Page 36 of Rebound

I school my face into neutral and walk into the room. Mason’s secretary has already set us up with coffee and pastries, none of which appear to have been touched. Amber is dressed in a fitted black dress and a pair of knee-high boots with pointed heels that could kill a man. She’s also wearing that tasseled necklace she had on a couple of nights ago, and I narrow my eyes at her when I see it. She gives me a mischievous wink as Mason stands up to greet me. She knows exactly what she’s doing, the minx.

Mason’s face is red and his knuckles are white, and I can tell he’d really like to punch the shit out of something. “She’s refusing to cooperate, which is no fucking surprise at all.”

“I’m not refusing to cooperate,” Amber says, that patented ice of hers dripping from every word. “I’m simply refusing to do what you’ve asked of me, Mason. Mainly because it’s a stupid idea. Perhaps you could consult with a PR person who actually knows what they’re doing.”

His nostrils flare, and he whirls around to face her. Nathan has no patience at all for Amber either, but he’s the Ice Man. Mason is not. Mason is quick to laugh, quick to lose his temper, quick to forgive. Amber knows all of this, and she’s pushing his buttons—what I don’t know is why. Just for fun? I suppose that’s possible.

I place a calming hand on my younger brother’s shoulder. “Before we escalate to DEFCON 1, how about you tell me what it was you suggested?”

Nodding, he takes a seat and throws a quick glare at my wife, then pointedly ignores her. Her lips curve as she pours herself a coffee. Yeah. Definitely pressing his buttons.

“I think part of the reason this whole thing is getting way more attention than we expected is because people want to know more,” he says. “You’re both public figures in your own right. Elijah, because you’re the successful CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation, and Amber, because you look good in a cocktail dress and pretend you give a shit about good causes.”

I bite back a laugh. Mason is also very sharp and damn funny. Amber’s response is priceless—her head lifts and tilts very slightly to one side. She fixes him with those irresistible eyes, the very picture of classy Jackie O elegance, then abruptly gives him the finger. Even his mouth twitches at the corners.

“Will you two quit acting like kids?” I say, remembering that I haven’t eaten all day and grabbing a Danish.

“I will if she will.” Mason sticks his tongue out, and she responds in kind, but then she holds her hands up in a gesture of peace. “Look, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not enjoying all this fuss either. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing, and I’ve had several journalists come knocking on the door. I was even caught by a paparazzi during my walk around the park this morning.”

“Christ, I hope you didn’t give them the finger too.” Mason follows my lead and picks up a croissant.

He’s joking, but I don’t think it’s funny at all. I’m fucking furious. “That’s not happening again. We need to get security in place. I’ll make some calls, get someone there by tonight. The cameras aren’t enough to deal with this.” I’m thinking she needs someone living there twenty-four seven. “You shouldn’t be in that house alone, with fuck knows who hanging around outside.”

We have a security company on retainer, but I’m not sure they’re good enough. Ideally, I’d have a Navy SEAL team outside the house. Or Nathan could talk to his clients the Ryans—they’re basically Irish Mafia, and they’d definitely keep her protected. Legal doesn’t mean shit to me when it comes to my wife. I hate being away from her anyway, but the thought of her alone and under siege makes my blood boil.

“Hold it right there, Sir Plans-a-lot,” she says, interrupting my train of thought. “None of that is necessary. For a start, it was nothing I haven’t dealt with before. They were polite enough, and nobody showed any signs of bundling me into the back of a van. Even the photographer was apologetic once he got his shot. Plus, and most importantly, I’m not staying there. I’ve decided to move out.”

When the hell did she decide that? She hasn’t mentioned it any of the times I’ve seen her, but Mason knows nothing about our affair, so I keep my voice steady as I say, “What do you mean, you’re moving out? When did you decide that?”

“I’ve been considering it since I got back from Charleston, to be honest. The house…” She shakes her head. “It’s too big for me on my own. I need somewhere new.”

Our eyes meet across the table, and I wish like hell that Mason wasn’t here. I wish like hell I could simply say, “Fuck it, I’ll move back in. Let me look after you.” But that’s not what she wants, and it’s not sensible. Seeing each other as pretend strangers in clandestine hotel rooms is one thing—resuming our life together is quite another.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say that to start with?” Mason snaps at Amber, then glances at me and explains. “I wanted you two to do an interview together at the house. Show a united front, stress the continuity, answer a few scripted questions. Basically overfeed the press and public enough niceness that they lose interest in you. Nothing is more boring than a conscious uncoupling.”

“I didn’t say it because you didn’t give me the chance,” she drawls. The slower she speaks, the more annoyed she is. “Plus, it was something I preferred to tell the organ grinder, not his media monkey.”

I shake my head and blow out a breath. These two. They’ve barely seen each other in years, and I almost forgot how much they make me want to bang their heads together. I slam my hands down on the table to stop their incessant bickering. “Amber, where are you thinking of moving to?” I ask, far more concerned about her next moves than what a gossip columnist has to say about us. “You’re free to choose any of the properties Jamestech owns—we have the apartments we use for visiting guests and staff. Or I could contact our realtor and see what’s available that would be suitable for you.”

“Suitable?” she repeats, a distinct and dangerous glint in her eyes. It’s another signature Amber move that I haven’t seen from her since we decided to divorce, and it makes me feel exactly the same as it always has—frustrated, misunderstood, and like a complete fucking idiot. “What do you mean by suitable, Elijah?”

“Suitable as in safe. As in somewhere you feel comfortable,” I say, keeping my voice even, knowing I’m on thin ice.

But no, screw that. The Amber from my hotel suite, the Amber from Greenwich, is gone and has been replaced by the coldhearted automaton who can destroy me with one word, one look. Replaced by the Amber who seems to enjoy inflicting pain on me. I understand why that Amber exists a lot better than I ever did, and I appreciate that she isn’t actually coldhearted at all—but I don’t want to go back to that life. I lived it for too damn long. “Jesus Christ, you know what? Live wherever the fuck you like.”

Mason’s head snaps up, his eyes wide. Amber herself simply nods and sets her coffee cup on the coaster in front of her with a click. She stands, smoothing down her dress with efficient, deliberate motions, and grabs her coat. “Right. Well. Thanks so much gentlemen. This was productive.” She spins and walks out of the room, her heels clicking on the floor, and it feels like they’re sinking into my heart with every step she takes away from me.

Mason meets my eyes. “Do not go after her,” he says firmly. “She’s not worth it.”

I glower at him. He was at least partially responsible for the way she behaved. She’s under no illusions about the way Mason feels about her, and she has always felt second best to my brothers. Upset, she retreated back into her frigid-bitch act. It’s an act, but it’s an act that still has the power to hurt me.

“Mason, I love you dearly—but fuck off.” I get to my feet so quickly I knock the chair over. The elevator doors close as I approach them, so I take the stairs, galloping down them two at a time. I emerge into the lobby as she leaves the building. A few members of the staff look confused when I dart past, racing to catch her before she can jump into a cab.

“Amber,” I shout. “Wait!” She freezes on the spot, and I’m relieved I don’t have to chase her this time. Her hands go to her face, and I swear under my breath. She’s fucking crying. Whether they’re angry tears or sad tears or a bit of both, I have no idea.

She whirls around, her whiskey-brown eyes flashing at me, that damn tasseled necklace swinging between her breasts. “What, Elijah? What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you. I want us to speak like human beings again. I want us to be Mr. and Mrs. Smith for a few damn minutes.”

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