Forty-One
Amelia
True to his word as always, Van Wyk is back the next morning, walking into the sunroom not long after breakfast. I’m only on chapter three of my new book.
“You wanted to know what kind of man I am,” he says without preamble.
I did, but I’m anxious. Part of me wants to know; part of me is scared to find out. What if there isn’t anything more to him than meets the eye? What if all I’m drawn to is a dark fantasy that should always have stayed a fantasy?
Except you married him.
An inconvenient truth.
I mark my place on the page with one finger. “How do you propose showing me?”
“By taking you on a date. Would you like to go?”
The notion is… strange. I don’t associate him with dates. “I’ll consider it,” I say indifferently. “When did you have in mind?”
“Right now.”
I scoff. “I’m not dressed for it, my hair’s a mess and I’m not wearing makeup. Maybe later.” I return my attention to my book.
“You look perfect,” he replies. “Just how I want you. Let’s go.”
“No thanks.” I pointedly turn my page, even though I hadn’t read the one before. I’ll turn it back when he’s left.
He crosses to me in quick strides, pulling me to my feet, my book tumbling into the chair. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, he lifts my chin until I’m looking up at him, and boops my nose. “We’re going on a date. It’s going to be fun, and you’re going to enjoy it.”
“Am I?” I ask sarcastically.
“Yes, you are.” His confidence doesn’t waver.
I sigh. This is a man who’s already made the decision for me. There won’t be any getting out of it. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Then how am I supposed to know what to wear?”
He gestures to my jeans and strappy top. “That. Come on.” He puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me firmly toward the door.
“Van Wyk—”
“It’s a beautiful day, and you’ve recovered. Time for you to stretch your legs, Little Stray.” He gives my ass a slap to hurry me along. “By the way, my name is Lukas.”
I glare back at him, muttering.
His three-door garage doesn’t just house a Maybach, as it turns out. He drives us in a black Ferrari, and it’s extremely comfortable.
I’m wishing I brought my book, but at least I have Kindle on my phone. But when I pat my pockets, there’s nothing there.
“Something amiss?” he asks.
“I’ve lost my phone.”
“You won’t need it.”
“That’s not the point. I’m going to worry all day if I don’t know where it is.”
“It’ll be at home.”
“Yeah, but…” I look down the side of the seat. Nothing. “Can you do your thing? It might be on my nightstand.”
“What thing?”
“Look at the cameras in my room? See if it’s there?”
He glances sideways at me. “Ironically, no. I turned them all off.”
“You did? Why?” That’s not the right answer. I should be feeling relief, but instead I’m irritated that he can’t check if my phone is there, and frustrated that he’s stopped spying on me.
Damn it, I liked putting on shows for him.
“Because it was wrong,” he says, returning his eyes to the road.
“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” I mutter.
An eyebrow goes up. “Do I detect a note of disappointment?”
“No.” Maybe. I change the subject to something safer. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. You can guess if you want.” He’s far too chirpy for his own good.
I cross my arms and scowl. “I’m not playing your stupid games.”
“I’ll give you a clue,” he says, like I haven’t just blatantly refused. “You’ll either love it or you won’t. Most people know in the first five minutes.”
“I’m not dressed for the opera,” I say scathingly.
He chuckles, a surprisingly genuine sound. “I’ll scratch that one off the list then.”
I look at him suspiciously. “That’s a figure of speech, right? There isn’t really a list, is there?”
“Oh, there’s a list.” The corner of his mouth curls up. “I had time while I was away, and I need to keep you interested.”
So he’s been planning this for a while. And he’s been thinking of me while he was busy killing people or whatever it was he was doing. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“I’m not interested so far,” I tell him. “I might be if I knew where we were going.”
“Nice try, but you didn’t guess.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re the worst, do you know that?”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes while I fidget in my seat. “It was a shit clue anyway,” I mutter. “It could be anything.”
“Here’s another one,” he says, letting his hand fall naturally onto my leg. “It’s loud.”
I pick his hand up with finger and thumb, and press it to the steering wheel. My skin tingles beneath my jeans, like I can still feel his touch. I ignore it. “Music?”
“No.”
“I don’t know why I’m playing your stupid game.”
“Because cats are naturally curious.”
I was slightly curious; now I’m not. “I’m not a goddamn cat.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says with far too much enjoyment. “You wander in like a little stray, you’re as fierce as a tiger, and you enjoy being pinned down by the scruff of your neck.”
I glower at the road, ignoring him as my cheeks heat.
He glances across at me. “What else is loud?”
“An art auction,” I mutter. Everyone clamoring their bids. The gavel banging. The crowd humming. I’ve always thought they were pretty loud.
“Is it? Interesting. Would you like to go?”
Actually, I would. They’re fun and full of energy, and I miss that life. “I’m not dressed for it.”
“Another day?”
I squirm in my seat, torn between wanting to say yes and not giving him the satisfaction.
“I’ll add it to the list,” he says. “And no, it’s not an art auction.”
“Okay, that’s enough. You’re aggravating.”
“And you’re beautiful. Giving up so soon? I didn’t take you for the quitting type.”
I sigh in exasperation, ignoring the beautiful comment. “Your clues are shit.”
“Here’s another. Something that requires your full attention.”
I roll my eyes. “That could be anything.”
He grins at the road, his rarely-seen dimples making an appearance. “All right. Last one. It’s an idea I’ve had for a while, after you showed an interest but a lack of finesse.”
“That’s insulting.” What the hell could it be? “A racetrack?” No, it doesn’t fit; he’s never seen me drive.
“It’s not, but I’ll add it to the list.”
Fuck my life.
Twelve minutes later, he peels off the main road, heading into Hopewell Junction. “Not the city, then?”
“Nope.”
He drives us through the town, and a minute later pulls down a tree-lined lane. I catch the sign as we drive in.
“A gun club?” I scowl at him. “I did not lack finesse, you stole my bullets.”
“And you didn’t notice. It was a valid clue.” He glances across. “Do you like shooting?”
“I like shooting you.”
“How would you know? You haven’t yet.”
“Give me a gun with bullets and say that.”
Five minutes later, it looks like he’s going to. In the shop, he rents a pistol that’s presumably for me, again without asking. It’s a lot bigger than the one Lucy chose.
The proprietor pulls a gun case from beneath the counter. “Just came in yesterday, Mr. Van Wyk,” he says, handing it over along with two boxes of rounds. He gives me a smile. “And this must be the little lady.”
Van Wyk tenses, his voice dropping to the familiar growl. “She’s not little and she doesn’t like being spoken to as if she’s five.”
The man takes a pace back, hands coming up in placation, his eyes flicking from Van Wyk to me and back again, his face paling. “I’m… sorry. So sorry. To both of you.” He sounds like he’s about to piss himself… all over a pretty mild rebuke from my husband.
They must’ve met before.
“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” I say quickly.
Van Wyk steers me toward the range with a hand at the small of my back.
“Thank you!” I call back to the man as we leave his shop, and as soon as we’re through the door I give Van Wyk a look. “Do you have to be a dick to everyone?”
“I didn’t like the way he spoke to you,” he grumbles.
He has a knife, a large body count and he’s offended by a mildly condescending shop owner.
“You scared him.”
“Good. Now he’ll be more polite to you.”
“You call me ‘Little Stray,’” I point out.
“That’s different; you’re mine. You’re not his.”
I bristle. “I’m not yours.”
He smiles, a mix of possession and amusement. “The ring on your finger says differently, Little Stray.”
I roll my eyes and push past him.
The range is empty; we’re the only ones here. Lucy showed me how to work lanes like these, and I set my paper target at roughly seven yards. “About there. The distance from the door of my apartment to where you were standing.”
He looks amused. “That’s a good place to start.”
I reach for the large pistol, but he intercepts me, handing me the case instead. “Actually, this one’s for you.”
It’s heavy with a new-leather sheen to it, and the clasps are shiny. “For me? As in, to keep?”
“Yes. A souvenir of our first date, if you like.” There’s pride in his voice, and his boyish enthusiasm is back.
He’s so damn cheery it’s irritating, clashing with my perfectly justified sulk.
I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s a completely different man from the one I met at that gala, and I can’t help wondering how much of it is down to me.
Now I have to disappoint him. “I can’t keep it. I don’t have a license.”
But he doesn’t even blink. “Didn’t stop you last time, did it?” he notes, amused. “If it helps, it’s registered in my name. But it’s yours.”
A reminder he already knew, and remembered. Why am I not surprised?
I undo the clips on the case, opening it carefully.
Inside, there’s a pistol resting in molded velvet, finished in pearlescent pink, with the barrel and trigger plated in rose-gold.
Engraved into the grip are the letters AVW, and it takes me a moment to realize they’re my initials. Now that I’m married.
“9mm Sig P365,” he says softly, watching my expression. “Lighter than the one you had, designed for smaller hands.”
“It’s… beautiful,” I say, because it is. He didn’t just buy me a gun, he had one made.