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I nod warily. “Hello.” For some reason, I didn’t expect an American accent, but that’s precisely what I hear in Lucas Kent’s voice as he greets Peter’s teammates.
“Congrats on your recent wedding,” Peter says as our host leads us up the stairs to the entrance. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to send a gift.”
Kent seems amused by that. “It’s probably for the best. Esguerra was barely restraining himself as is.”
“Ah.” Peter grins. “So he still has it in for your bride?”
“You know how he is,” Kent says laconically, and Peter laughs.
“Better than most, I’m sure. Where’s your new wife, by the way?”
“In the kitchen, cooking up a storm,” the arms dealer says, his tone warming slightly for the first time. “You’ll meet her in a minute.”
I listen quietly as they continue talking, mentioning people and places I don’t know. I’m curious what Kent meant when he said that his boss/partner was barely restraining himself. It sounded as if this Esguerra doesn’t like Kent’s new wife, and if so, I wonder why that is.
When we enter the house, a savory aroma of cooking meat and various spices makes my stomach growl. We ate sandwiches on the plane, but that was hours ago, and I’m starving again. I doubt Mrs. Kent’s cooking will come anywhere near Peter’s delicious concoctions, but if tonight’s dinner tastes half as good as it smells, it’ll hit the spot.
Peter and his men are flying out immediately after dinner—they have some scouting to do tonight—so Lucas directs Anton and the twins to a bathroom by the entrance before leading me and Peter to the room where I’ll be staying. As we walk through the spacious living room, I note that the interior of Kent’s mansion is modern but surprisingly cozy, with overstuffed couches and warm wood finishes softening the sharp lines of Scandinavian-inspired furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in a tremendous amount of light and display gorgeous views of the Mediterranean Sea below, while the walls are covered with pictures of a smiling couple—our host and a beautiful young blonde who must be his wife. A teenage boy frequently appears in those pictures too, his resemblance to Mrs. Kent leading me to think he’s her brother.
The gorgeous woman in those photos doesn’t look old enough to have a teenage son.
“Here we are,” Kent says as we enter a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom and another big window overlooking the sea. “Towels are in the bathroom, and sheets are already on the bed. If you need anything else tonight, talk to Yulia.”
“Yulia?” I ask.
“My wife,” Kent clarifies as Peter walks over to stand by the window. “She knows where everything is, not me.”
“Got it,” I say, doing my best to hide my sudden amusement. In Japan, I’ve become so used to Peter and the guys handling all the domestic chores that I’ve forgotten most men aren’t like that. My dad still asks my mom where he can find the ice cream scooper, and George didn’t know how to make anything except barbecue and cheese sandwiches.
At the unexpected recollection, my chest tightens, my mood darkening as I realize that I once again compared my dead husband to his killer. It’s something I’ve caught myself doing more often lately, and each time, I feel ashamed and angry with myself. The comparisons are rarely flattering to George, and that’s not fair. What George and I had was a regular relationship, with liking, respect, and a normal kind of attraction. My husband wasn’t in any way obsessed with me, and I didn’t feel for him even a fraction of the contradictory emotions Peter stirs up in me.
And that was a good thing, I tell myself as I go into the bathroom to freshen up. What I have with Peter is too intense, too overwhelming. What he’s willing to do to have me is terrifying, as is my inability to resist him despite the awful things he does. The very idea of us together is wrong on every possible level. And if I needed further proof of that, those photos on the walls today provided it. Even our host, the illegal arms dealer, seems to have a happy marriage—something I’ll never have with Peter.
I doubt Lucas Kent was ever cruel enough to keep his beautiful wife captive, much less kill her husband.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Kent is gone, and Peter is sitting on the bed, waiting for me. “Dinner is almost ready,” he says, standing up as I approach. “Lucas said to come as soon as you get changed.”
“Okay.” I grab the bag Peter packed for me and change out of my travel-worn clothes while Peter disappears into the restroom. By the time he returns, I’m dressed in one of my nicer summer dresses and have even managed to swipe on a lipgloss—a recent Yan purchase I remembered to slip into the bag.
