Page 82 of Coerced Wife

I cross the distance with determined steps and plant a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling that scent of summer and flowers that feels like home, like a few happy moments buried in the hollow of a tree trunk when chipped glass and the cracked plastic of toy rings were my treasures.

Now, it’s her.

She freezes as if my touch is revolting.

No matter.

I linger, dragging her essence into my lungs.

She exhales audibly when I pull away.

I get it.

She’s angry with me.

Disappointed.

She feels betrayed.

Hell, so do I.

But she’ll get over it just as I will get over what Giorgio just shared.

I walk with long strides from the room and down the corridor, almost crashing into Dante who bounces up the steps.

“Where’s Giorgio?” I ask.

He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Just left.”

“Keep an eye on Anya. Don’t let anyone near her. I’ll be back in an hour.”

He stops and follows my progress quietly, worry etched on his forehead.

Trusting him to keep Anya safe, I get into the city car I use nowadays to drive Anya around. I don’t use the Corvette any longer. She’s too far pregnant for the small space in the sports car. I had reinforced roll bars installed to prevent the roof from being flattened in case the car rolls in an accident, but the city car is one of the safestmodels on the market with a hardtop that can withstand a considerable shock. The near-indestructible Volvo I ordered for her will be delivered just after Christmas.

I drive to SoHo and park near the upmarket loft that Archibald James II calls a gallery. I know where he lives because I drove past here a few hundred times when Rachele moved in with him a short week after kicking me out of our house. I fantasized about bombing his place a million times.

A woman exits the building just as I arrive at the entrance. I slip in before the door closes and take the stairs to the top floor. As there’s no bell, intercom, or camera, which is a stupid and careless statement some artists moving in James’s circles are trying to make, I bang loud enough on the door for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Rachele opens it a moment later, looking the worse for wear in a red silk robe that hangs open over a matching negligee with her hair tangled around her face and her make-up smudged. When we lived together, she never allowed me to see her in any state other than perfect. She wouldn’t let me in the bathroom or dressing room while she got ready. She got out of bed with her hair tamed into a braid and a sleep mask on her forehead that hid half of her face.

Sighing, she ties the belt of the robe around her waist and walks barefoot to a kitchenette in the far corner of the open-plan room, letting me see myself in.

“What do you want?” she asks, filling a glass with water from the tap.

I close the door. “Where is he?”

She takes a bottle of painkillers from a disarray of magazines, unopened mail, dirty wine glasses, and empty peanut packets on the counter and shakes two pills ontoher palm. “Doing meditation in the park with his Taoist group.”

Good. That means I don’t have to throw him out of his own place with a humiliating kick on the ass so I can have this conversation with Rachele.

She leans her backside on the sink, facing me as she puts the pills in her mouth and gulps down the water.

“Long night?” I ask. “Or did you have too much champagne at my engagement party?”

She puts the glass on the counter next to an ashtray that holds a few burnt-out joints with red lipstick marks on the butts and plants her hands on the sink behind her. “What do you want, Sav?”

“You know why I’m here.”

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