Page 5 of Wished

I don’t know if it’s a response to the nearness of this woman or the fact that she’s wearing my grandmother’s ring.

As of this morning, that ring was locked in my safe, hidden behind the painting of Mont Blanc, secure in my library at home. There is no reason, no way, she could have that ring.

Yet she does.

Whoever this woman is, she isn’t getting out of this unscathed.

I hate the passion burning through me. I hate the fiery inferno of it all. I especially hate that I want to thrust this woman against the cold wood of my desk—no words, just mouth, hands, teeth—and bend her over the hard surface, capture her beneath me, flip up the tails of the white shirt conveniently covering her bare thighs, and drive into her until she’s coming around me.

I can picture it as if it’s already happened. I can feel the tight heat of her wrapped around me, hear her throaty cries, taste the sweet, salty taste of her. I feel her like she’s my own personal cataclysm.

I clench my teeth. Mercilessly slice through the image of my fingers digging into her hips, her hands gripping the desk, her desperate, throaty cries as I plunge into her. I thrust aside the image and douse the fire ravaging me with its heat.

I shove it aside.

I don’t do passion.

I don’t dothis.

A woman like this is dangerous. She’s a liar, and she’s a thief, and she’s trying to take advantage of me.

When I acknowledge that she’s a liar the clamp around my rib cage loosens. I can breathe again.

All I have to do is sort this out, get rid of her, and this feeling will go away.

Get rid of her. Get rid of this feeling.

The woman takes a small, hesitant step forward, her bare feet sinking into the rug. The shirttails whisper against her legs, letting out a soft rustling noise. I can smell her again, the bedsheet scent, and I steel myself against it.

She’s cautious, careful, her eyes wide and innocent. I don’t buy the act. I’ve seen enough wolves in sheep’s clothing to know not everyone is as innocent as they pretend.

She lifts her hand when she’s close and the small bit of sunlight streaming through the window catches and lights the diamond ring.

She watches the stiffening of my shoulders and the hardness in my expression, and then she says in a soft, hesitant voice, “Max?”

What does she expect me to do?

“Who are you?” My voice comes out cold, hard, rough-edged.

Her face loses what little color it had, and I don’t exactly blame her. I know what I look like when I’m confronting a thieving liar. Dark, hard, cold. Not someone you want to mess around with.

I won’t take my tone back though. No matter how beautiful this woman is, and no matter what sort of fantasies are burning through me, she isn’t anyone I’m going to befriend.

“Well?” I ask sharply.

Then the woman surprises me. She lifts her chin, and instead of cautious and pleading, she looks angry. “You don’t recognize me? You don’t know me?”

She’s shocked. Irritated. Angered.

But why should I know her?

“Should I?”

Her face flushes, her cheeks turning bright red. “Max, you’ve known me for years?—”

That gets my attention. “Years? Who the hell are you?”

She gasps, then she clenches her fists and takes a hard step forward. “I’m your wife. You arrogant prick.”

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