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“Alex.” His voice cut through the conversation, drawing her attention away from the call.
“I have to go,” she quickly explained. After a hasty good-bye, she hung up the phone and stared at her husband.
“What’s going on?” Will asked.
“I was talking to Jocelyn.”
“You always talk about me with so much sarcasm?”
“Just when I’m angry.”
“She saying malicious things about me to fuel your opinion?”
“Why would you say that?”
“I don’t think it’s any secret that Jocelyn and I don’t exactly see things the same way.”
“Sorry, but I never noticed.”
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, not when there are other matters more pressing.” He moved to her side, standing over her, looking down on the golden tresses and the blue eyes and the winsome sweet grin on her face. He appeared less hostile than he’d earlier been.
“You’re probably innocent of any malice sending the photographs to the museum,” he said. “I can even understand why you did it, and why on another occasion it would be the perfectly right thing to do.”
“So you’re forgiving me?”
“No,” he said.
In the dim light of the room his face was half in shadows, half in the light. One eye glaring, the other looked as soft as love. Was that even possible? she wondered, staring up at his odd gaze.
“Sounds like you’re trying to.”
“It’s not the forgiveness that I’m worried about. I think I can handle that. It’s what’s brewing between you and me. These fireworks. You have a solution for that, because I’m still damned pissed.”
“My mistake, it’s going to cost you a lot?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Would making me suffer, strapping my ass, abusing me the way you love to…would that help?” she wondered aloud.
“It won’t solve my problem with the museum…”
“But…”
“It would eliminate the tension, maybe curb my anger, and probably fit your brand of atonement.”
She smiled from the depths of understanding, from that warm place where comfort resided. And the smile turned into a mischievous smirk as the two locked onto the same wicked musings “Maybe it’s just what we need,” she said.
“Maybe, it’s my welcome home,” he added coldly.
She nodded, looking into coldness beyond Will’s restive mood, beyond which was the fire that always raged in him. He rarely let it show on the surface of his life, just when he was really angry, and times like this.
“Give me your hands,” he said, holding his in front of her.
“My hands?”
“Yes, your hands.”
She held them out while he drew a length of rope from out of nowhere, and wrapped it around her wrists with a skill she’d always wondered about, how he’d managed to perfect the art. Reggie would use cuffs, but Will preferred rope. He once told her he found it more personal. Any way she looked at it, this was personal.
