11. Brady
Brady
I find my wife back at our penthouse, directing men with boxes. She’s appropriated both guest rooms for herself. But that’s no problem. I give it a week before she’s sleeping in my bed.
And more than just sleeping.
The way Cora’s talking to my men, you’d think she spent the past ten years as a hard-assed construction foreman. But my men don’t complain. They all treat her with the utmost respect, as damn well they should. Not one of them ogles her. Despite how great her ass looks in those jeans.
When she catches sight of me, she gives me the barest nod. Ah, so we’re back to that. No matter. Tonight will teach her the importance of respecting me.
She glances at the garment bag I’m carrying, and I hold it out to her.
“For you.”
“No, thank you,” she snips, turning away.
I dismiss my men with a wave of my hand. If she wants to play difficult, the woman can unpack her own damn boxes. I follow her uninvited into what she believes is her bedroom.
It’s a decent-sized room, contemporary and decorated in white and gray. Neutral colors. But, despite what Cora may think, it’s not a neutral space. This is only our penthouse because I’m allowing her here. And because calling it our penthouse so clearly pisses her off.
I toss the garment bag on the bed, beside a pile of wooden hangers.
“For you,” I say, more insistent this time.
She glares at me before unzipping the bag. Inside is a sexy red dress, nice and conspicuous. I selected it with this evening in mind, a special gift for her. She makes a noise of disgust.
“For tonight,” I tell her.
“I’m unpacking tonight.” She seizes one of the hangers from the bed and proceeds to unfold a stack of shirts.
“Unpack later. We’re going to dinner tonight, you and me.”
“There’s nothing on the schedule about dinner tonight.” She hangs up the first of her shirts in the closet, her back to me. So she is obeying everything on the schedule. She’s just not obeying me. Yet.
“There is now.” I watch her grab another wooden hanger. When she turns away, I pick up a hanger myself. Chuckling, I run my thumb over my hotel’s carved logo.
Bold woman, pilfering upscale amenities like that. A planner, too. She must’ve thought about what she’d need at the penthouse before leaving the hotel.
She turns around, ready to protest, then sees the hanger in my hand. She stiffens, caught red-handed.
“Dinner. Tonight. Consider it a punishment.” I punctuate this by slapping the wooden hanger against my palm. Thwack. I watch Cora carefully, expecting her to flinch. Instead, her eyes go wide, and her cheeks turn the faintest bit red. Holy shit. Good for me.
“Punishment for what?” She holds her chin high, but her voice quavers.
“For stealing from me, of course.” I’m tempted to thwack the hanger again to see if her blush deepens, because I’d like to test my theory. Later, I promise myself. Later.
“And the dress?” she asks. “I suppose that me wearing it is… punishment too?” Her pause tells me everything, and I have to focus to keep my blood from rushing to my cock.
“If you prefer to think of it like that, by all means.”
“It’s a little clichéd, don’t you think?” Her voice squeaks, and she has to clear her throat. “Forcing me to join you for dinner, insisting that I wear a dress you picked out. It’s been done. Belloq, Barbossa, Blofeld—they all did this exact thing.”
“Friends of yours?”
“Movie characters,” she snaps. “And do you know what they all have in common?”
“Enlighten me.”
“They’re villains.”
“Good,” I say. “You’re getting it.”
I toss the wooden hanger back on its pile, and it clatters like applause for me. I turn my back on my wife, leaving her speechless as I stride toward the door.
“Car will be here at six,” I call over my shoulder.
* * *
I open the car door for my wife. It’s Peter driving tonight, one of the guys that helped move her stuff this afternoon.
“Hey, Pete,” Cora says as she slides across the backseat of the town car. Her voice is a happy chirp, unexpected to say the least. She was furiously silent with me in the elevator. Now all of a sudden she’s friendly.
“Miss Cora.” Peter nods respectfully at her, then at me. I’ve never heard him go by Pete before.
“Wait,” she says to him. “Isn’t Gloria’s recital tonight?”
“Oh, it’s not until eight,” he says.
“Alright, good.” Cora buckles her seatbelt. “But don’t pick us up tonight, okay? We’ll find our own way back.”
Peter looks at me in the rearview, waiting for my confirmation.
Is my wife seriously issuing orders right now? Maybe it’s her version of rebellion. Since she’s in that red dress like I instructed and coming to dinner like I instructed, she’s probably testing my limits. Interesting. For entertainment’s sake, I let her have this one.
“What the lady said,” I tell Peter. Or Pete, apparently.
But seriously, what the shit? Cora’s known Peter for a few hours. I’ve known him for practically my whole life. Hell, I went to Gloria’s baptism.
“Tell Natalie I said hi,” I add.
Peter pulls us into traffic, and there’s a heavy pause before he replies.
“Will do,” he says stiffly.
Cora catches my eye and smirks at me. Fucking smirks. What the hell happened with Natalie? And is Cora suddenly a general now, making sure to relate to all of my men? It’s an impressive tactic, I’ll give her that.
But a tactical mind in that body is fucking dangerous.
I think back to the way she stole from me, blatant and unapologetic. This is a woman who’s unafraid to pursue what she wants. I’ll bet she uses whatever tools in her arsenal to achieve her ends.
And now she’s got the O’Sullivan name behind her. Without a doubt, she knows the power that comes with that.
Very fucking dangerous.
My wife keeps her face turned away from me.
She gazes out her window as if to shun me as the city lumbers by.
The column of her neck stretches gracefully, a smooth glide of skin down to her cleavage.
That red dress is even better than I’d thought.
It’s got a deep V for her neckline, and a high slash up her thigh.
It’s eye-catching, which is the point, but I despise the thought of other men enjoying what’s mine.
As I grind my teeth, my phone dings. It’s the ma?tre d’, confirming the table by the window. I send him a hundred dollars.
Outside my restaurant, I help my wife out of the car, then step back to admire her.
“You look amazing.”
She ignores me. The bright red dress adds a fieriness to her attitude.
I take a few more steps back, as if to get the full-length view of her. A second later I’m angled by the front window. It’s insanely cheesy, but I pretend to take a photo of Cora. I keep my elbows wide to draw attention.
He’s sitting at the window table, and he glances at me.
I have him.
Noah.
The man who texted my wife this morning, looking forward to their date tonight. I feel the rush of heat to my face.
Pure fury.
I stride over to my wife and take her in my arms. I kiss her hard. Fast. The right amount to leave her breathless.
“Samantha?” he calls.
He’s rushed out of the restaurant. Shock on his face. All according to plan.
My wife stiffens in my grasp. She turns away from me. I let her, but I keep one arm firmly around her waist. Her jaw falls open.
“Noah! Shit. Fuck. I completely forgot about—” She turns to me, all the color drained from her cheeks.
“Something I should know about?” I ask calmly.
“No, I—” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Noah, this is Brady. My husband.”
“Brady O’Sullivan,” I tell the man, pulling my wife closer to my side.
He jolts at my name, his sudden fear palpable, a weakness I could squeeze in my fist. The puny shit’s wearing a polo shirt and khakis. He looks ready for his eighth-grade school photo.
This is the guy my wife was interested in? He’s so small and pathetic that I curl my lip in disgust. He puts his hands in his khaki pockets.
“I didn’t realize you were married,” he says to my wife.
“I wasn’t,” she says. “I mean, it was yesterday. The wedding. I wasn’t married when you and I went out. Fuck, I’m so sorry, Noah. I should’ve thought to call you. I meant to, I just—”
I hate the sound of her groveling to another man. But I let her go on, savoring his hurt expression.
“Everything happened so fast, and then I completely forgot about tonight. And I’m sorry, I really am.”
Noah the Worthless Shit furrows his eyebrows in confusion.
“But you texted me about tonight,” he says.
“What?”
“This morning, when you said you made a reservation here.” He gestures toward my restaurant.
My wife’s tactical brain takes less than one second.
She spins toward me. With both hands, she pushes me hard in the chest. The sheer force of her anger surprises me, and I have to back up several steps.
“You asshole!” she screams.
Other people on the sidewalk pause to watch.
As I recover from her shove, Noah rushes forward to stand between us. The insolent fuck steps in front of my wife like he’s protecting her from me.
I clench my fist and swing. The satisfying crunch of bone beneath my knuckles. The sight of him crumpled to the ground. Out cold. Beautiful. I shake out my fingers.
Cora’s shouting at me. People start taking out their phones. But they already missed the good part. I point to a bystander who’s fumbling to get his phone upright.
“Take him to St. Lambert’s,” I tell him, and I toss him a banded roll of bills. It won’t be the first zygomatic bone they’ve repaired because of me.
My wife is crouched over another man’s body. Checking his pulse. Caring for him.
I grab her by the arm and pull her away from the scene.
“Let me fucking go.” She twists away from me.
I let her fucking go.
“Hey!” Another man shouts at us, at me in particular, ready to defend the gorgeous woman in the red dress.
I turn on him, my fist raised. Cora catches my arm.
“It’s fine,” she snaps at the man. Then she shoves me again in the chest before hurrying away.
I let her get a half block ahead. I see the moment she realizes her agitated walk is drawing strange looks. She drops her arms to the sides and unbunches her shoulders. A conscious transformation.
My tactical, gorgeous wife.
She’s still drawing looks, but now they’re for her in that dress.
I keep a tight leash on my temper. The ma?tre d’ will text me the all-clear. Until then, I punch none of the men unashamedly checking out my wife.
She pretends not to notice any of their stares. Maintaining her cool stride, she turns abruptly into an alleyway. A risky decision for any woman to make.
I follow her around the corner. She’s still striding away from me, but she’s no longer cool and calm. She’s fucking radiating fury, her fists clenched, ranting to herself in a string of blasphemy.
So my Cora has a temper.
Just like me.
As she passes a dumpster, something on the ground catches her eye. Not breaking stride, she bends down, scoops it up, then spins to face me. From several yards away, I can see it’s a green beer bottle. She’s got a stranglehold on its neck, but she doesn’t seem to care about what she’s holding.
The fire in her eyes blazes directly at me.
She winds up like a goddamn windmill. And launches the bottle at my feet.