Page 65 of New Storm Rising
“I am aware. That is the point.”
I couldn’t help but grin.
“Remove.Now.”
My grin widening into a full-blown smirk, I reached for a napkin and dipped it into the jug of water on the table.
“Come here, Dicky Darling. Let me clean those itsy-bitsy specks off your sweet cheeks.”
The look he sent me could have murdered the four horsemen of the apocalypse at ten miles distance. Sweet! We were off to such a good start. If mornings were always going to go like this, I was going to enjoy making breakfast for my husband.
I took my time cleaning my dear hubby’s face. When I was finally finished, and he had decided to stop trying to freeze me with the mere power of his gaze, I sat down at the table once again.
“So…what now?”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Mr Ambrose.” I fixed him with a stern gaze, which, admittedly, was more difficult to pull off than usual with marmalade still covering my mouth. Quickly wiping it away, I resumed my stern gazing. “You were quite successful in distracting me yesterday. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you still haven’t told me what you’ve been up to recently!” I winced and shifted, blushing as I felt an ache in a certain spot. “Even if your distraction was really successful. Really, very, very successful.”
He gave me a look. If not for the fact that not a single muscle in his face moved, it might be described as smug.
“Oh, stop with that, you!”
The conspicuous absence of smugness on his face grew. Choosing to ignore that little fact, I prodded his chest.
“Yes, yes, you’ve got quite the talent for distraction tactics. Nonetheless, I’ve noticed the fact that you conspicuously avoided mentioning anything specific about what you were up to in town yesterday.”
There was a miniscule twitch on his face.
“What could you possibly mean, Mrs Ambrose?”
My finger bored into his chest more deeply. Ignoring the fact that it nearly broke off in the process—Darn chiselled pecs!—I glared at him. “I am your wife. I willnotbe left out. Spill!”
He looked at me for a long moment—then gave an almost imperceptible jerk of his head. Something that, in Ambrose terms, could feasibly be called a nod. An icy look entered his eyes.
“I paid a little visit to the mayor.”
I frowned. “The mayor? Why?”
“Well…I had some things to discuss with Señor Velazquez.”
My eyes widened. “Velazquez?” A Spanish name. “He’s one of—”
“Them? Correct.”
“Oh my.” I smirked. “Let me guess. You were there to kindly offer campaign funds for his re-election?”
“How did you guess?”
I blinked. “Wait, youactuallywere there to offer him money?”
“Certainly.” Mr Ambrose’s hand came out of his pocket. Something glinting shot into the air and, after a twirl, landed on his open palm.
Blankly, I stared at the single penny.
“I was very generous,” Mr Ambrose elaborated.
I stared at the coin for a moment longer—then a smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. I knew my husband.
