Page 40 of The Devil's Pawn

My skin prickles as adrenaline fires into my bloodstream. Has he found out something more about Edgerton. “Go on.”

“I have the manager of Citadel on the line.”

Citadel is the private bank my family uses. I arch a brow. A call from the manager on a Sunday is unusual, even for a family as lucrative to the bank as ours. “And?”

“Sir, yesterday, several large transactions were charged to your credit card. Mr. Dobbs wants to know if he should block them.”

I frown. Several large transactions? I had no call to use my card yesterday, but the idea of fraudulent activity on a card as secure as mine is unheard of. Unless…

Well I fucking never. Imogen.

“Put him through. I’d like to talk to him.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Richard leaves, and seconds later, my phone rings. I answer it.

“Mr. Dobbs, what are these transactions?”

The bank manager clears his throat. “Well, sir, they’re rather odd. Furniture, bedding, and twenty-five television sets for a women’s refuge in Chichester, half of Hamley’s toy department for Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital, enough food to keep most of the food banks in the south of England stocked for a year, and sports equipment andsnooker tables for a youth facility in Hastings. Oh, and a six-figure payment to a company called Zenith.”

“Who are they?”

“I thought you might want to know that, so I took the liberty of looking them up.” He sounds pleased with himself, as if he’s expecting a pat on the back for doing his job. When I say nothing, he clears his throat and continues. “They’re an architecture firm in the United States that appear to be heavily involved in sustainability projects in Africa.”

“Approve them all.”

I’m both astounded and impressed. Imogen could have called Harrods and bought a glut of designer clothes and shoes, but she didn’t. She wanted to get back at me and help some worthwhile charities along the way. That says something about my wife, and I like what it shows. She’s still a brat, but a benevolent one.

I text Richard to dig a little deeper on Zenith. The fact they’re an architecture firm tells me that Imogen didn’t choose them by chance. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were the same firm she mentioned the first day we met—the one who’d offered her a job. It’s intriguing that she’s keeping in touch.

“Are… are you sure, sir?”

I hate being questioned when I’ve made a decision. It strikes me as the other person questioning my sanity.

“Do it.”

I hang up.

What a woman. What a fucking incredible woman.

And, for now, she belongs to me.

Chapter Fourteen

IMOGEN

On Tuesday morning, I receive several notifications that the items I spent most of Saturday purchasing are en route to their intended destinations. Surely by now, Alexander must know I spent a lot of his money, yet he hasn’t said a word. It’s like waiting for the trapdoor to open and the noose to tighten around my neck. I’d rather he call me out on it than keep up with this agonizing silence.

After climbing out of bed, I wander to the window. Parked outside the front entrance is an ominous black SUV, with its rear door open, and Alexander’s bodyguard, Steven, is standing next to it.

Alexander must be going out. I wait for him to appear, a knot tightening in my stomach. Tending to those cuts on his hands had been a bad idea. It made him appear more human somehow, especially given how softly he’d looked at me, and how grateful he’d sounded when he said thank you, even if he didn’t tell me how he’d gotten them in the first place.

I’m not yet ready to examine the feelings he evokes within me—feelings I don’t even know how to describe. All Ido know is he makes me uncomfortable in a way that’s troubling. If I’m to succeed in escaping this marriage, it’s crucial I dehumanize him in some way. His gratitude coming hot on the heels of what he did for Douglas’s daughter isn’t helping me to do that, though.

His assistant Richard appears first, followed by Alexander, his dark suit and navy blue tie impeccable, his thick, wavy hair neatly combed. I use the drapes as camouflage in case he catches me checking him out.

He gets in the car without looking back at the house, let alone up at my rooms. While I never expected him to, a wave of disappointment washes over me. I push it down into my stomach. No time for self-pity. I have plans.

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