Page 122 of Chandelier Sin
I refused to share anything else. My precious secret would never be squandered on a man I hardly knew.
“Do you love him?” he asked gruffly.
After his criticism, after hinting we weren’t as close, I refused to answer. “Are you in a relationship?”
“No.”
Wasn’t sure I believed him.
“If you found anything it belongs to a buddy’s girlfriend.”
I smirked at that excuse. “Didn’t go in the other rooms. Who gave you the engraved watch?”
He looked at me thoughtfully, and then his eyes turned towards his wardrobe, toward the console where that engraved piece of evidence lay.
Atticus sat up and leaned against the headboard. He ran his hands through his hair, looking sexily disheveled, his dark locks and five o’clock shadow disarming.
I tried to read his stiff reaction.
Our gazes locked, as though he was discerning if I’d guessed more about the watch.
“What?” I asked.
Atticus’ jaw twitched as he looked through me with those dark eyes. He reached out and offered me his hand like a peace offering. He wanted to hold my hand, which was what I needed.
I let him take my hand, offering a smile, hoping somehow, someway, we would traverse this chasm of mistrust between us. He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it, eyes not leaving mine.
I should have told him I was coming here, shouldn’t have broken in. Should have proven I wasn’t the enemy.
I searched for the right words to express this.
Atticus lowered my hand with his left and with his right he gripped the silver bracelet.
No.
He slid the band up my forearm, revealing my inked barcode. Struck with recognition, his gaze rose to meet mine.
I tried to pull my arm away, but his grip was too strong. He held me still and studied that faded brand.
Atticus finally exhaled. “He bought you.”
Flushed with embarrassment, I stared at the barcode as though seeing it for the first time myself.
I had a foggy recollection of some other person’s existence, my mind searching for a space to hide. Like up there in the corner of the ceiling, where no one could find me.
Coming back into my body, I found myself scurrying around his bedroom, picking up discarded garments and quickly dressing.
On the wall, above the bed we’d made love in, that print of Banksy’s bathtub reminded me of the one at home. That one, too, had legs carved like shells.
“Do you look for shells?” I asked Atticus. “On the beach.”
His shoulders slumped—his gaze a mixture of confusion and sadness.
“Why don’t you leave him?” he asked quietly. “You’re in America, for God’s sake.”
“Things are never as they appear.” I pulled my bra on and fastened it at the back.
“Do you love him?”
