. And maybe I’m a fool. Maybe I’m too emotional to think straight right now. Isn’t this what every abuser says? It’s not like they admit it when confronted with the evidence, right? It’s not like I’ve ever been a fly on the wall when they were alone together. But he just told me to trust my gut. My gut knows this man. Maybe not everything. But the big things. “I believe you.”

He makes a broken sound of relief, all the tension slipping away from his body.

I suddenly realize that I can’t look at him. There’s too much here, and it burns. Nor can I breathe with him staring at me like that. So I hastily look around for something to do. “Where are your clean sheets?” I clear my throat in a doomed attempt to get some of the emotion out of my voice. “I can help you make the bed. Maybe we can get ten minutes of sleep before the night’s over?—”

“Fuck the sheets, Tamsyn.” He says it with an incredulous laugh, barely getting the words out. “I’m in love with you.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

TAMSYN

“Oh my God.” My thundering heartbeat and soaring hopes make it difficult for me to speak, but I do my best. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

I make a sound of incredulity. There may be a laugh trapped in there somewhere, but it’s impossible to tell for sure. “Yeah, but I can’t believe I heard it.”

Half a wry smile from Lucien. “I can’t believe I said it.”

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