Page 39 of Bound to Him
“What are we going to do now?” I stared around the mostly empty side street. “When can we get my Charger? You didn’t have to get anything done. It was fine the way it was.”
His strong body protected me from a cold breeze that hit him from the back, and for a moment, I thought he was going to hug me. He didn’t budge, though. I rubbed my hands over my hot cheeks as I ducked my head. This wasn’t a real marriage, and there was no way in hell I could let myself be pulled into his charms. In six months I was gone—no exceptions.
“Come with me,” he said gruffly, leading me back to the beauty that was his Jag. Everything he owned was a visual orgasm, and that only made me want to hate him more. I didn’t argue, though, and he opened the door for me so I could slide in.
When he got into his side, he turned the car on and didn’t say a word as he drove off. We stayed in silence and that was fine by me. I didn’t have much to say to him now that the excitement had drained away. But as the minutes ticked by, I sighed.
“Am I really not going back to school?” I whispered, dreading the answer.
“No. I need you beside me.” His voice was firm and he kept his eyes on the road, but I didn’t miss the smile that curved his lips, and that irked me.
“You can’t keep me on a leash,” I snapped, harsher than I’d meant to, but all the excitement about getting one over on Dad had disappeared, leaving behind disappointment.
“I assure you, I can do what I want with you, little mouse. You’re mine.” He took a corner too sharply and the seat belt dug into my shoulder.
I glared at him. “Fuck you.”
“Not my thing.”
“Of course it’s not,” I spat, crossing my arms. “You’re all about control. You’re exactly like my dad.”
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, the iris dark and deadly. “You have daddy issues.”
“And you have all sorts of issues, you psycho.” I turned my attention to my window so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Anger stirred low in my gut and I wanted to scream, but I’d learned growing up around my dad that it didn’t help. Men like Altonwantedthat kind of reaction so he could punish me for it.
“Young people these days use words so easily without knowing the full meaning of them. Do you know what a psychopath is, Noah?” He made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat, but I kept my eyes out on the street where he’d stopped at a red light.
A homeless man had half his body in a trash can, searching for something near the bottom, and my chest clenched. Here we were in a Jag while that man needed a decent meal. His clothes were worn and holey, and when he glanced up at me with a glare, I realized he couldn’t be older than me. His dark hair stuck to the sides of his cheeks and his lips were pale, and he had a splatter of bruises across his high cheekbones. He reminded me of someone I used to know, a guy who worked at the video game store close to Vert Island. I swore I remembered his name....Ethan? Eric? No! Ezra!
I raised my hand in a wave, but Alton took off, the back tires squealing as he skidded forward.
“Did you hear what I said?” Alton’s voice dropped a notch, and for the first time since I met him I heard a semblance of real annoyance. I glanced at him and raised my eyebrows. “Psycho or psychopath aren’t words you canthrowaround. It’s a real diagnosis.”
“I know that.” I winced. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you would care.”
“I do if you’re referring to me as a psychopath.” The anger in his voice had me curious. Why was he so offended by a simple word?
He slowed down, and I focused out onto the street again, working out where we were. It took me a moment before I realized he’d finally come to a stop in a parking spot in front of an art gallery.Thegallery. Holy shit.
“Why are we here?” I asked, my breath catching in my throat. I didn’t want to hope, but there was no other reason he could have brought me here other than going in. He had promised, but surely even Alton couldn’t have pulled it off this quickly. Then again, he was powerful and rich. Anything could be done with some money.
“Why do you think?” His tone had warmed again, and he opened his door, getting out and coming around to mine. I didn’t move, scared if I did that this would turn out to be a dream and I wasn’t truly here. He smirked as he held out his hand. “Come with me, darlin’.”
I found his accent grew stronger every time he ordered me around, and I couldn’t fault him if he was doing it on purpose. That voice was very persuasive. I slid my palm into his and let him help me out of the low car, my gaze jumping from the refurbished brown brick warehouse to his handsome but smug face.
I let him guide me toward a glass door that led into the building where the gallery operated. I’d stood in front of this door time and time again, wishing I could be allowed in, before leaving because I realized Dad would never help me. The owner, who demanded to be referred to as a gallerist, was a snooty bastard and seemed to take joy in denying people entrance.
But it was happening now.
Alton pushed the door open and stepped inside, tugging me gently with him. The tennis bracelet on my wrist sparkled as it reflected the lights of the hallway that led past a security guard, who didn’t give us a second glance, and into a wider area full of artwork. My breath caught as I stared around at the large space, canvases hanging on walls I’d only dreamed of seeing with my own eyes. I was here, in front of them.
A man in a fancy black suit, which made him look more like a butler than a businessman, came rushing over to us. He had black hair slicked back and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses notched on top of a pointy nose. “Mr. Bouchard, sir. Pleasure to meet you. I’m the registrar and archivist for the gallery.” The man held out his hand to Alton. “My name is Torrence McPhee. We spoke on the phone.”
“We did.” Alton glanced at the outstretched hand but didn’t take it, turning to stare around the room. “I was assured my husband and I would have privacy.”
Torrence nodded quickly and clapped his hands together, taking the obvious snub and rolling with it. He was probably used to rich men like Alton. Hell, maybe he even enjoyed being treated like he was a gum wrapper on the floor.
“Of course, sir. You will have complete privacy as promised. However, the artwork here is irreplaceable, and as such, I do need to stay on the premises. I will be in my office, though.” He bowed in an awkward fashion and gave me a smile before he left and we were alone.
