Page 82 of Bed of Thorns

It had gone by in a blur, both of us crazy from the move, selecting furniture, trying to paint more pictures in order to fill the gallery once it was fitted exactly the way I wanted it.

And his travels.

How many cities had Edmond flown off to? How many countries? He had no passport because he wouldn’t legally be able to get one. Yet he’d flown around the world on a private jet in style.

That much he’d told me about, confiding even the limited information had made him nervous. The company was bending far too many rules in order to keep him employed.

That meant he and the knowledge he had buried inside his head were valuable. What I couldn’t understand was why it would mean shit to what had to be a global force. Maybe I was just thinking of espionage books, but the air of danger surrounding what Edmond was doing remained, increasing with every business trip he made.

Despair.

I hated that it was the overriding emotion that burned deep within me. Yes, there was passion, both for Edmond and for my art, but there was always a thick haze around my mind, an ominous feeling no matter where I went or what I did. The foreboding sensations of being watched, followed, never left me.

Even in the house.

The space was as gorgeous as I knew it would be on the night we received the keys. Worth over a million dollars, the large house was modern and bright, the location to die for.

But it didn’t feel like home even with the beautiful furnishings I’d selected.I’dselected. Edmond hadn’t been a part of any of the purchases, too busy working on whatever latest deal he’d made. The money was already flowing at a substantial rate, our bank account padded. We had two expensive sports cars and I’d been given a trendy corner gallery in a posh area of the beach. It was perfect for locals and tourists alike. There was even room to expand a portion of the existing space into the wine bar Edmond had talked about before.

I had no desire at this point, almost finding it drudgery equipping and showcasing my art. At least my paintings had yet to suffer from the constant turmoil festering inside, although they had turned darker, stormy elements providing several backdrops. They were beautiful, just not the light and joy I’d felt at the beginning.

Maybe that’s because I’d felt the darkness inside of him increasing, his need for blood as strong as it had been before. There was a scent to his emotions, one just as alive as the man harboring the feelings.

But it went far deeper than that. At first, he’d been happy upon returning from his trips, always bringing me a treat of some kind. Over the last two weeks, everything had changed. He remained untalkative for almost two hours after he’d returned. Then it had been like a light switch going off, his normal passionate side returning. I hated the change in him as much as I did in our lives.

After grabbing a cup of coffee, I turned on the kitchen television I’d insisted on having. It was important, at least in my mind, to keep up with the news. As one of the morning news shows remained in the background, I headed toward my studio. At least I could marvel at the incredible space. The house appeared created for us in mind. Edmond had his office, complete with his massive computer systems and I had my studio. Everything was gorgeous from the granite countertops in the kitchen and bathrooms to the commercial grade appliances in the kitchen and the family room with the cathedral ceiling and large stone fireplace.

I adored the two-tiered deck outside and the zero-edge pool. But even with the glorious amenities, I didn’t feel comfortable. Just outside my door, I turned around, taking a deep breath then heading to his office. While he’d never told me I couldn’t venture inside or sit behind his desk, I’d felt the unspoken rule just like I had many others.

Never ask him about his clients.

Don’t try to obtain any additional information about the company.

Pretend the entire situation didn’t bother me.

It was becoming more difficult by the day. A sickening feeling pooled into my stomach, which was a daily occurrence every time he left for work. Maybe a small part of me feared he’d never return. Up to this point, I’d done a good job of convincing myself I was being overreactive, but since the single vision I’d experienced the night of the party, the cold feeling never left me.

I stood just outside his office door, peering inside. As with all other parts of the house, the equipment was pricy, state of the art. He could do everything he needed from here, but almost never worked at home. Granted, it had only been five weeks, but I had a sense this was mostly for show.

When I walked inside, I was taken by how impressive everything seemed. What I hadn’t noticed was that he’d placed the original painting that I’d done of him over his printer. He’d insisted we bring it from Maine, one of the few items that I’d cared to bring with us. As I walked closer, another wave of sadness coursed through me. The coffee tasted bitter as I stared at it, the quiet moment of reflection only pushing my nerves closer to the edge.

I turned around in a full circle, suddenly realizing I had no idea where the box was located. Edmond had been the one to remove it from under the floor of the closet. A sudden frantic urge to find it smashed into my system. I put the mug of coffee on his desk, glancing over my shoulder. It was ridiculous to need to worry about whether he found me here.

It might be crazy, but I wanted to know that it was safe. It was the logical location for him to secure it away, yet after searching the closet, hoping to find some hidden location or maybe a safe, I was annoyed. After searching through every drawer, unable to find it, I was near the furious stage.

I moved through the house, opening every cabinet and door, finally ending up standing outside the kitchen, furious I’d kept from asking him where he’d placed it. I’d ask as soon as he came home. Still agitated, I glanced at my watch. I only had two hours before I was supposed to meet another contractor at the gallery. I was determined to finish the painting I’d been working on today.

“In other news. According to a spokesman for the New York police department, they’ve yet to discover any evidence in the murder of Joseph Capalla, son of the Don of the Capalla crime syndicate. While there have been several speculations about gang-related activity, to date, no other organization had stepped up to take credit for the brutal crime.”

An instant shiver coursed down my back, falling all the way to my bare feet. Turning sharply, I ran into the kitchen, catching a single glimpse of the photograph on the screen.

Then I fell against the counter. Joseph, the man who’d refused to take no for an answer to go out with him. The same individual who’d become abusive during the course of the few weeks we’d dated. Joseph, the same man who’d asked one too many questions about Edmond.

An immediate pain in my stomach forced me to race toward the bathroom, and I almost failed to make it before my stomach revolted against the coffee and what little food I’d managed to eat the night before.

This wasn’t a coincidence. I knew it in my soul. What was going on?

A momentary thought rushed into my mind. Was Edmond responsible? Had he hunted down my ex? I was sick inside at the thought, struggling to make sense of everything.

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