Revenge Read online

  “Mom, wait,” I said, cutting her off. “He called you after his visits to the island?”

  “Like I said, I never asked specifically. Why is this so surprising to you? Did he not tell you he was calling?”

  No, he most certainly did not tell me he’d called my mother. Another incredible idea shot to mind. “Did he talk to Dad, too?”

  “Oh, no, no. Definitely not. After the idea had been proposed at your wedding, your father has been hounding Edward to do some sort of corporate deal and, well, you know your husband. He wanted to wait to get past the newlywed stage before getting tangled with business. Smart man you married, honey, though your father wouldn’t understand. So I haven’t mentioned the phone calls to him at all. You shouldn’t either.”

  “No, of course not.” I was blown away. Not only because Edward had called my mother—on more than one occasion—but because of how he’d handled my father. Even if he hadn’t decided whether to keep me alive or not, he could have certainly weaseled his way into Werner Media through my parents if he’d wanted to. Which, I would have assumed he’d want to.

  I really didn’t know my husband.

  So why had he called my mother, if not for some sort of gain? “What did he say when he called you, Mom?”

  “Just told me how you were doing, what you were working on. Since you couldn’t call yourself. It was really sort of sweet, reaching out on your behalf. Told me how you were getting really into yoga and about all that work you did to the house there. Edward said you fell in love with the island. You must have to have stayed away from your new husband for so long. I told him I didn’t raise my daughter to be so negligent of her husband’s needs, but he insisted he was happy if you were happy. Not only is he a smart man, he’s a good man. Amazing you were able to find him after you managed to let go of Hudson. Those men don’t usually come twice in a lifetime. You better hold on to that one. You’ll be a fool if you don’t.”

  With that, my mother burst into the latest society gossip, unable to continue a conversation not focused on things that interested her.

  I sat back in Edward’s chair and half listened to her, my mind so caught up in her revelation I was even able to ignore her dig about Hudson. My husband was a smart man. He’d endeared my mother to him, which was one of the smartest moves he could make.

  But what if he hadn’t made the move because he was smart? What if he’d actually called because he’d cared about me and thereby cared about her? What if he’d cared about me for longer than I’d realized? For longer than he’d like to admit?

  There was no question that Edward Fasbender was a smart man.

  But a good man? I was still trying to figure that one out.

  I managed a swim in the afternoon. The pool on the lower level was a good size and was heated, but couldn’t compare to swimming outdoors in the Caribbean. Still, it was a familiar activity and put a sense of routine to my day.

  Afterward, when I’d donned the jumpsuit again and fashioned my hair the way Edward had commanded, I came downstairs to await his homecoming and ran into my first household management snag.

  “They’re for special occasions only, Jeremy,” Camilla was stating sternly. “They always have been. You’re well aware of this. So why would you suddenly pull them out for a Monday in December? It’s not even a saint day.”

  Curious, I walked into the dining room and realized right away what they were discussing—the china set I’d selected to be used for the evening’s meal.

  I hadn’t been spotted yet, so I considered for a handful of seconds which way to approach this. I could assert my authority, which I was sure that Edward would insist that I do.

  Or I could try to make friends with the only woman currently in my life who wasn’t paid to be there.

  “It was my faux pas,” I said, drawing both eyes to me. “I selected them because they were the most beautiful set, and I thought it was a shame to hide their beauty away. I didn’t realize they were special. I sincerely apologize.”

  Jeremy had the good sense to stay quiet.

  Camilla opened her mouth twice to say something then shut it again. It was only then that it dawned on me what an odd position this must be for her. Before I’d married Edward, I’d lived in the house for a couple of months, never considering who it was who oversaw the house. Never considering that it was Camilla.

  Now that I’d returned and was Edward’s wife, I certainly hadn’t thought about what that might mean for his sister’s role in the household. It couldn’t have been easy, watching someone she’d thought of as her enemy usurp her throne.

  It didn’t mean I should cower to her, but I could make the situation more bearable. “Jeremy, please do as Ms. Dougherty suggests. We’ll save this set for Christmas dinner.”

  Before he could begin to gather the dishes, Camilla stopped him. “No, that’s not necessary. It didn’t occur to me that you’d requested them. I apologize for interfering.” Swiftly, she stepped past me and out into the hall.

  I nodded to Jeremy to leave the place settings as is and then followed after my sister-in-law.

  “Camilla,” I said, catching her before she charged up the stairs. She paused, her shoulders rising with a visible inhale before she turned to face me. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

  “I was the one stepping on toes.” While she wasn’t quite warm, she was direct. “They were my parents’ wedding china, is all, but they are Edward’s now and therefore yours to use as you see fit. And perhaps you’re right—their beauty is wasted all locked up.”

  “Maybe we could carve out some time later this week and figure out how we can manage things together?”

  She studied me with incredulous eyes. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Not at all. You’ve lived here longer than I have. You know how things work best. It doesn’t make sense for me to change things that aren’t broken.”

  She blinked in disbelief. “I’m sorry. It’s just so unexpected. I had you pegged as...well. I suppose that’s what Edward’s been trying to tell me. That you aren’t at all the woman we believed you were. It might take some time before I truly understand what that means.”

  “If it helps, I’m not quite the woman I believed I was either. And it’s definitely going to take some time before I figure out who that is.”

  Her features softened, her jaw relaxing. She moved down the steps until we were on the same level. “I know I’ve been cold and, at times, cruel. I hope you understand that it’s out of a sense of protection. For a long time, Edward was all I had in the world. In all fairness, he’s been equally as protective of me.”

  “I’m sure he has,” I said, barely above a whisper, too afraid to break the honest moment between us.

  “He believes in you, though. So I shall too.” She swallowed, her throat swelling with the action. “I want you to know, I contacted an estate agent this morning. I’ll be moving out as soon as I find something suitable for me and Freddie.”

  My gasp was audible. “No! Edward would never want that! I’m sure of it. Please, please don’t leave on my account.”

  “I’ve already told him,” she insisted. “You are correct that he wasn’t happy about it, but let me assure you that it’s not because I feel threatened by you or because I have lingering animosity but because I want this relationship of yours to be successful. For his sake. And marriages never work when there is a third party present. Trust me, I know.”

  My brow quirked, intrigued by her insinuation. Was she speaking about her own marriage? I didn’t know enough about her relationship with her husband before he’d left her a widow, only that he’d died in a house fire several months before Freddie was born.

  Before I could even consider prying, however, two members of the staff came around the corner of the stairs, the country garden painting carried between them.

  “Excuse me, madam,” one of them said. “The canvas was too large to fit in the lift.”

  Not that the canvas was
all that large. European elevators tended to be quite compact.

  “No problem,” she said, shuffling out of their way. “May I ask why it’s being removed? It was only put up just last week.”

  She looked at me with her question, the subtext clear—Eddie put that painting up, does he know you’re taking it down?

  “I know,” I said, trying to figure out how I was going to step around this response. “Edward was very sweet to hang it, thinking that it was special to me, but it’s not, and it doesn’t go with the room. I told him I’d have it removed today.”

  Rather, he gave me permission to have it removed. I didn’t want to be that specific, possibly because I was embarrassed to admit that I believed I needed his consent, though Camilla already seemed to understand what kind of man her brother was.

  “It’s such a lovely piece, though,” she said, peering at it with awe.

  I was half afraid she’d suggest we display it elsewhere, and after just inviting her to help make household decisions, I knew I needed to cut the possibility off at the head. “Honestly? It brings up bad memories. When I see the swing, I’m back in a place I don’t want to visit again, if that makes sense.”

  I didn’t know what Edward had told her about me or if she knew that I knew anything that had happened to her, but, as one abused girl to another, I hoped it was enough of a response to resonate without further explanation.

  Again she studied me, her eyes as focused as her brother’s often were and, without ever having seen any of her art, I suddenly knew she was probably a very good photographer. “I think I understand,” she said after several heavy seconds had passed. “Objects as well as locations can be haunted.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “Every time I see a fire poker, I’m reminded of my dead husband. Best to move it on out or at least out of sight. If you’ve noticed, all the pokers in the house are well hidden.”

  Like the thread of conversation that had been cut off by the arrival of the painting, this thread was cut by the arrival of my husband coming home from work. He greeted me with a kiss that curled my toes and made me blush since his sister was present.

  Then Jeremy announced that dinner was served and the moment was long past reviving the topic.

  But all through dinner—which was unexpectedly convivial, Edward at the head of the table, me at one side, his sister on the other with Freddie in a booster seat next to her—I wondered about the odd statement and the hint she’d given to an unhappy marriage. Frank Dougherty had died in a fire, and perhaps it wasn’t a stretch then to believe that fire pokers upset his widow because of the association. But why didn’t the fireplace itself bother her? Or candles, several of which were lit up on the dining table as we ate?

  My husband was still a mystery to me, so it made sense that his sister was as well. It was only surprising that her mystery was starting to seem equally intriguing.

  Six

  Edward

  Celia reached into the side table drawer and pulled out a coaster, setting it down pointedly before taking the cognac I offered. “There. In case I need to put my glass down momentarily,” she said, referencing the last time we’d been in this room negotiating, when she’d set her tumbler on unprotected seventeenth century rosewood.

  My blood hummed as it circulated lower. She learned fast and she learned well, which pleased me more than she could possibly know. “I would have thought you would be as keen to preserve old furniture as I am, considering your interests.”

  “Yeah, but last time the furniture wasn’t mine.” A smirk grazed her lips briefly, disappearing as she brought the glass up for a sip. When she lowered it again, her expression was serious. “Last night, you said you wouldn’t share me.”

  I almost laughed, surprised by the lead she’d taken. I used the two steps it took to get to the armchair to gather myself, unbuttoning my jacket on the way. When I sat, facing her, I was composed.

  “Is that where you want to start?” I asked, crossing one leg over the other then perching my own tumbler-clutching hand on my thigh.

  The setting was exactly the same as the first time we’d negotiated the terms to our marriage—after dinner in my den, Celia on the sofa and I seated across from her. Both of us drinking one of my favorite three-star cognacs.

  The only difference from that other night and this was that I no longer hated her as much as I wanted her, and the things that I intended to ask for would be genuine instead of passive-aggressive attempts to scare her away from our union.

  Her brows turned inward as she considered how to respond. The topic made her noticeably nervous—her jaw was tight, her breaths shallow. She was beautiful like that, her agitation sending a charge to the air, causing her to fidget and buzz. I had the power to quell that anxiety, and I would.

  But I’d let her linger in it first.

  “It’s just a complete one-eighty from the first time we were in this room,” she said finally, the strength of her tone belying the lack of confidence underneath. “When you told me you’d help me find other lovers if necessary.”

  She took another sip then set the glass down on the coaster, the tremble in her hand barely apparent before she stroked both down her pant legs, likely to wipe clammy palms.

  Breathtaking.

  But she’d suffered enough on this point, especially when there were still things to discuss that would make her sweat more. “I was trying to find ways to keep you at a distance. You can see how well that turned out.”

  “Then you don’t want other women.” This time her pitch was higher and thin, almost more of a whispered prayer than a statement of confirmation.

  “There will not be other women.” There hadn’t been since I’d slipped the ring on her finger, and the few I’d been with in the months before had all taken her face as I’d pushed them and prodded them and fucked them, only to be left wanting the real thing.

  It had been the first sign that I’d fallen for her, when no other woman could come close to leaving me satisfied. When her name repeatedly fell from my mouth, ragged and angry, as I jerked myself raw.

  Her shoulders loosened somewhat at my response, but her body remained mostly tight. “Didn’t quite answer the question, but okay. Good.” She reached again for her glass, as though she needed a point of focus that wasn’t me. As though she thought she could disguise her turmoil.

  As if I’d let her get away with hiding.

  I could make her say it, could make her beg for the words she needed. I would have her begging for something or other before the evening was finished.

  But we were only at the beginning of a conversation that mattered. So I wouldn’t press. Not yet. “I do not want other women, bird. Is that better?”

  Her relief was palpable. “Much.”

  A surge of unfounded jealousy raged through me, prompting the next commandment I issued, even more important than the first. “And there will be no other men. Which is non-negotiable.”

  “I suppose I can live with that.” She was teasing, and it was obvious, but I couldn’t help wanting to bend her over my knee and leave palm prints on her ass.

  I managed to restrain myself. Barely. “How very noble of you.”

  Her eyes met mine and her grin widened, and as sure as I was that she rarely could fathom my thoughts, I was sure this time that she could. We held this gaze for several thick seconds, each one more taut and wanting than the last, until I moved my attention to the drink in my hand.

  She took the cue to move the discussion along with it. “Then everything you said last time was just to turn me off?”

  “No. Some of it I very much meant.”

  She knew I’d tell her eventually—that was entirely what this evening was about, after all—but she still hadn’t shed her constant need to try to stay a step ahead of me, and she tried again now. “The traditionalist, man-of-the-house stuff. You don’t want me to have a job.”

  I gave her a beat to second-guess before confirming her doubt. “Not true. I think wo
rk would be good for you. Part-time, anyway.” She’d become a different person on Amelie when she’d begun her redesign projects. More alive and vibrant, and there was no way in hell I was letting her lose that. “In fact, I insist on it.”

  “Insist.” She said the word like it tasted bad. “Interesting.”

  She was a funny bird, quick-witted and wise but still completely clueless when it came to understanding herself. She was disgusted by the idea of yielding to me, recoiling any time it came up, and yet she submitted to me so naturally in other ways. Here she was wearing the clothes I’d dictated she wear, drinking the beverage I’d chosen for her, discussing the topics I’d planned, subconsciously following my cues to bring up the subjects herself. And she did it all happily, with a flush in her cheeks and a glow to her eyes that shone only when she surrendered.

  And yet, she still believed it wasn’t what she wanted.

  That ended tonight. There would be no more insinuation on my part. My command would be acknowledged. “Yes, insist. As the man of the house, I have that authority.”

  Her arms folded over herself defensively. “So the whole subservient wife role is still something you’re clinging to. I thought you didn’t want me to be like Marion.”

  “You aren’t like Marion.”

  “As you keep reminding me.”

  Again, she was ignorant. Acting as if she’d be better favored if she was like Marion.

  How could I make her realize that wasn’t what I wanted with her at all?

  Marion had been precisely what I needed at the time. She’d been uncomplicated, never distracting or competing with the goals that had taken precedence above her. It had been easy to command her, and I’d liked that. She’d handed me the reins without any struggle, and that had made me powerful. Powerful enough to dominate the other areas of my life with similar ease.

  But she’d been so willing. Too trusting. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d wished she put up more of a struggle. Wished that submission was hard for her.