“You know why,” he replies in between counting the reps. “You need someone to shake up your life.”
“I’m not a fucking snow globe.”
“Dashing through the snow,” he sings, then places the dumbbells back down, “on a one-horse open sleigh?—”
“Shut up!” I growl, contemplating hurling the dumbbell at his head.
“Mr. Delacroix,” a voice comes from the entrance. “Phone call. They say it’s urgent.”
I eye Sinclair, who’s still laughing, and then I place the dumbbells down. “Did they say what the matter pertains to?” I ask the nervous-looking staff member.
“Your wife, sir. She escaped her bedroom, and now she’s throwing your art collection over the banister.”
Sinclair grabs my head with his sweaty hands and shakes it while singing the lyrics to “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” I swat him away and flip him off as I stride out of the room, thoroughly pissed but also strangely exhilarated that my newest acquisition decided to wreck my home.
The feeling doesn’tlast long. The moment I enter the foyer, I hear it—the sound of six-figure-dollar art pieces, some hundreds of years old, crashing and splintering against the marble flooring. Still, I walk deeper into the foyer, rolling up my sleeves.
I’m simmering on the inside, but I’d never stoop as low as to show it. I take pride in being in control and refuse to let an angry, vengeful woman—no matter how attractive she looks with that feral glint in her eyes—crack the control I’ve spent years mastering.
Dressed in a dusky silk nightgown, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in messy waves, and her face free of makeup, she stumbles toward the banister with an original painting.
I arch a brow. “No need to exert yourself, Mrs. Delacroix. If you wanted to rearrange our home, all you had to do was ask. It could do with a womanly touch.”
“Oh, look, if it isn’t my dearest husband. I see you haven’t died in an inferno yet. Such a pity.” Driven by rage, she hurls the painting over the banister, and a maid beside me squeaks and jumps back. I stay where I am, hands in my pockets, anunmoving mountain in the wake of a typhoon. “I sure hope our children don’t inherit your temper.”
“Our children?” she all but shrieks, glaring down at me. “You think I’ll go near you with a barge pole?”
The sight of her wild eyes and even wilder hair does funny things to my body, but I chose to ignore that for the moment. “You already did. Twice.” I wave her off, done with her dramatics. “How about we talk about this? While it’s a little soon for marriage counseling, I’m pretty certain we would be advised to use our words.”
“Oh, yeah, because talking worked so well the other night when you had my friends murdered.”
There goes another painting. I was particularly fond of that one.
I check the time on my watch. Twenty minutes until my next meeting. My wife looks nowhere near ready to calm down. Not until she has wrecked our house.
I address the maid. “Tell Miss Sanders to cancel my next meeting.”
She bows and scurries away, glad to escape the raging volcano on the second floor.
“What a beautiful antique vase,” Cecilia sneers. “Looks expensive.” She throws it inches from my Oxfords, and I stare down at the mess.
A spark of annoyance flares inside me, and I take the stairs two at a time, but when I reach the top, my delightful wife scampers off, escaping down the hallway like a runaway bride.
It’s a little too late for that. I allow myself two seconds to enjoy the sight of her blonde hair flying behind her before I dart forward, determined to teach her a lesson for being such an ungrateful brat. I could have killed her last night, but instead, I gave her one of the most sought-after things this side ofthe world—my surname. She should show me her appreciation, preferably on her knees, but I don’t mind a good chase.
She takes one look behind her, sees me close on her heels, and lets out a scream before slipping into the library and slamming the door shut in my face.
The lock clicks into place, and I ram my shoulder against the wood. “You think you’re safe in there, baby? Think again.”
It turns out these sturdy doors are harder to break than they are in the movies. Five minutes later, I’m still trying to break in, convinced I’ve dislocated my shoulder.
“Your book collection is as unimpressive as your art collection,” she shouts from the inside. “I’m falling asleep reading these titles.”
“I’m impressed you’re literate,” I growl, ramming my foot into the door once again, and Cecilia squeaks, causing my dick to jerk behind my zipper.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I coo. “Are you scared Daddy will hurt you?” Straightening up, I roll my shoulders, jaw setting. “Damn right, I will. Once this door is down, I’m going to smack that little pussy raw. You won’t be able to sit for a week.”
“I’msoooscared, Daddy,” she taunts close to the door. “You’re such a bad, bad man.”
