Page 148 of Beautiful Liar

That bracing reality drags spikes of pain through me. I’m still sitting on the sofa, staring into space, when he buzzes the door.

He’s wearing the dark grey suit from TV, minus the tie.

I try to smile when he walks in. I fail. I try to throw myself into the long, beautiful make out session he stages with my mouth. I succeed. But only just.

Silver blue eyes pierce me when he lifts his head. “Something’s wrong.”

No shit.

“I saw you on TV.”

That deathly stillness engulfs his whole body. “And?”

What could I say? You had your hand on your stepmother’s ass and besides the actively eww factor of it, I don’t know what to do with this insane jealousy riding me?

“Quinn, are you seeing someone else?”

The only reaction I get is a slight flare of his nostrils. “What sort of question is that?”

“A normal one that I should’ve asked before this…whatever this is, started.”

“I’m seeing you. Am I fucking someone else? Not right now. But I love to fuck, Elyse. I won’t deny it. I fuck when the urge takes me. I’m hoping to fuck the shit out of you when you’re done with your thing. When that happens, I intend for you to be the only one I fuck. Does that answer your question?”

Not even close. But I nod, because I can’t bring myself to ask the other question.

“Good, then let’s go.”

I glance down at my jeans and cream cashmere sweater. “Do I need to change?”

His eyes, still containing jagged shadows, fly over me. “No, come as you are. Maybe bring a scarf.”

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive. I need to clear my head. Do you mind?”

“No.” I could do with some head-clearing myself.

I hurry upstairs, slip my feet into new tan knee-high boots. I loop a long blue and silver scarf around my neck, glide on some lip gloss and leave my hair loose. I shove some money and my phone into one of my new cross-body purses and check myself out in the mirror one last time.

His jacket is off and he’s pacing the living room when I return. The moment he catches sight of me, he holds out his hand. A tight knot inside me eases. When I reach him, he takes my hand, pulls me close and kisses me long and hard before he walks us out the door.

He’s not driving the DB9 today. Sitting on the curb is another low slung sports car. A silver Mercedes-AMG. It looks scarily powerful.

He helps me into it, tosses his jacket into the back, and walks around to his side with stilted movements. The throaty engine roars to life and he burns rubber as he leaves the curb. He doesn’t talk as we endure the late afternoon traffic out of Manhattan, but he catches my hand, kisses my knuckles a few times before resting it on his thigh. Jazz and rock anthems blast from the speakers.

It’s not until we hit the outskirts of New Jersey that he lowers the volume.

“Whatever you saw on TV…it’s complicated.” His voice is low, coarse as gravel.

The nausea threatens again. “There’s complicated and then there’s complicated. Which kind are we talking about?”

He doesn’t even blink. “The second kind.”

My heart drops. “I don’t know what to do with that, Quinn.”

He stays silent for a mile or two. Then he glances at me. “That relief you offered. I’m asking for it now.”

God.

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