Page 60 of Point of No Return

It’s a way to make me feel at ease… like he’s on my side.Previously, he said he worked for the entire family. But I hardly look Skar’s way as I smile again. “Stop it. You’ll make it all go to my head.”

Crew smirks at me in the rear-view mirror. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

I sit back, content to watch the blurred shape of trees and passing vineyards float by outside the tinted windows. Skar’s frown is somehow deeper than it was before, but he’s so intent on scrolling through emails on his phone that I don’t bother asking what’s wrong.

It’s not long before the building comes into view. It’s several stories high, and the intricate high tresses and stone walls look like they’ve come right out of a storybook. We pull toward the cathedral door entrance, and after Crew helps me down, I follow Skar as he strolls through the arched entryway.

Inside, the dark, echoing hallways open into a massive room. A few people busily prowl back and forth, wheeling wooden crates full of wax-sealed bottles or arranging crystal glasses behind the bar near the far back wall.

Stupidly, only then does it hit me: My husband brought me to a club. More importantly, heownsa club. Even if it wasn’t the office building I was expecting, it’s a start. But it definitely proves he doesn’t fully trust me yet.

Crew crosses toward the bar, striking up a conversation with a few suppliers while Skar directs me up a flight of stairs. Down a narrow hallway markedVIPER EMPLOYEES ONLY, there’s a door which he props open with a hand. He guides me inside, yanking the blinds open to reveal the office.

Dark sandalwood bookshelves, gold accents, and a thick desk and chair are perched in the corner. Skar shrugs out of his coat, throwing it over the back of his seat, and then rolls the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms. In the lowlight of the office, his tattoos look even darker against his tanned skin, and I find myself concentrating more on looking at him than focusing on what I came here for.

Dangerous, I tell myself as his eyes follow me. I stroll right toward his bookshelves, tilting my head to read the titles.

“So… you own a club,” I say as I brush my fingers over the spines.

No ledgers, I note as I toy with a heavy gilded paperweight in the shape of a dragon.

“One of many.”

In the corner of my eye, I see him cross his arms. I know better than to play completely dumb and pretend that I don’t know where the majority of the Benenati wealth comes from.

Between a lamp and several leather portfolios, stacks of paper are arranged in perfect order on his desk. I plant my ass on the corner, sliding one portfolio sideways and watching as he eyes the misplaced item. His jaw ticks just slightly.

“So, manufacturing, horse racing, business management, marketing… What don’t you do?”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. He shrugs. “I dabble.”

I shake my head, plucking one of the portfolios up and flipping carelessly through some of the contracts within. “Sounds like something Tyson would say.”

“You’re awfully interested in what my father has to say.”

More like what his ledgers say.

“Careful, Benenati. Sounds an awful lot like jealousy.” I cross my legs as I set the portfolio on the corner of the desk.

“Or curiosity,” he hedges. Not quite revealing the question I know he wants to ask:Why do I care enough about the place he works to warrant a visit?

His eyes dart toward the out-of-place portfolio before he reaches forward and arranges it in its original position.

Interesting.

“The other wives talk about work occasionally.” I pick up another file, rummaging through it before resting it on the desk by my lap. “I’m always at a loss.” He shuffles the file back into its upright position, and I smile at the confirmation.

My husband is a neat-freak.

“Does it bother you when I do this?” I reach for one of the pens at the head of the desk, twirling it in my hand before holding it over the floor- and dropping it. It clatters, rolling beneath the desk. His eyes dip toward it but find mine again.

“Not many things bother me.”

Lie.What little I can read from him, I know for a fact that that’s a lie. “So it doesn’t bother you when I leave my clothes on the bathroom floor?”

Whether it’s the maids cleaning my absent-minded messes or not, they’re always gone before I get dressed after breakfast. His jaw clenches, and I have my answer:It does bother him.

“What about when I wear your expensive shirts to bed?”

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