I shook my head. “No, a shower will do. I want to be horizontal as soon as humanly possible.”
“I thought you were horizontal only an hour or so ago on the beach.” His smirk made me giggle.
“Yes, and I’m the one who had to sit on a hot throbbing machine with stickiness between my legs. Your stickiness, I might add.”
His face battled with smugness and happiness. “It better be mine, woman.”
We laughed together as we moved down the corridor and into the foyer.
Arthur slammed to a halt.
His strong muscles gave out beneath me, plopping me roughly to my feet.
“Oh my God. What happened?!” My eyes popped wide at the mess. It looked as if a hurricane had torn through his home, decimating everything in its path.
Arthur charged into his office. “Fuck!”
I ran after him, hands slamming over my mouth at the broken computer screens, smashed glass from the large equations on the walls, and pockmarked desk. Everything was in tatters.
He shot to the wall behind the only sofa, hurling the couch away with a furious swipe. Dropping to his knees, he pressed a button and a fake wall panel slid up. I stared in amazement as he entered a long code and the safe popped open.
What in the world?
Inching closer, I caught glimpses of cash, manila folders, and a few photographs tucked against the side.
My heart raced to see the photos. Something inside demanded to see—they held clues—they held parts of my past that I desperately wanted to recall.
But before I could drift closer, Arthur slammed the safe and relocked it.
“They didn’t find what they were looking for, at least,” he growled, staring up at me from the floor. His back was bunched, face harsh and layered with darkness from the room. He looked… not so much evil but capable. A man capable of murdering anyone who trespassed on his property or tried to steal what was his.
Looking around at the mess, I asked, “What did they want?”
He climbed to his feet, shaking his head. “I don’t know.” His voice changed, losing the ease of togetherness, slipping back into the bombproof fortress he wore when I first sewed him up.
He knows.
“Don’t lie to me, Art.”
My heart stuttered at the deception. It hurt. To have him lie blatantly to my face—after everything we’d been through it was like a ten-ton piano crushing my heart while playing a mournful lullaby.
“I’m not lying, Cleo. I have suspicions, but until I talk to Wallstreet I won’t know if they’re true. I’m not going to give you things to worry about that will only clutter your brain with more nonsense.”
I took a step back. “You think my amnesia is nonsense?”
He threw up his hands. “Well, it would save us a lot of fucking time if you could just remember, wouldn’t it?!”
I blinked at his sudden temper. Where the hell had that come from? From rage at having strangers violate his home? Or the inability to protect his sanctity?
They weren’t strangers.
Whoever had done this knew him. Knew me. Knew what they were looking for—regardless if they found it or not.
Lights suddenly came on, bathing the room in golden warmth. The mess was even more apparent, with strewn paper and a mangled letter opener that’d been used to jack open the locked drawer of his desk.
It’s open.
The drawer where he kept the letter or image that he held the night I spied on him.
His vow came back, loud and clear.
“I will have my vengeance. I will find my peace. I will ruin those motherfuckers and hope to God I will be free.”
Arthur saw me looking at the drawer. His face hardened as he took a step toward me. “Cleo… don’t.”
My eyes flashed to him then back to the drawer. I knew I should respect his privacy, but at the same time…
Screw it.
I bolted to the drawer and slid to my knees as I scooped up the jumbled papers below.
“For God’s sake!” Arthur stomped closer, towering over me with his hands on his hips. “You’re so fucking eager. When will you learn to be patient?”
I didn’t look up, too busy rifling through the stack of files with columns and printed digits.
Where is it?
My heart raced to find it. I had a consuming need to know.
“Never. I don’t want to be in the dark anymore.”
Arthur squatted on his haunches, pushing me away a little to press a panel in the bottom of the drawer. He pulled a small note free from the hidey-hole. “Here. Is this what you want?”
I snatched it, letting the other papers cascade down my lap.
I didn’t care I was being rude. I didn’t care I acted a little crazy.
All I wanted to do was read—read something that meant the world to him.
It was a poem.
Kisses on my fingers. Touches full of lingers.
Your heart has stolen mine; two souls beating in time.
Yet you push me away—rejection a cruel slay.
I beg you to kiss me. Take me. Claim me.
Make me yours and put my fears at bay.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
I’d always loved to write poetry. I wasn’t very good, but I found vowels and consonants a lot easier to use than division and multiplication.
Art sat frozen beside me, staring blankly at the piece of paper.
Five long minutes ticked past before his beautiful face tilted to look at mine. “You wrote this?”
I nodded, biting my lip.
He exhaled in a rush, running a hand through his long hair. “What do you want from me, Cleo?” he whispered. “You’re too young. I’m not good enough—”