Chapter Nine

Annabelle

I’ve never had hours of dedicated spa treatment, and I must admit: it’s nice. Better than nice, actually.

My skin glows, thanks to the wrap and exfoliation; my muscles feel like warmed butter after ninety minutes of full body massage; and my hands and feet are pink and soft. Shiny pearly lacquer coats my fingers, and my hair’s been styled into a chic French twist with wisps framing my face. One of the artists touches up my face, doing that fancy smoky thing for my eyes that deepens their color, and some artful contouring that brings out my cheekbones.

I feel like a million bucks as I leave. The only thing that would make this even better would be having a girlfriend to share it with, but it’s not something I can do anything about. My best friend from Lincoln City, Traci Burton, is not someone I can even call now. My dad wrecked her family too, and the last I heard, her parents had to give up their dream of retiring early and traveling the country in an RV. It’s mind-boggling how one man’s greed can destroy so much, and it’s doubly painful that it was my own father.

My phone buzzes with a new text when I climb into the Mercedes Elliot insists that I drive. I check it just in case it’s from my husband, then go still. It’s my bank. Apparently Mr. Grayson has deposited another thousand dollars.

I check the date. Yup, it’s that time, but why is he giving me the money? Surely, he knows I don’t need it now, and he’s already well aware of how much I dislike taking charity.

My bank has a branch about a block from the spa. I glance at the time, then trot over and walk into the enormous air-conditioned lobby.

There’s a security guard in a blue uniform shuffling around in a corner, and a few bored-looking tellers sitting at the counter. I walk up to one of the windows. “Excuse me. Is there a way to cancel or reject a deposit?”

“Once the check’s cleared, you can’t put a stop order on it,” she says, looking more alert now that she has an actual human to interact with.

“No, I mean someone deposited money into my account. I want to send it back.”

“Oh.” She frowns, looking at me like I’m crazy. “Well… Let me check for you. What’s the account number?” She asks for my ID, and I hand it over along with my social security number and a few other details. She hums. “Are you talking about the thousand dollar deposit that came in today from Life Trust?”

“Yes.”

She pulls her lips in. “Doesn’t look like I can just reject it.”

“So I’m stuck?”

“You can call the company and ask them to reverse it for you. That would be the easiest.” She frowns again. “But I see that they’ve been depositing money into your account fairly regularly. Is there a problem?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s fine. The deposits are supposed to stop from this month. It’s probably an accounting error.” I’m not going into detail about the arrangement I have with Mr. Grayson.

“Well. You could call, but most likely they’ll catch the error on their own and reverse the transaction.”

“Great. Thanks.” I give her a pat smile and leave.

I return to the car and inhale deeply. I don’t want to talk to Mr. Grayson, but I need to put a stop to this. I already owe the man over ten thousand dollars, for the thousand he’s been giving me every month since he found me.

My stomach flutters like I’m about to take a big test I didn’t study for. I can do this. Just keep the call short and to the point.

“Hello, Annabelle,” comes Mr. Grayson’s plebian voice. No matter what the words are coming out of his mouth, it’s like he’s reading a list of groceries. It’s the kind of voice that you expect any average college-educated white American male to have: unremarkable in every way. But his behavior is far from unremarkable.

“Hi, Mr. Grayson.” I wet my suddenly dry lips. “I’m calling about the deposit.”

“Is it sufficient?” he asks calmly, not a hint of rebuke or surprise.

I swallow. The only time I ever call him about money is when I need more. “Yes. Actually, I wanted to let you know there’s no reason for you to bother anymore. My husband is taking care of my needs.”

“I see. Congratulations.”

“And I’d like to know where I can start sending you payments.”

“For what?”

“The money you’ve been lending me. I want to pay you back.”

“There’s no reason to do that.”

“But I want to.”

A small pause hangs in the air for a moment. “Is it because you’re worried your husband may find out?”

“What?”

“He seems like a proud fellow. He might not take kindly to his wife having her needs met by some other man.”

There’s an odd purr in the way he says “some other man” that makes my internal alarm go off. “It’s not like that. I don’t want to be beholden to anybody.”

“That wasn’t what you said when I first met you.”

I clench my hand in my lap. “I know you don’t work for an insurance company.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is so. I always knew, but I didn’t want to admit it. I was too desperate. You know that.”

“Then why do you think I’ve been providing for you and your sister?” His tone is entirely too mild, like he’s discussing music he used to like in the nineties.

Apprehension tightens around my neck, making it hard for me to drag in air. “I don’t know.”

“It’s because I wanted something from you.”

“Like my marrying Elliot Reed.”

“Yes. For starters.”

For starters? “Yeah, well, I married him. As for anything else, um…no. I can just pay you back.”

“No, I don’t believe you can.”

“Well, I can’t pay it all at once. But eleven thousand dollars isn’t that—”

“You owe me more than eighteen thousand dollars, my dear.”

I gasp. “What? There’s no way I owe you that much!”

“You have no credit, and the money I’ve provided you with is basically an unsecured loan. People with your background and income level are lucky to get a twenty-five percent interest rate. I have compounded it daily, just like any credit card company would.”

Sweat slickens my palms. I’ve heard Dad talk about this, and I’ve taken a few finance courses so I understand the real extent of what’s happening. The worst of it is, Mr. Grayson is most likely right about my credit-worthiness. “Are you a loan shark or something?” There’s no other explanation for him locating me and giving me the money in the first place.

He barks out a laugh, which is kind of stunning. I’ve never heard him laugh before. But the sound isn’t pleasant. It’s the creepy cackle a movie villain makes when he has the hero trapped. “My dear, I’m far too respectable for that. Merely stating your situation. After all, most husbands, wealthy or not, would tend to balk at forking over such a large sum to cover a new wife’s debt.”

I think about Elliot, and what he told me about the other Annabelle’s betrayal. Would he really be okay with me asking him to cover my debt?

“Just to be clear,” Mr. Grayson continues, “I do expect you to repay me, with interest. And I always collect my debts.”

The way he speaks makes me ill. My instincts say he doesn’t just mean dollars and cents. There’s going to be something more… Except that doesn’t make any sense, does it? People don’t really do this in real life…do they?

“Stop sending me money!” I blurt out. The first thing I need to do is make sure I don’t get more in the hole.

“If you insist. Now, if we’re finished…” He hangs up.

I stare at the phone. The happiness that effervesced earlier is gone. In its place is stunned misery.

How could I have misjudged Mr. Grayson so badly?

I grip the steering wheel, my shoulders up to my ears. Mr. Grayson has always been unusually interested in my love life. After all, he’s the one who wanted me to marry.

Or was it really about me?

Maybe he was interested in who Elliot was going to marry. He wanted me to be a stripper so I could snag Elliot’s attention, but why? How would he benefit from me and Elliot getting married? Most importantly, how could he have known this would happen when he approached me? Elizabeth said only the members of her family knew about the true situation between me and Elliot.

None of it makes sense. I wish I could talk to Elliot, but I don’t know what to tell him or where to begin. My situation with Mr. Grayson is so outlandish that if somebody were to tell me, I’d just roll my eyes.

I flex my hands around the steering wheel and inhale deeply. Time to focus. First, get through dinner with Elliot’s friends. Then I’ll figure out what to do about Mr. Grayson.

* * *

Annabelle

“I’m home,” I call out as I enter the penthouse. It’s a little bit after three.

Elliot puts his phone in his pocket. He’s in a casual green V-neck short-sleeve shirt and black slacks. “Welcome back. How was it?”

“Spectacularly great.” I smile. “Thank you.” I reach over to kiss his cheek. He smells like fresh soap. He probably had his afternoon swim and showered not too long ago.

He turns his head so my lips land on his instead. The brief contact leaves me breathless as an electric sizzle zings through my body.

“Mmm.” He pulls back with a small frown. “You seem sort of tense. Did something happen?”

I hesitate.

His eyes sharpen. “You should tell me if something’s bothering you.”

Elliot and I have finally reached some kind of understanding, and for the first time since I left Lincoln City, I feel truly okay. I don’t want to ruin it by talking about what is essentially a problem caused by desperation and ignoring my gut.

I realize my knuckles are white around my purse straps and force them to relax. Then I paste a big, rueful smile on my face. “A lot of bad drivers on the road. I almost got rear-ended twice.”

“Damn.” He scrunches his face. “People these days.”

“I know, right?” I keep my voice light. Better to blame them than Mr. Grayson’s casually delivered threat. He may not call it that, but his bland tone doesn’t fool me.

“Maybe we should get something pricier for you to drive.”

“Huh?”

“They’d be a lot more reluctant to hit an Aston Martin or Maserati.”

“No!” I say before I can stop myself. “There’s no way I’m touching something that costs so much.”

He shrugs. “Not that much more than your ring.”

Gasping, I stare at the huge Asscher-cut diamond on my finger. The stone winks.

He laughs. “Just kidding.”

Wrinkling my nose, I punch his shoulder. “You’re terrible!”

“What I am is lovable.”

“And highly self-aware.”

“That too.”

Amusement gleams in his eyes. It makes me feel good to see him like this, so carefree and happy.

“Anyway, I don’t mind.” He goes around until he is cradling my back with his chest. “You’re supposed to be relaxed and happy after spa, not tense and annoyed with drivers who don’t belong on the road.” His hands dig into my shoulders, his fingers flexing in a gentle massage.

I moan. “That feels really good.” The masseuse was good too, but nobody has the touch quite like Elliot. “But still no expensive cars. The Mercedes is pricey enough. I mean it.”

“Okay, grouchy girl.” He presses his cheek against my temple. “By the way, that was Gavin.”

“Oh. Why was he calling?”

“Their nanny got food poisoning, so they have nobody to watch their kid while we’re out and about. The housekeeper doesn’t stay overnight.”

“Oh no.” My shoulders droop, and the rest of my body inexplicably deflates. Perhaps I was looking forward to it more than I admitted.

“But Amandine still wants to go ahead if you don’t mind having dinner at their place. Their housekeeper is going to make Mexican.”

“That’d be great. I love Mexican food.”

“Thanks for being so flexible. Amandine was pretty distraught according to Gavin, and he’s freaked out about upsetting her during pregnancy.” When I look at him curiously, he adds, “Apparently she’s having a hard time with the second one. Lots of cravings and moodiness.” He shrugs, reaching for his phone. “You’d think it’d get easier with practice.” He types a text and sends it.

“We should probably get some kind of present for them. Maybe flowers for Amandine?” I twist my fingers. I don’t just want to meet them, but to make a good impression. I already blew it with Elliot’s family, but this is another chance.

“I have a couple of red wines that Gavin likes.”

“Oh.” I pause. Would I be expected to partake some of it? I have no idea how etiquette works in a situation like this. It would be odd if I decline to drink what Elliot and I brought, wouldn’t it?

As though he senses my reservation, Elliot adds, “He’ll probably uncork one at the table, since he can’t wait when it comes to good wine, but you don’t have to drink it. Amandine won’t be having any either.” He kisses me lightly on the forehead.

His thoughtfulness touches me. It is surprisingly nice not to have to be in charge of everything as I often have been in the last two years. It’s as though an invisible yoke has been lifted from my shoulders.

“And we have a box of gourmet chocolates for Amandine, so she won’t be put out. Hopefully she’s not adverse to it.”

“Who doesn’t like good chocolate?”

“Pregnant women apparently. I’ve heard some insane stories about cravings.”

I rest my head on his shoulder, inhaling his clean, masculine scent. It’s so uniquely Elliot and it does crazy things to my hormones and emotions. A longing for closeness unfurls even as my blood heats. I want the rest of our year to be like this, even if it makes it harder for me to leave. That way we can at least remain friends, if nothing else.

“A penny for ’em,” he murmurs.

I tilt my head and look into his gorgeous eyes. “I was debating between milk chocolate and dark.” It’s a silly thing to say, but I don’t want to get too heavy.

An odd look passes, and he laughs. “Seriously?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Beautiful.”

“Hmm?”

“Why debate when you can have both?” He pulls me up. “Come on. We should get going if we want to make it in time. Traffic is going to be apocalyptic.”

“They don’t live downtown?”

“Nope. It’s a house out in the boonies.”