I brought the glass to my lips, closing my eyes as the vodka and vermouth slid over my tongue. It had been a while since I'd indulged in a real drink and in this moment, it couldn't have tasted any better. I picked up the skewer that held one green olive and placed it in my mouth, my teeth gliding the olive off and onto my tongue. In that same moment, I saw the door open and I halted, the skewer paused, trapped between my teeth.
A man walked in and part of me hoped and prayed he was there to see me. The other part, the part that wasn't prepared to deal with the type of masculine beauty he possessed, hoped and prayed he would walk right past me. My breath snagged in my lungs as his eyes met mine and he started toward my table.
Dark hair and dark eyes. Eyes so dark, they could have been chocolate. His chestnut hair was shaved short on the sides, but was longer on the top, just long enough to slide through his fingers when his hand ran through it. I watched as his big hand came to his forehead and then moved through locks that looked as though they might feel like silk. He was wearing a black leather jacket that looked soft and worn. Although the jacket fit well enough, it hugged his biceps and the sight of the muscles hidden beneath the supple leather made my stomach flip. He wore a black button-up shirt beneath the amazing jacket, the top two buttons undone, and only part of the hem tucked into his faded blue jeans, ending with black leather shoes to match the jacket.
And he came right for me.
He stalked toward me with his eyes zeroing in on mine. I didn't stand when he stopped next to me, did not move a muscle except the ones in my neck that made it possible for my eyes to remain locked on his. My head tilted up, captivated by him, and I couldn't even find the words to utter a greeting.
"Lena?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. There was that voice again. The voice matched the man: hard, dark, rough. My poor body couldn't handle the combination of all the parts which made up that man, especially when they were coming at me all at once, assaulting me. My stomach flipped – bottomed out. My heart pounded and my mouth went dry.
"Yea … yes … that's me," I muttered, right after I pulled the skewer from my teeth, which I'd managed to leave hanging there like an idiot. Still not standing or reaching out my hand to shake his. Just staring. He was the one who broke our eye contact, looking at the chair opposite me before he placed himself in it.
"I'm Preston. Thanks for rearranging your schedule and meeting me here instead," he said, nodding at the waiter who appeared a moment later to take his order. "Scotch. Neat." The waiter gave a nod and disappeared again.
"It was no problem," I said in response, surprised I was able to put together a complete sentence. I had never been affected by a man this way before – not even Derrek. Instantly, but just for one tiny second, I felt guilty for the primal and guttural reaction I was having to this man – I was a married woman, after all. But just as quickly as the guilt came on, it slinked away and left me feeling slightly smug. I could, and would, admire this man as long as he was in front of me. And I would enjoy it too.
"So, tell me. How can I be of service to you?" He placed his forearms on the table, clasped his hands together, leaned forward, aimed his coffee colored eyes at me and waited for my response.
"Well," my voice shook, "I am hoping you can do a little investigating for me. I need someone to catch my husband with whomever he's cheating on me with." I lowered my voice a little when the waiter dropped off his drink. I watched as Preston brought the glass to his lips, only just then noticing how full and lush they were, fascinated as he let the smallest sip of scotch past them. I saw his eyes narrow slightly, guessing the burn of the scotch was coating his throat, but other than the small reaction, he looked like someone who drank straight scotch regularly.
Preston reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook and pen. He started scribbling notes on a clean sheet and looked back to me.
"What's your husband's name?"
"Derrek Bellows."
"What makes you think he's cheating on you?"
"Is that relevant?" I put my guard up. I didn't feel like explaining how my husband found me inadequate to the beautiful man sitting across from me. His hand lifted his glass to his mouth again and he took another sip.
"The way I see it," he stated, not looking me in the eye, but looking at his glass. "You called me. You need my help. I don't care why your husband is cheating, it makes no difference to me." His eyes moved up slowly and locked with mine. "But if you want my help, you're going to have to trust me and tell me whatever it is I want to know." He paused and for just one brief moment, his eyes glanced at my mouth. Immediately, they were back, focused on my eyes, but it didn't go unnoticed. "I could walk out of here and take any number of cases. I could find any number of people who won't question me or act suspiciously when I ask perfectly reasonable questions. So," he stated finally, "I'll only ask one more time before I get up and leave you to find someone else willing to put up with your doubts. What makes you think he's cheating on you?"
I took in a deep breath, but never moved my eyes from his.
"I'll tell you whatever you want to know, but first, you have to understand that what I'm about to say, I've never told another living soul. It's a secret I thought, without a tiny sliver of doubt, I'd take to my grave. I have to believe this is confidential."
"I'm in the business of secrets, sweetheart."
I tried to ignore the arousal that pooled in my core at him calling me sweetheart, tried not to give any weight to the fact that my heart thundered in my chest, and tried to mumble my next statement with my voice unaffected.
"Marrying Derrek was the worst mistake I ever made. I was young. I was foolish, and I stupidly believed in our ‘happily ever after'. I can pinpoint, to the second, when my idiocy imploded, and I will forever feel the ripples and after-effects of that one moment in time."
He lifted his glass again, this time taking a gulp of his scotch, draining it, then nodding to the waiter again, signaling he'd like another.
"Go on, Lena."
Chapter Five
"The night before our wedding, literally minutes before Derrek left our condo to spend the evening with his buddies, Derrek handed me a packet of papers and told me he needed me to sign them. I looked at them, glanced at them really, and saw he'd handed me a prenuptial agreement." I stopped to take a sip of my martini, hoping Preston didn't notice my hand was trembling slightly. I looked back to him and saw he was patiently waiting for me to finish my admission. So I took a deep breath and dove into the story.
"We'd never spoken about having a prenup, not once. So I was obviously caught a little off guard and had a few questions about why and how. Looking back on that evening, I think I acted well within reason – a bride is handed a prenup out of nowhere the night before her wedding, it's her prerogative to flip out a little. Derrek was telling me just to sign it and get it over with, that he had to go, had things to do, but I couldn't just sign a prenup. The discussion elevated to a full-on fight, with both of us screaming at each other, both of us using the same piece of logic to argue our very different opinions." I took in another deep breath and then pushed it out, trying not to let the emotions of that one evening so long ago seep into my reality now.
"I kept asking him, ‘If you don't ever see us getting divorced, then why should I have to sign this?' And he kept asking me, ‘If you don't ever see us getting divorced, then why don't you sign it?'" I shook my head at the memory, looking down at my hands resting on the tabletop. "It was a cyclical fight, one that we fought for over an hour, yelling at each other. The fight only ended when I picked up the pen and signed the papers, stupidly, without reading them thoroughly." A small laugh escaped my lips, surprising even me. "Thinking about it now, the fight was probably part of his plan. He needed to distract me somehow, get me riled up about something, push me so far that I'd do something so entirely stupid, and it worked. Here I am. Trying to fight against that stupid piece of paper I signed so long ago – a young bride hoping for a fairytale."
"What did the contract say about cheating?" Preston's voice was soft, which surprised me, causing me to look up into his eyes, and his face matched his voice. Softness.
"The prenup states, which I didn't find out until two years later when I finally grew a brain cell and looked at it, that if I divorced him for any reason, other than adultery, I would leave the marriage with exactly what I came into it with. Which, to be clear, was absolutely nothing."