Footsteps (3 page)

That was what tonight had been. She’d grown
used to his infidelity, and, in fact, she no longer cared. But he
had not, until tonight, made public spectacle of his contempt for
her. And his power over her. She had stopped reacting to his
degradation of her in ways that satisfied him, and so he’d pressed
the point until she’d reacted.

But the second time she’d found him with his
hands up another woman’s dress tonight, she had been prepared, and
she had reacted in a way that hadn’t satisfied him, simply walking
away, leaving the theater. As a consequence, now she was sitting
here with bloody knees, being tortured by the harsh drag of
alcohol-soaked cotton over her abraded skin.

She wondered what he might have done if her
Good Samaritan hadn’t interfered. Whatever it might have been, he
would have gotten away with it. No one ever interfered with
anything James Auberon did. He didn’t often make a public show of
his dark side, but when he did, people let him. For the same reason
that Sabina still lived with him, still wore the ten-carat canary
diamond on her left ring finger. Because the power he wielded was
vast, and his aim was true. Everyone knew it, and everyone let him
have his will.

Until she was no longer his will, he would
not release her. And though she was strong, she was not powerful.
She could not fight him and survive, and so she withstood his will
and waited for him to tire of the game. She used her strength for
the waiting.

But tonight, someone had stopped him. A
tall, dark, dashing stranger, looking stiff and uncomfortable in
his tuxedo. James had said his name…Carlo. Carlo Pagano. Of
those
Paganos? There were a lot of Italians in Rhode Island,
and most of them were just normal people. Sabina had lived in the
States for years, most of her life, but she still felt somewhat
flummoxed by the wide range of cultural identities. Maybe Pagano
was the Italian version of Smith. But somehow, Sabina doubted it.
The simple fact that the man had known who James was and had yet
interfered indicated that he was accustomed to men who were
intimidating.

Interesting. Perhaps that was why James had
stopped. Perhaps a member of one of the largest crime families of
New England had come to her rescue. That was the only kind of power
that would have given her husband pause.

She smiled, then realized too late her
mistake. James’s eerie expression of demonic tenderness—his eyes
avid with malice, his smile sweet and loving—shifted and darkened,
and he tossed the bloody, sodden cotton ball into the
wastebasket.

“You like that? That’s good. I’m in the mood
for some play.”

He wrapped his hand—its palm soft, its nails
manicured—around her arm and yanked her up, then out of the
bathroom and into the bedroom. Her knees protested strenuously, but
she did not limp. When he slid the belt from his pants and shoved
her to kneel at his feet, she didn’t cry out.

She used her strength for the waiting.

~oOo~

As always, James was up at dawn. As always,
Sabina waited to sleep until he had left the bed.

As always, she was up by ten o’clock. In the
bathroom, she finally finished tending to her sore knees. Once they
were bandaged, she stood in the middle of her closet,
undecided.

James hated for her to wear her robe outside
of the bedroom. He thought it gauche. Normally, first thing in the
morning, she dressed to work out, then showered after she had
finished whatever workout was on the docket for the day. But she
wasn’t going to yoga today. The thought of kneeling in child’s pose
or attempting any asana whatsoever today made her wince. He
wouldn’t like it if she skipped her workout, though, and today she
wasn’t in the right frame of mind to resist him. After last night,
she needed a quiet day.

Finally, she dressed for yoga. It wasn’t as
if he followed her to the studio. He’d be leaving for the office
soon enough, and he needn’t know she’d skipped. Selecting a
long-sleeved top to cover the new marks on her arms, she combed her
hair out with her fingers and tied it back in a ponytail, then went
down to see what Gloria had done for breakfast. She was relieved
that, though her legs were stiff, she could walk without
limping.

~oOo~

Eggs Benedict with kale and tomato. Sabina
kissed her housekeeper on the cheek. “Morning, Gloria.”

“Morning, missus. Tea or coffee this
morning?”

Sabina was quite susceptible to caffeine but
hated decaf. She took coffee when she needed extra energy. This
morning, she needed extra calm. “Tea. Lemon zinger?”

Gloria nodded, and Sabina sat at the table,
hoping that James would not be back from his run until after she’d
eaten.

He had no need for her to eat with him—he
usually worked at the table as he ate—but he had an absolute need
to ensure that she had eaten. Gloria was supposed to keep track for
him, and she did. Sabina didn’t try to make poor Gloria complicit
in any of her small rebellions. She had a family to take care of,
here in Providence and in Ecuador as well.

Though both women were native Spanish
speakers, they never spoke together in their mother tongue. James
did not speak Spanish, and he could not abide the thought that
people were saying things he could not comprehend. At first, years
ago, she and Gloria had spoken Spanish together when they were
alone; Sabina had been thrilled to have a chance to speak her home
language in her own home. Now, after almost thirty years away from
Argentina, and more than fifteen years without family of her own,
she was losing that important marker of her identity. But after one
slip, an evening when, standing in the kitchen pouring a glass of
wine as Gloria was pulling a roast from the oven, Sabina had
mumbled something totally harmless about needing to pick up her dry
cleaning the next day, James had been incensed. He had not believed
her when she’d translated what she’d said.

Gloria had almost lost her job that night.
Sabina had fought for her to keep it. She had won. She rarely won,
but when she did, there was always a price. And James had taken his
fee for his concession from her that night, once they were
alone.

So she and Gloria no longer spoke Spanish
together. Ever.

This morning, she’d only taken about three
bites of her delicious breakfast when the terrace door opened, and
James entered, soaked with sweat and breathless. He was smiling—a
real smile, making his eyes light in a way that still gave her a
small pang, but now one of loss rather than love. He was in an
honestly good mood. That was good, as long as he stayed there. But
if he lost it, that could portend a very difficult day. The higher
his mood, the harder its fall.

He met her eyes, and his smile broadened.
“Good morning, darling. You look rested.”

“I feel rested, thank you. A good run for
you, yes?”

Coming over to stand behind her chair, he
brushed her ponytail to the side and bent down to kiss the side of
her neck. It was a tender, sweet gesture; there was a time, long
past, when it would have made her moan. Now, she only made sure she
didn’t flinch.

He reeked from his run, and the smear of his
sweat on her skin turned her stomach. “Thank you for last night,”
he purred in her ear. That was his way, the way he thought he
balanced the scale. He did what he wanted to her, and then thanked
her for it.

Bastard.

She inclined her head to acknowledge his
thanks. Then he turned and washed his hands at the vegetable sink.
“You have yoga today, right? And then, what? The hospital board
meeting?”

“It’s Saturday. I have yoga, then the
docents’ luncheon at one, and then the fitting.”

He froze and turned to glare at her over his
shoulder. He hated to be corrected. But he’d been wrong. The
hospital board meeting wasn’t until Tuesday. He worked seven days a
week, and sometimes he forgot that people had weekends. No one who
worked for him had a weekend, not if he was paying attention to
them. And this was a holiday weekend. Three days. Once he figured
that out, his mood would probably crash.

He processed his error and nodded. He really
was in a good mood. He opened the door in a credenza under the
breakfast nook window and pulled out a stack of work, his tablet on
top. Setting the stack on the table, he took a seat just as Gloria
brought his plate and coffee over and set it before him.

“Looks wonderful, Gloria. You’re an
artist.”

“Thank you, Mr. James.” Gloria nodded and
stepped back to the safer side of the kitchen.

“I’m cancelling the fitting. You needn’t
attend next weekend.”

“What? But—” A storm cloud moved into his
eyes at her questioning, and she silenced herself. As soon as she
did, his sky brightened again. She wasn’t even sure why she’d
challenged him. The chance
not
to go to yet another ball in
yet another gown was a beautiful dream. Yet her brain began to
churn over the possible snares he might be setting for her.

“I was thinking. You should go to the
cottage. Spend a week. We need to get it open for the season
anyway, and I won’t have time myself until the clambake.” He forked
a piece of his breakfast and put it in his mouth.

Sabina’s head was very loud, now. Something
was up. Fifteen years of marriage, and she had never been alone for
more than an overnight. When he had to travel longer, she came with
him. He was maniacally possessive and trusted no one with anything.
If he wanted her to go off alone for a week, then…what? Was he
finally wearying of his game with her? If so, that could be very,
very good. Or it could be very, very bad. Depending on what he
meant to do with her when he was finished.

The “cottage” was their beach house near
Narragansett. By most people’s standards, it was hardly a cottage.
More like a manse. It was her favorite place in her world. Even
with James there, she found some peace. To be on her own there for
a week? A whole week? If he was going to kill her, she hoped he’d
wait to do it until after that.

Now to indicate that she thought it was a
good idea without expressing so much enthusiasm that it either made
him suspicious and decide that she was up to no good, or, worse,
perverse, and decide that he didn’t want her quite so happy.
“That’s a good idea. I could get a head start on planning for the
clambake.”

The clambake, on the Fourth of July, was
their big event of the summer. All of James’s associates came. It
was really a massive business meeting dressed up like a beach
party. James might occasionally take on the trappings of leisure,
but truly, the only ‘playing’ he ever did was the kind he’d done to
her last night. And whatever it was he did with other women. She
assumed that he treated his casual women differently; his
reputation wouldn’t have survived otherwise, no matter how powerful
he was.

She’d answered well, and he beamed at her.
“I think that’s a grand idea. Come here.” He pushed his chair back
slightly, and Sabina knew what he wanted. With a deep but subtle
breath, she stood and walked to his place at the table.

He patted his lap. “Sit. Straddle me.”

She did as she was told. His smell was still
potent from his run, but the sweat had dried, leaving a sticky film
on his skin.

“Take off your shirt.”

She did. From the corner of her eye, she saw
Gloria back quietly out of the room.

“That, too.”

She took off her sport bra. Her breasts were
ample; even for yoga she needed support—not that she’d intended to
do yoga today.

His eyes bright, he lifted her breasts in
his hands and plumped them gently. “Not as high as they once were,
but lovely yet. Still, it might be time to consult with a surgeon.”
His eyebrow lifted as he examined the worth of her breasts.

Oh, Mother Mary. She had to find her way out
of this before he decided she needed to be surgically improved. One
‘improvement’ had been more than enough.

He leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss
to one nipple, then released her breasts and slid his hands down
her arms until he could wrap them around her wrists. He lifted them
both and brought them between their chests. He then raised each one
in turn to his lips, kissing the bruises he’d left there last
night. “So beautiful,” he murmured.

Her breasts needed improving. The bruises
he’d left on her skin? Those he thought beautiful. How on earth had
she found herself married to this man?

Because she had been young and
naïve—stupid—and because he had not shown her this side of himself,
this real self, until he had made her well and truly trapped.

No, that was wrong. He’d shown her this
self, but he’d wrapped it in a cloak of past pain. She’d seen a
tortured soul. He’d told her she could save him, that she was the
only one who might, and she had believed him. She hadn’t seen a man
who took pleasure in giving pain, a man who could only value that
which he possessed utterly, a man who considered trust itself to be
a grievous weakness.

She’d seen Heathcliff.

Well, now she understood that Heathcliff was
an evil bastard, too.