by Tracy Wolff
Oh, I know that news of our marriage has leaked. I was on Twitter for a few minutes the morning after we got married and saw that #EthanFrostbrokemyheart was trending, along with #Chloewho? But Ethan’s publicists have worked their magic and none of it has touched us. Until now.
Which is why I lay here, listening, as Ethan whispers into the phone. Ethan’s assured me over and over again that he’ll take care of me, that he’ll make sure no press agency runs any kind of exposé on my past. But how much can he really do? How long before some intrepid reporter digs up the NDA I signed and the money my family was paid for my signature? They won’t know what the agreement was about, but they don’t have to. Speculation is often as harmful as real facts.
Ethan gets up from where he’s been perched on the side of the bed and crosses to the door, still whispering. I know he’s moving because he doesn’t want to wake me, doesn’t want to upset me with what can’t be changed. But if news about my past is about to break—if what happened all those years ago is about to become a liability for Ethan—I want to know about it.
Except, as I listen closely to what’s being said, I realize that this call has nothing to do with the press or with me. No, he’s talking to whoever is on the line about someone named Nico Valducci. It’s not a name that I recognize, nor does Ethan say anything specific about the man besides his name. Still, there’s something about the energy in the room that gets my attention and makes my blood run cold.
He’s being quiet, so quiet that I can barely hear the words even before he moves from the bedroom into the suite’s main living area. I do roll over then, actively straining to hear the rest of the conversation. I don’t catch much, just that whoever is on the other line has set up a meeting between Ethan and this Valducci person for later this morning at some Italian restaurant. And that neither the person on the phone nor Ethan expect the meeting to be amicable.
He’s still talking, but he’s crossed to the small mini-fridge in the bar now and there’s no way I can hope to hear him unless I actually climb out of bed and resort to eavesdropping at the doorway. And since spying on my husband isn’t how I want my marriage to start—or how I want it to continue, for that matter—I roll back toward the nightstand.
Instead of trying to go back to sleep, though, I reach for my smartphone and pull up Google. I type in Valducci’s name, then bite my lip to keep from gasping out loud at the huge array of hits that comes up. The Washington Post calls Valducci one of the most powerful mobsters of our time. Vanity Fair has an exposé about him and three other men, all of whom they refer to as the new and more brutal faces of the Las Vegas mafia. The New Yorker asks what a mob boss has to do to get arrested in this country.
I read a few more articles—all of them saying basically the same thing—and only end up more confused. Ethan is one of the best, most morally unambiguous CEOs in business today. He runs an amazing company that does more for charity, and its employees, than any other company out there. He makes products that save lives. What on earth is he doing meeting with the man Rolling Stone calls the self-appointed King of Las Vegas?
I skim through a number of other articles until I get to one published by the New York Times last year. The writer explicitly links companies run by Valducci and another one of the men in the Vanity Fair article to a number of powerful Washington politicians.
My breath grows a little ragged as the whole house of cards Ethan and I have spent the last few days constructing comes tumbling down around me. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to stop skimming—to stop panicking—and actually read every word of the article.
By the time I’m halfway done, I know. I just know. I tell myself not to, but the moment I finish the article, I open a new Google prompt. And search Nico Valducci and Brandon.
Nothing shows up. Not one article. Not one caption. Nothing to tie them together at all.
Relief swamps me, has me sinking back against the pillows as the panic recedes and my breathing starts to even out. Maybe I won’t throw up the copious amounts of champagne I ingested last night, after all.
Except my brain is still whirling, still trying to come up with some—with any—explanation as to what Ethan could want with Valducci. But if it’s not about Brandon, then I don’t have a clue. On a whim, I search Valducci and Ethan.
Still no hits. Except, when I click on images, there’s one photo—about halfway down the first page that stands out. It’s Valducci, standing with a man the caption identifies as Ethan’s stepfather in front of the MGM Grand. Standing a few feet away, almost out of the camera’s range, is Brandon.
My heart lodges in my throat at my first glimpse of him. He must have been about nineteen when this picture was taken—only a few months after he graduated from high school. Less than a year after he raped me. He looks the same. The hair, the clothes, the ridiculous bracelets tied around his wrist. The Brandon who showed up at Ethan’s house a few weeks ago was a lot shinier, a lot more polished than the monster I remembered. But this boy standing there, watching his father and Nico Valducci exchange what looks like a very warm handshake, this is the boy who raped me. This is the Brandon I still see in my nightmares. The Brandon I’m afraid I’ll see for the rest of my life.
I click on the link, pull up a story that’s half a dozen years old. But before I can read more than the first line, my stomach revolts.
I drop the phone on the bed, make a mad dash for the closest bathroom.
I barely make it in time.
I throw up the remnants in my stomach in several long, painful heaves, then drop to the floor beside the toilet, resting my head on the cool black tiles that line the bathroom walls. I suck in deep breaths through my mouth, use every ounce of willpower I have to swallow the swirling nausea back down.
It works, too, until Ethan appears in the doorway, face concerned, phone still in his hand. And then, suddenly, I’m wracked by a whole new set of convulsions. The sight of him standing there, looking so worried, pushes me over the edge. As does the knowledge that’s just making its way to the front of my brain. We’re here, in Vegas, because of Brandon. Not because of our wedding, not because of our honeymoon, but because of his brother.
My stomach revolts again, despite the fact that I’ve been willing it not to with every ounce of strength I have. I barely get my hair out of my face before I’m dry-heaving into the toilet.
“Chloe, baby. Are you sick?” He’s already reaching for me as he starts to step into the bathroom. But I grab for the door and swing it closed with every ounce of strength I can muster. It slams in his face. I lock it with the last bit of strength I have, then collapse back against the toilet.
For long seconds, there’s nothing but a shocked silence on both sides of the door—I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by my actions. But then Ethan’s trying to open the door. And cursing under his breath when he realizes I’ve locked it.
“Chloe, baby, let me in.” He sounds confused, a little frantic. I should be sorry for upsetting him, but I’m not. Because I know that after what I just found out, I’m more confused—and more frantic—than he’ll ever be.
“Chloe!” he calls again, his voice rising in obvious agitation. “Baby, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I choke out, then force myself to be more convincing when I tell him, “I’ll be right out.”
“How sick are you?” he asks.
It’s a valid question, especially if I look half as bad as I feel. “I’m okay,” I tell him again. Right before another wave of sickness hits me.
“Damn it, Chloe!” He’s pounding on the bathroom door. “I’ve seen someone throw up before. Let me in. Please, baby, let me in.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
There’s so much going on in my head right now, so many pieces slotting together that—added to the sickness roiling around inside of me—it’s hard to pull a coherent thought out of the mess.
Strangely, the first thought I manage to grab on to isn’t about Brandon, isn’t about Vega
s, isn’t about anything but Ethan and me. Why did he have to hear me throwing up? Why did he have to see what a mess I am? I’m strong for everyone else in my life. Why, why, why must Ethan always see me when I’m weak?
And how am I supposed to have a real conversation with him about this when he’s obviously in protector mode?
When I’m done dry-heaving, I sit by the toilet for another couple of minutes, just to make sure nothing else is going to come up. Outside the bathroom, I can hear Ethan freaking out and I know I don’t have much more time before he does something totally crazy like break the bathroom door down. As it is, I figure the only reason he hasn’t done that already is he’s afraid of hurting me if he does.
“Chloe! Chloe! Answer me!” The urgency in his voice gets through the fuzziness and I know I I’m out of time.
“I’m okay,” I tell him again as I push shakily to my feet. Then I stumble over to the sink and rinse my mouth out before splashing water on my face, and on my wrists as I try to make sense of the different bits of knowledge floating around in my brain. As I try to get my shit together.
It’s that last thought that pisses me off and gets me moving. Damn it, I’m no shrinking violet. I’m no weak girl who can’t take care of herself. Not anymore. Not ever again, even if I do have a man who wants nothing more than to do it for me—no matter what the consequences.
The thought makes my stomach turn, again, but I shove the fear and the confusion and the sadness down deep as I turn to open the door. It’s time to confront my husband of four days.
Ethan’s standing right next to the door, so close that I can’t step out of the bathroom without brushing against him. Not that he would let me, even if I tried.
Instead, he wraps his arms around me, pulls me in against his strong, powerful chest. He feels so good, smells so good and comfortable and familiar, that for a moment I can’t help burrowing in. Wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my face into his chest as I take the comfort he’s all too willing to give.
But there’s something wrong with taking comfort from the person who’s upset you in the first place, my brain screams at me. And so I pull back, try to step out of his arms.
But Ethan’s holding on, one hand cupping my face while the other rests on my hip and keeps me in place. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks. “Is this from too much to drink last night or are you sick? Do I need to get a doctor?”
The concern in his eyes melts me, as does the softness of his touch. But I steel myself against it—against him as I try to find the words to start the conversation I know we need to have. “It wasn’t the champagne,” I finally tell him.
“Poor baby,” he murmurs as he propels me toward the bed. “We’ll get you in bed and then I’ll call the front desk, get the number for a doctor—”
“I don’t need a doctor, either.”
“You don’t know that. If you’ve caught a virus, maybe he can—”
“It’s not a virus!” I tell him, fighting to keep my voice even. “It’s you!”
He freezes in the act of pulling the covers around me. “I don’t understand.”
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to shove him away from me. Not to yell at him. Not to call bullshit on his whole bewildered act. But I don’t want to start my marriage out that way, either, and so I just sit on the edge of the bed for long seconds, staring sightlessly out the huge picture window in front of me as I try to figure out what I’m supposed to do. What I’m supposed to say to this man who means more to me than anyone else in this world. This man for whom I would give up anything.
This man who doesn’t seem to feel the same way about me.
“Chloe, sweetheart.” He strokes his fingers lightly up and down my spine and damned if my traitorous body doesn’t respond to his touch even while my mind struggles with what to say and how to say it. “Talk to me.”
When I still don’t respond, he gets onto the bed, too. Only he slides himself around me, so that we’re both sitting on the edge of the bed, with me between his legs as he wraps his arms around me and presses warm, soft kisses to my bare shoulders. And he waits, in silence for me to figure out what I want to say and how I want to say it.
I’m trying to be careful, trying to pick the right words. But it’s too much. The question bursts out of me without my permission. “When were you going to tell me?”
To Ethan’s credit, he doesn’t ask what I’m talking about. He doesn’t prevaricate, doesn’t try to talk around the subject that’s filling the room up more completely than a two-ton elephant ever could.
Instead, he lowers his head to my shoulder and—for long seconds—just breathes. Then he says, “When there was something to tell. I knew it would upset you and I didn’t want to bother you until I had a clear-cut idea of how things were going to go.”
“You didn’t want to upset me, huh? How’s that working out for you?”
“About as well as the rest of my plans that involve you.”
“You’re meeting with one of the most dangerous men in Las Vegas, in the country, and you weren’t going to tell me. What if something happened to you?”
“In my defense, I didn’t know until five minutes ago that I was going to meet with him.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Ethan.” I shove him off me and stand up so that I can face him. So that I can see the dark, haunted blue of his eyes in the early morning light streaming in through the curtains we left partially open so we could see the bright Vegas lights against the night sky.
But he isn’t looking at my face. Instead, his eyes are raking over my body and I realize for the first time that I’m standing here stark naked in front of him. Which is no big deal—he’s my husband, after all, and has seen me naked hundreds of times in the last few months. Except, I can feel myself responding to the heat in his eyes, feel my nipples growing hard and my sex growing wet at the desire for me he doesn’t even try to hide.
This isn’t the time, though, and no matter how much my body responds to him, my mind isn’t the least bit interested in making love. So I grab his shirt off the chair where he dropped it last night and pull it on. There are no buttons left on it—I’ve been as rough on his shirts this week as he’s been on my underwear—but I pull it closed anyway, then cross my arms over my chest in an effort to keep it from falling open.
“Don’t,” he tells me, all but flying off the bed to stop in front of me. “Don’t hide yourself from me. Please.”
His hands go to my shoulders and he pushes at the shirt, not giving up until I drop my arms and it falls into a puddle at my feet.
“Come back to bed,” he says, taking my hand and tugging me toward the bed in the center of the room.
“I don’t want to have sex right now, Ethan.”
“I know that, Chloe.” He puts the same stress on my name that I put on his. “But I don’t want to have this discussion with you in defensive mode halfway across the room. I want to be able to hold you while we talk this out.”
“Is that what we’re going to do?” I ask as I finally allow him to pull me back to bed. “Talk this out?”
“Ask me anything.”
“Anything?” I ask skeptically.
“Anything.”
“And you’ll answer me truthfully.”
“I promised you when we got married that I wouldn’t lie to you again. I meant it.”
“Yeah, but that was before I found out about Nico Valducci, the Las Vegas mobster. Las Vegas,” I repeat, stressing the words. “Where we just happen to be right this very second.”
“If you heard me on the phone, you know you found out about my meeting with Valducci at the same time I did.”
“Who set up the meeting? Who were you even talking to?”
“Sebastian.”
“Sebastian Caine? Your best friend?”
“Yes.”
“He’s in bed with the Vegas mob?”
“God, no.” Ethan’s laugh is harsh and anything but amused. “His father is. Seba
stian’s trying to cut the mob out of the Atlantis once and for all.”
The sick feeling is back in my stomach and this time it’s worse than ever. The thoughts that have been floating nebulously around my brain from the moment I found out who Valducci was finally coalesce into one clear question. “Is that why we’re here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is that why you brought me to Vegas? To meet with Nico Valducci and find a way to use him against Brandon?”
“Brandon?”
“Don’t!” Despite my best efforts, I all but scream it at him. “Don’t lie to me. When I Googled them, I saw a picture of Brandon and your stepfather with Valducci.”
“Really?” Ethan asks, suddenly a million times more intense than he was. “Where? Because I haven’t even seen that picture.”
Suddenly, he’s reaching for his phone and I’m turning cold, so cold.
“Fuck.” I stare at him incredulously. “This whole thing really is all about Brandon.”
I’m not sure what it is, but there must be something in my tone that tips Ethan off as to how serious this really is. Because he drops his phone like it burned him, and then he’s reaching for me, trying to pull me close.
But I won’t let him. Not now, when it feels like my whole world is shattering around my feet. “You brought me to Vegas because you wanted to chase down a lead about your brother.”
He looks at me like I’m insane. “I brought you to Vegas to marry you. I brought you here because I didn’t want to wait one more second to make you my wife. You have to know that, Chloe.”
“Do I? Do I really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like we came to Vegas to further your agenda against your brother. An agenda I thought we had decided you weren’t going to pursue anymore. I have to be honest, Ethan, from where I’m standing, it looks like marrying me was just a way to keep me quiet and happy and ignorant while you and Sebastian worked behind the scenes to bring Brandon down.”