“Ah, I see.” And I do. I’m beginning to understand how this game works. In the shadowy world of intelligence agencies and off-the-record politics, favors are like currency—and my husband is rich in more ways than one. Rich enough to ensure that he would never be prosecuted for petty crimes like kidnapping or illegal arms dealing. “And you want Frank to give you some info to leak to Syria, so they owe you a favor, right?”
Julian grins at me, white teeth flashing. “Yes, indeed. You’re a quick study, my pet.”
“Why did you decide to let me listen in today?” I ask, eyeing him curiously. “Why today of all days?”
Instead of responding, he rises to his feet and comes toward me. Stopping next to me, he bends forward and places his hands on the desk on both sides of my body, trapping me again. “Why do you think, Nora?” he murmurs, leaning closer. His breath is warm against my cheek, and his arms are like steel beams surrounding me. It makes me feel like a small animal caught in a hunter’s snare—an unsettling sensation that nonetheless turns me on.
“Because we’re married?” I guess in an uneven voice. His face is mere inches from mine, and my lower belly tightens with a strong surge of arousal as he nudges his hips forward, letting me feel his hardening erection.
“Yes, baby, because we’re married,” he says huskily, his eyes darkening with lust as my peaked nipples brush against his chest, “and because I think you’re no longer as fragile as you seem . . .”
And lowering his head, he captures my mouth in a hungry, possessive kiss, his hands sliding up my thighs with familiar intent.
* * *
Over the next few days, I learn more about Julian’s dark empire, and I begin to understand how little most people know about what goes on behind the scenes. None of what I hear in Julian’s office ever shows up on the news . . . because if it did, heads would roll, and some very important people would end up in jail.
Amused by my continued interest, Julian lets me listen in on more conversations. Once I even get to watch a video conference from the back of the room, where I can’t be seen by the camera. To my shock, I recognize one of the men on the video feed. It’s a prominent US general—someone I’ve seen a couple of times on popular talk shows. He wants Julian to move his manufacturing operations from Thailand out of fear that political instability in the region could derail the next shipment of the new explosive—the shipment that’s supposed to go to the US government.
My former captor hadn’t been lying when he said he has connections; if anything, he’d understated the extent of his reach.
Of course, politicians, military leaders, and others of their ilk are but a small fraction of the people Julian deals with on a daily basis. The majority of his interactions are with clients, suppliers, and various intermediaries—shady and usually frightening individuals from all over the world. His acquaintances range from Russian mafia and Libyan rebels to dictators in obscure African countries. When it comes to selling weapons, my husband is very egalitarian. Terrorists, drug lords, legitimate governments—he does business with them all.
It turns my stomach, but I can’t bring myself to stay out of Julian’s office. Every day I follow him there, driven by morbid curiosity. It’s like watching some kind of undercover exposé; the things I learn are both fascinating and disturbing.
It takes Julian three days, but he manages to break the last Al-Quadar prisoner. How, he doesn’t tell me and I don’t ask. I know it’s through torture, but I don’t know the particulars. I just know that the information he extracts results in Julian locating two more Al-Quadar cells—and the CIA owing him another favor.
Now that Julian has decided to let me into that portion of his life, we spend even more time together. He likes having me in his office. Not only is it convenient for when he wants sex—which is at least once during the day—but he also seems to enjoy the speed with which I’m learning. I’m sharp, he says. Intuitive. I see things as they are instead of as I want them to be—a rare gift, according to Julian.
“Most people wear blinders,” he tells me over lunch one day, “but not you, my pet. You face reality head-on . . . and that’s what lets you see beneath the surface.”
I thank him for the compliment, but inwardly I wonder if it’s necessarily a good thing, seeing beneath the surface like that. If I could pretend to myself that at the core, Julian is a good man—that he is simply misunderstood and can ultimately be reformed—it would be so much easier for me. If I were blind to my husband’s nature, I wouldn’t feel so conflicted about my feelings for him.