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Nothing. The traitorous cat acts like I’m an inconvenience she must endure until her daddy returns.
“Whatever. Don’t come meowing back to me when he abandons you, too. He’s not known for his loyalty.”
And I’m angry at my cat now… How pathetic am I?
Actually, no. I have a right to be bitter. I waited on Van—helped him when I could have turned him in the night I found him with the mayor. But I didn’t.
And how does he thank me?
By blackmailing me into being his wife after I’ve spent years being pissed off at him for breaking our deal.
I hope he drowns in that fancy bathroom.
Fucker.
Huffing, I raise up on my elbows, noting a slight breeze on my backside.
“Oh, no,” I murmur, dropping face down back onto my pillow. “My ass is hanging out, isn’t it?”
Damn cheeky panties. Why do they always end up in my ass crack when I sleep? I can only imagine how excited the devil was when he woke and found my shirt above my waist and my panties in my crack.
I bet the asshole took a picture.
What am I saying? No, he didn’t. He probably waited until I fell asleep before he eased out of bed, sat in his fancy leather chair in the corner of the room, and plotted my death.
For as long as I’ve known Van, I’ve never seen him sleep at night. At one point, I even considered he might be a vampire.
I know. I know. He’s far too mean to hang with vampires. But seriously, that summer in Orange Grove, Van and I only met under the cover of darkness. He never showed his face in the daylight—not even when I begged.
Van Gogh has always been a mystery, so seeing him now, awake with the sun, acting like he’s not a serial arsonist but a regular guy getting into his morning shower irks me.
Don’t ask me why.
I don’t know.
Maybe it’s because the man currently steaming up the bedroom is not the man I once knew.
That scares me.
I know how to deal with the Van Gogh of the night. But Alistair Cain, of the day, is a stranger and, worse, my husband.
“What did I say, Rudy?”
Van Gogh’s surly voice cuts through my thoughts just as Biscuit’s purring grows louder.
“Your client gives me the dealer’s name, and I’ll recommend minimum security.”
My eyes widen when a voice answers.
“Come on, Alistair. He’s a small fish. He gets his orders from Barclay, who you already have in custody.”
The shower is running when it dawns on me that Van is negotiating on speakerphone while naked. And his fellow attorneys must realize it. Why doesn’t he say anything or call back? It seems like a renowned assistant district attorney would have more professionalism than that.
But then again, we’re talking about Van Gogh. I’ve never known him to give a shit about the rules or other’s perceptions. The man does what he wants. Everyone else be damned.
“I do have Barclay,” he confirms with a chuckle. “And I will have his boss. The question is, Rudy, will your client be safe in a maximum-security prison where rumors circulate more than STDs?”
The man on the phone goes quiet.
