The Kiss Thief

Three hours after he’d left the house, my husband was seen with a gorgeous brunette on his arm. She was wearing my favorite Valentino dress and a proud smile.

Screw you, Wolfe.

Her eyes were bigger and bluer and deeper. They saw and knew things I could hardly even imagine. She was taller and considerably more beautiful. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, smiling dreamingly as their photo was taken, staring directly to the camera. Flirting with it. Loving it back. And, as my husband looked down at her, his cold mercury eyes darkening with lust, I knew what I had to do even before I’d read the caption under their image.

Senator Wolfe Keaton (30) and prima ballerina Karolina Ivanova (28) were seen spending time together at a local gala. Keaton, who was married to Francesca Rossi (19) this summer, is currently in the midst of a scandal after his young wife was seen kissing a childhood friend on the grounds of Northwestern University earlier this afternoon.

Frantic, I checked for more pictures. More items. More tweets about my husband and his lady friend. The entire world saw them together now. We were officially over. Only it was never my intention to humiliate him. I understood how bad it looked, but it was just one kiss. A moment of weakness.

Not that it mattered.

It was no longer about me, and I knew it.

Wolfe was a loose cannon. Angry and vindictive and full of hate. And I had my baby to think about. I packed up a suitcase and called my mother, informing Smithy in a text message that he needed to take me back home to Little Italy.

I saw him texting Wolfe frantically in the car as I pushed my bags out the door, braving the drizzle and the chilly, autumn night.

By the way he banged his head against the headrest, his messages were left unanswered.

I SAT ON THE EDGE of the king-sized bed of the hotel room and took another sip of whiskey. I wasn’t hungover, simply because I never stopped drinking throughout the night. I was still blissfully drunk, though the dull heartache had been replaced with a persistent headache that pressed against my eyes and nose.

This was the first time in a decade I’d drank more than the customary two tumblers in one evening.

The moan behind me reminded me that I wasn’t alone. Karolina stretched along the bed on a yawn, allowing the sunrays drifting through the tall French windows to cast a natural light that complemented the soft curves of her face.

“Feeling better?” she murmured, hugging the pillow to her chest, her eyelids still heavy with sleep. I stood up and sauntered across the room toward my phone and wallet on the dresser, still fully dressed. As I checked their contents—and her bag, to make sure she didn’t put a recorder in there or took any pictures she shouldn’t have been taking—I pondered the question, why the hell couldn’t I bring myself to fuck Karolina last night?

The opportunity was there, and she was willing to jump into my bed. I could not, however, get myself to be with her, though not because of my feelings toward my wife, God forbid, but simply because I lacked the basic need to want to fuck Karolina.

As lovely and gorgeous as she was, and as happy as I was to spend the night in her hotel room and not drag myself back home, I had no interest in touching her.

The woman I wanted to be inside was my wife. My wife, who could not, for the life of her, get rid of her fixation with Angelo fucking Bandini.

I tucked my wallet and phone into my pocket and left the room without saying goodbye. It was better that way. Ms. Ivanova shouldn’t seek me out again. There wasn’t going to be a second time to this. I was not at all opposed to parading mistresses on my arm until my wife died of jealousy and fury—at this point, I cared very little about what it’d do to my name—but touching them, really touching them, was not in the cards for me, apparently.

No matter. Francesca would still warm up my nights. She couldn’t deny this attraction, not with the way she hoovered my cock into her mouth every morning and chased my shaft every time I slammed into her from behind. She wanted this as much as I did. She was going to get more of it, all right. Sans the part where I let my guard down.

I arrived at the house at around ten in the morning and immediately went to her room, but it was empty. I glanced at the garden outside her window. Empty, too. Going through every room in the house, I mentally checked all the boxes. Kitchen? No. Master bedroom? No. Piano room? No. I dialed Sterling’s number, barking at her to come back home. She needed to help me look for my missing bride, though there weren’t many places she could go.

I checked my phone again. Two messages from Smithy.

Smithy: Your wife asked to go back home.

Smithy: She’s technically my boss. I have to take her. I’m sorry.

After summoning my housekeeper, I went upstairs, back to Francesca’s room, tearing it apart. Now that she was gone, I needed to see for myself if she meant business or not. The closet was missing all her favorite items, and her toothbrush and photo albums and horse-riding gear were gone, too. The wooden box, which I’d destroyed yesterday, was nowhere to be found.

She wasn’t going to come back anytime soon.

All the things she valued were missing.

She left just as she said she would. I hadn’t given her enough credit. Figured she was going to brave the night and talk to me the next morning. It was, after all, understandable that I’d avenged her fierce kiss on Northwestern’s lawn—followed by hours of her being MIA and in a hotel with Angelo—with the same token of humiliation. Of course, my wife was anything but obedient. Instead of snapping, she grew more of a backbone.

And, of course, she’d actually kissed Angelo. I hadn’t even touched Karolina, save for ushering her into the ballroom on my arm.

I opened every drawer and emptied them onto the floor, looking for a hint to Francesca’s long-term infidelity. Kristen claimed that this had been going on for a while, but I chose not to believe it. Thinking clearer now, the evidence was stacked in my wife’s favor. She was a virgin when I’d met her. And as much as I adored her, she was—outside of the bedroom, at least—a bit of a prude. Not one to conduct illicit, long-term affairs. Francesca also pointed out that she’d broken things off with Angelo, and by the way her phone was Angelo-free for many, many weeks, I had no reason not to believe her.

This left me to consider that the kiss was a one-off. A moment of passion and weakness. If Francesca really was conducting an affair, she would not be cheating on me so openly. No. She would be more calculated than that.

When I was done emptying the drawers, I ripped off her linen and pillowcases. Something fell out of one of the pillows, rolling under the bed. I crouched down to the floor to retrieve it, examining it in my hand.

A pregnancy test.

A positive pregnancy test.

I plopped on the edge of the bed, clutching it in my fist. Francesca was pregnant. We’d only slept together without protection in Lake Michigan.

Francesca was pregnant with my baby.

Jesus Christ.

I heard the door pushing open downstairs, and Sterling humming to herself.

“Lovebirds? Are you around?” Her voice echoed in the vast foyer. I dropped my head, trying to keep my jaw from snapping out of my mouth, I clenched it so hard. Sterling appeared at the doorway to Francesca’s room a couple minutes later, scrunching her nose and looking at the havoc I’d caused.

“It looks like this place has been raided by the FBI.”

No, but close.

I lifted the positive pregnancy test in my hand, still sitting down and staring at the floor.

“Did you know about this?”

In my periphery, I saw her eyes widening, her throat bobbing with a swallow. She looked older than ever. Like the scene she’d walked into had aged her.

“I had a feeling, yes.” She walked over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder and sitting down beside me. “Did you really have no idea? The girl developed a sweet tooth overnight, clung onto you every time you walked through the door, and has been frightened to go to the OB-GYN. She knows you don’t want any children, doesn’t she?”

I looked out the window, dragging my hand across my face. She did. She knew.

“Is that why she left?” Sterling gasped. “Please don’t tell me that you kicked her out because you found out…”

“No.” I cut into her words, standing up and pacing the room again. A room I was beginning to hate and love at the very same time. It still held her scent and personality, but too many bad things had happened between these walls.

“Francesca cheated on me.”

“I don’t believe it.” Sterling tilted her chin high, locking her jaw to prevent it from quivering. “She’s in love with you.”

“She kissed Angelo.” They probably did a lot more in the hotel room.

I felt like a teenager confiding in his mother for the first time about a crush. It was the first time I’d showed vulnerability since the age of thirteen. Even at my parents’ funeral, I didn’t shed a tear.

“You hurt her,” Sterling whispered, standing up and walking over to me. She pressed her hand to my arm in a maternal gesture and squeezed. “You hurt her all the time, and she is highly emotional right now. Her hormones are running wild. You’re unwilling to admit your feelings for her, not even allowing her to bring her clothes into your room, let alone tell her why she’s here. Why you took her from her parents and ripped her out of her life.”

“There’s nothing to admit. I’m not in love with her.”

“Really?” She folded her arms over her chest. “Can you live without her?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you all those years before she came along?” she wondered, a thin white eyebrow curving high on her forehead. “Why did you merely exist until she walked into this house?”

“I haven’t changed.” I shook my head, running my fingers through my hair. Figured. The minute I said anything remotely emotional, Sterling went full-blown Dawson’s Creek on my ass.

“In that case, stay here, and give her the time she obviously needs. Do not try and chase her around.”