Page 97 of A Secret and a Lie
He nods and masks his discomfort by lifting his old fashioned to his lips.
“It’s a shame your wife couldn’t join you tonight.”
“Yes, she’s holding things together back home,” he replies, shifting his gaze around the small group of men gathered around.
“Oh, then it’s a good thing you have Heather to keep you company.”
I’m surprised his eyeballs aren’t rolling across the floor by now with the force in which they nearly pop from his skull. He coughs, sputtering around the sip he took of his drink, fanning the flames in my belly. Julien bites his lip, and I know he wants to laugh, but when our eyes meet, I cock my head almost imperceptibly, wordlesslycommunicating that he should probably get lost. Less than five seconds later, he’s excused himself from the group.Wise man.
Ford sidles against me, maneuvering his body so that he’s somewhat in front of me. It’s a defensive position, which makes my heart flutter and my insides coil. But I’m not a damsel in distress.
The judge’s nostrils flare as he takes a step forward, but I smile dulcetly, dipping my chin. I slide my arm back around Ford’s bicep and nudge him gently to move. Luckily, he gets the memo and before Atkins can do anything reckless, we’re gliding toward the next throng.
“What the fuck was that?” he hisses under his breath, but I choose not to answer. It doesn’t concern him.
Chatter swirls around me, and I take the opportunity to scan the cavernous room. I spot Henry near the bar and wink the moment his wife turns her head. His cheeks pinken, and I grin as I continue my perusal, registering all the guests in attendance.
Just as I’m about to refocus on the conversation happening in front of me, I catch sight of Percy York by the entrance. Is he leaving? Or did he just arrive? Richard Aubrey stands next to him with Theo Jackson and Marshall Potter.Perfect.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to the group I’m with when there’s a break in the conversation, my hand slipping from Ford’s arm as I stride confidently across the room.
I still have two choices when it comes to these men: seduction or destruction. This time, the path forward is crystal clear.
I’m only about ten yards from the group of men when my wrist is ensnared, and I’m yanked toward a forest-green door with an ornate gold handle. My eyebrows slash, and I frown as I attempt to free my hand.
“Ford,” I assert, my voice low and threatening.
He doesn’t release me, though. He drifts as effortlessly as water, shielding my body from view as he shuffles me into the bathroom. To the rest of the room, I’m sure it appears as though he’s simply a husband who can’t get enough of his wife, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Inside the bathroom, he flips the lock, sealing us both inside this extravagant restroom with black marble, green, and gold adorning every square inch.
Practically breathing smoke, I take a meaningful step toward him, ignoring the fact that he looks damn good when he’s mad.
And he is. Fury rolls off him in sonic waves, invisible yet powerful, and part of me wants to absorb his ire, letting it feed my own. Then I remember that I don’t need an iota of assistance in the rage category.
“What the hell are you doing?” he seethes, prowling toward me. When we’re toe-to-toe, he adds, “You made an enemy out of Judge Atkins. What were you going to do when you reached Percy York? The same thing? You’re more intelligent than that.”
Lips pursed, I narrow my gaze. He’s delusional if he thinks I’m going to spill my pretty little brain to him. He’s not on my side. My circle is small, comprised only of me, Corinne, and Marcus. Sure, Ford helped me out with Stafford, and I’m grateful. I might still be in prison if it weren’t for him, but it’s difficult to muster any enthusiasm about giving him a seat at my table when he’s the one who arrested me in the first place.
He studies me—and my silence—for several beats before he cocks his head and the scowl he wears softens, shifting into something almost inquisitive. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
I don’t reply, don’t confirm that he’s one hundred percent correct. He steps in closer, siphoning all the oxygen in the small room, and I can feel himeverywherethough he’s yet to actually touch me. But when he does, it’s both simple and complex, and wholly bewitching.
The backs of his knuckles skate across my cheek like bubbles floating atop a water’s surface, gliding seamlessly over my skin. It’s an effort in willpower not to sink into the stroke.
Each time his body connects with mine, it’s like taking a single bite of a meal you’ve been craving for years, thoroughly satisfying and entirely insufficient. I want more than a taste; I want the feast.
“I want in on your plans.”
I rear back, wedging some necessary distance between us. “Why the fuck would I tell you?”
His hand falls way, and he lets out a heavy sigh as he shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed. I can’t say I blame him; I’m equally as exasperated. This line of questioning has grown tiresome.
Blue irises drill into me intently as he eats the distance I forced between us again. I’m acutely aware of how close I am to the wall at my back, and I refuse to retreat further. I don’t want to be pinned. My good judgment is hanging on by a fraying thread.
“Because,” he starts, strong and unreservedly dominant. “I’m on your team, but you’ve locked me out of the game.”
I clench my fists at my sides. “Players shouldn’t betray the coach,” I spit back.
