Page 99 of The Devil's Pawn

Alexander sits up, pulling me with him. “Let’s eat.”

“What about… your turn?”

He shakes his head, and at first I think he’s angry at me, but then I see his smile. “My wife is hungry, therefore it’s my job to feed her.”

He unpacks an abundance of food—far too much for the two of us. That doesn’t stop me from digging in, though. I polish off two salmon sandwiches, three cheese and pesto puff pastry swirls, and an entire bowlful of spicy rice with mixed peppers. By the time I’ve finished, I feel as though I could sleep for a week.

“You’ve screwed yourself,” I say, lying down and letting the sun warm my skin.

“How’s that?” Alexander lies beside me, linking our fingers together.

“I’m too full for sex.”

“Noted. Are you too full for your surprise?”

I sit up so fast, I get dizzy. “Absolutely not.”

He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, then caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. “I spoke to Christian this morning. He’s looked into Zenith, and he’s satisfied they’re a good option for you. So, if you want to work for them, and they have a suitable role, it’s fine by me.”

“Really?” I squeal, throwing my arms around his neck. “Thank you! God, thank you. You’ve no idea what this means to me.”

He unwinds my arms and brings both my hands to his lips, kissing my knuckles. “I’ve got a fairly good idea. Now, how about a game of chess followed by a little sightseeing?”

“Sounds perfect. Can we go to Buckingham Palace? Oh, and Westminster Abbey. And Hyde Park.”

I expect him to groan or give the impression he’d rather pluck out his fingernails with a pair of pliers, but his eyes gleam as he unpacks a travel set of chess and sets up the board.

“What my wife wants, she gets.”

“Your wife wants to beat you at chess.”

He grins. “Maybe she doesn’t get everything she wants.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

ALEXANDER

Imogen can’t contain her joy and excitement as we explore London, taking in all the major sights. The city holds no interest for me, but seeing it through her eyes is a novel experience that, I have to admit, I don’t hate. She’s incredibly… enthusiastic about everything, and to my jaded soul, she’s a breath of fresh air I crave as much as an addict hankers after their next fix.

After visiting all the places she insisted she justhadto see, we meander through Hyde Park hand in hand, stopping for a few minutes at Speaker’s Corner to listen to a member of the public ranting about the state of the capital’s roads. I explain the history of Speaker’s Corner to Imogen, and how parliament in 1872 designated this as an area for free speech.

She listens, enraptured. “There’s so much history in this country,” she says as we walk away. “America is a baby in comparison.”

“That baby has achieved a lot in a few hundred years.”

“True.”

We walk a little farther before I suggest we turn back andhead for the car. As we do, a little girl on a bike comes careering toward us. She panics, wobbles, then brakes. Losing her balance, she hits the ground, hard. There’s a half a second pause before an ear-splitting wail tears out of her.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Imogen crouches and helps the child up. Her knees are scuffed, but not bleeding. My wife gives them a rub while the child continues to scream.

I look around for a parenting figure, but can’t see anyone. She can’t be more than five or six—far too young to be cycling through a London park by herself.

“There, there. You’re okay.”

I return my attention to the child, but as I watch Imogen take such wonderful care of her, calming her down in a way I know I never could, a pang echoes through my heart. My wife was born to be a mother. Maybe not now while she’s so young but eventually. Yet by staying married to me, I’m denying her that chance. Nicholas already called me out on that, back when I was determined to force her into asking me for a divorce.

The child’s mother—or possibly nanny—races over and gushes her thanks to Imogen for taking care of the child, while I stand there, feet frozen to the ground as a giant crater opens up in my chest.

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