An Improper Ever After(28)

Fury swirls inside me like a dark storm, and I can't stay still. I grip the back of my chair, trying to regain composure, but it's no use. Giving up, I push away and pace. A need for violence throbs in my veins, and I want to punch something. Preferably the disgusting scumbag at the Vegas shelter.

"And yes, you were right that it was stupid and naïve of me to believe Mr. Grayson's story," my wife continues. Her words are weighted with resignation, but she keeps her shoulders straight, her gaze direct. "My gut told me it wasn't the brightest idea to trust him, but … I ignored it."

I stop and stare at Belle. What she's saying is really sinking into me, and I feel like vomiting. Air saws in and out of my lungs, my chest hurts like hell and my throat aches with all the blistering things I want to say but can't. They aren't directed at her. No, they're for me, because I'm such a superior asshole.

Belle's hands are trembling, and she deposits the coffee cup on the table and drops her arms so I can't see them anymore. "I hate remembering that period of my life. Every time I do, I can't help but think of all the ways things could've gone wrong for two poor girls with no education, no friends, nothing. I know from experience how bad it can be for helpless girls … "

My gut tightens like it's been punched. I push a fist against my mouth. I've never felt this searing level of hate and disgust, not even for Julian, not even for Annabelle Underhill. Underneath the rage, my heart is breaking for the girl my wife was a year ago. 

"But I never thought that an adult man would try to go after an underage girl. Nonny was just thirteen, and a skinny thirteen at that."

"Why didn't you say something?" I ask when I regain a small measure of control over my emotions.

Her gaze snaps up to my face. "Seriously? When would I have been able to tell you? When you gave me two hundred dollars for the worst stripping ever? When you offered me three thousand for a blowjob? When you took me to that lawyer's office for the marriage contract?"

She's throwing the same events at me again, but unlike before, they hit home this time. My face heats at the reminder of what an ass I've been. Back then I didn't know her. I treated her the way I would any woman who'd sell her body-and more-if it could get her what she wanted.

"But what about after?" I ask hoarsely. "We were supposed to start fresh. That's what the honeymoon was about."

"I didn't want to ruin what we started with an ugly past, Elliot." A bitterly ironic twist of her lips seems to say like that matters anymore.

"How can you think it's just an 'ugly past' that needs to stay buried? Is that how you felt about Annabelle Underhill too?" As soon as the words leave my lips, I know I've screwed up.

"She's your ex, she came to your home and she obviously wants you back. I don't know how you can argue she has nothing to do with me."

I bite back an expletive directed at myself. What is it about this woman that twists me, drives me crazy? Women don't do this to me. Women are diversions, a bit of fun, not people who keep my emotions running high and erratic, like a train about to derail.

My wife sighs, lifts a hand as though to fix her hair, then drops it when it hits the towel. "You knowing about what happened to me and Nonny in Vegas wouldn't have changed anything. It had already happened, and it would've only disgust-upset you. And I honestly didn't think Mr. Grayson was going to be a problem. Not one that would concern you, anyway. If I had, I would have told you earlier."

Even through the turbulent feelings churning inside me, I catch something in her voice-a clue to what's going on inside her head. "I wouldn't have been disgusted with you, Belle," I say, keeping my voice quiet. I'm trying very hard not to vent the emotions roiling inside me. They push against my ribs, the pressure almost unbearable.

She drops her gaze. "It's not important anymore."

"The hell it isn't."

She's quiet for a moment. "They say it's best not to know how sausages are made because if you know you won't enjoy them anymore. People's pasts are like that too. You don't want to know everything, Elliot."

Then I recognize something that I haven't thought of before. She doesn't want me to know any more than I absolutely have to. She is assuming that I won't stay constant. She's experienced how quickly people, including those who claim to be her friends, can turn on her. "I'm not Traci or anybody else from your home town," I point out.

"I know."

I walk over and cradle her chin in my hand-carefully-then tilt her face until she looks at me directly. "Do you really?"

She doesn't answer. And I realize with sudden clarity this is why I've been furious that she withheld information-because it's proof that she would never trust me, never lean on me or …