Page 54 of Spooked

He stood, stretched, and took the package from me, handling it with the care it deserved. The T-shirt he wore today was tight, showing off muscles normally hidden beneath a dark jacket. I knew he went to the gym every morning before work, and all that exercise had certainly paid off. The man had abs. I’d dreamed about him these past few nights, while I lay in a luxurious room upstairs and he headed home to his wife. Did they share a bed? He hadn’t said either way, but I couldn’t see it. Watching them together at dinner on Wednesday evening, it had been clear they detested each other. And now that I’d met Carissa, it was equally clear that money couldn’t buy class. Their marriage showed that even with the freedom to pick your own suitor, the process could sometimes go very, very wrong.

Mr. Vale looked at the drawings one by one and nodded. “They’re just as good as the originals.”

“Do you have much more to do here?”

“Fifteen more minutes on the painting, and then I’ll hang these. Don’t worry; I’ll be finished before the carpet installers arrive.”

“How did you become the king of DIY? Did they run classes at Georgetown?”

“No, but I spent my final two years there renovating an old house.”

“As a job?”

“Not exactly. As long as we helped out, the owner gave us a good deal on the rent. I didn’t have much cash in those days.”

“Really? I always assumed you came from money.”

“I did.” He gave a rueful smile. “But things were difficult with my family.”

Just for a second, I saw it. The trauma he tried to hide. Had he turned his back on his father the same way I had? He still cared for his mother; all the gifts, the calls, the visits told me that much. In so many ways, Mr. Vale felt like a kindred spirit, and I wished I could tell him everything, ask his advice, but I had to maintain a respectable distance between us. Plus I didn’t want to burden him. He had enough on his mind with Carissa.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all in the past.”

But was it? Whatever had happened, it obviously still bothered him. And if he’d been fragile mentally back then, it might explain his involvement with Carissa. She was just the type of woman to take advantage that way.

I tried a smile, because what else could I do? “Well, if you ever need a second career, people would line up to hire you as a decorator.”

“It might come to that.”

I laughed, but he didn’t. And as I curled up in bed that night, I recalled the tortured look on his face. Mr. Vale had a secret: he wasn’t as strong as he liked to make out. And as his assistant, I wasn’t about to let anyone exploit that weakness.

Including myself.

* * *

Sunday morning found us back at the airport. The crisis was over, and the New York branch of Nyx would reopen tomorrow. It was time to go home.

The trip had shown me different sides of Mr. Vale—the down-to-earth man who’d muck in to help with repairs, the reluctant husband who put on a mask for the world, the asshole with a wicked sense of humour.

When I’d finally given in yesterday and asked what the potty chair was for, he’d said it was a sample, and what did I think of the idea of a themed crèche? Only when I appeared suitably shocked did he crack a smile.

I shoved him before I could stop myself. “You jackass.”

“You actually thought I was serious? We have rules here: no kids, no animals. Unless you count the leather sheep in room three.”

“A leather sheep? Is this another joke?”

“No.”

“It has to be.”

“A very special guest requested it. Go take a look if you want to.”

He wasn’t kidding. Sheesh. Mr. Vale had let me meander around in the basement freely on our visit, so perhaps he’d decided I no longer needed protecting? Or maybe he realised I’d changed inside? I was no longer the same woman who’d left Clifton Packaging. I felt braver, more confident.

“That still doesn’t answer my question about the potty,” I said when I came back.

---