Page 120 of Mangled Memory
Liam Murphy:Important?
Me: Critical.
Liam Murphy: Give me two hours.
“I’m bringing Liam Murphy in to work on this as well.”
“Sir?”
“You’ll see.” It’s all I say as I twist in my seat and let my mind spin over scenario after scenario. How has this been something I’ve failed to notice? Surely the IRS knows I’ve filed what Ican only assume are fraudulent tax returns. Murphy Enterprises linked to me personally, not Barone Hospitality or Barone Holdings… for how long?
“Can you get the date the LLC was formed, any and all documents, and any EIN?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I want a timeline of events, starting eighteen months prior. More if needed. Let’s look at this for connections I’ve obviously missed.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll work on that straight away.” He pushes up in his chair.
“Murphy will be here in a couple of hours. Come back at—” I look at my watch fighting not to clench my palms into fists. “Two thirty. Bring what you have. Can I assume you found more?”
“Yes, but nothing as pressing as this. I’ll bring the documentation when I return.” Ren leaves the office, and, not for the first time, I’m thankful for his military precision.
I head to my bedroom, finding Ayla asleep on the settee in the corner, a book left forgotten in her lap. I set it on the end table and cover her with a throw before heading to the closet to change into shorts and a tee.
I spend the next ninety minutes running on the treadmill, lifting weights until my muscles are so fatigued they quiver with the last reps, and beating the shit out of a punching bag until my arms are Jello.
My mind is still, but it’s not quiet. The riot of noise wants to push to the forefront, but I force it back and spend all my focus on my breathing, on the physical exertion, and on the pull of tissue where the scar from a bullet lives.
I grab a quick shower before redressing and heading back to my office.
Ayla is nowhere to be seen.
Ayla
At six in the evening, my husband walks into the bedroom, the faint smell of pine and something entirely Christian, invades my senses.
I’m checking my reflection in the mirror. Champagne-colored silk romper with long billowing sleeves that cinch at the wrists. The deep vee in the front stops well below my non-existent cleavage. Nude strappy heels and gold bangles round out the look. The creamy color against my fair skin could wash me out, but the plunging neckline overcomes any trace of that. Besides, my makeup is flawless.
“Hey, Honey,” I call to him in the mirror. “Is this okay?”
The man in question slides in behind me, wraps an arm around me and leans in to kiss below my ear. “It’s better than okay, Princess. You look edible.”
My grin greets me in the mirror. And not for the first time since I woke up do I notice the striking differences between my husband and me. Dark eyes, rich olive skin, black hair. My pink skin tone, red hair, green eyes… my soft spots where he’s hard.
“That’s the goal.”
“To be eaten?”
I hold his eyes in the mirror. “To be consumed.”
“Happy to oblige, wife. That’ll give me something to focus on tonight.” He pulls me into his chest before spreading his fingers wide, just barely brushing a pinky across my mound through the thin silk. “I’ll be ready in five.”
He leaves me, the chill of his absence permeating me from nape to knees. I lean into the mirror and am applying some shimmery peach lip gloss when he returns. His white shirt has the collar popped as he twists and winds a charcoal tie with small bronze and iron flecks in it. When the tie is placed directly belowhis throat, I turn, dropping his lapels into place and smoothing them out.
“I want to consume you too.” The whispered confession is so intimate I nearly combust.
Heat greets me at my core, and I blush as I stare up into his gorgeous face.
