Vengeful (Villains #2)(35)
“How’s Marcus?” asked Bethany. “I hope you’re keeping him on a leash.”
“Oh,” she said, sipping her champagne, “he’d never cheat.”
“What makes you so sure?” asked Theresa.
Marcella met Marcus’s eyes across the roof.
“Because,” she said, raising her glass, “he knows I’d kill him first.”
*
“DID you have a nice night?” Marcella asked later as the car pulled away from the party.
Marcus was all energy. “It went off without a hitch. Or a hutch.” He chuckled at his own joke. Marcella didn’t. “He’s taken a liking to me, I can tell. Said he’d call me in the morning. Something new. Something big.” He pulled her close. “You were right.”
“I’m always right,” she said absently, looking out the window. “Let’s stay in the city tonight.”
“Good idea,” said Marcus. He knocked on the partition, gave the driver the address of their place at the Heights, told him to hurry. And then he sat back, pressing against her. “They couldn’t take their eyes off you. I don’t blame them. Neither could I.”
“Not here,” she said, trying to force a little humor in her voice. “You’ll ruin my dress.”
“Fuck your dress,” he breathed in her ear. “I want you.”
But Marcella pushed him away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Marcella’s gaze flicked toward him. “My wife, the business major?”
He rolled his eyes. “Marce.”
“Let the men talk?”
“Oh, come on.”
“You made a fool of me.”
He made a sound too close to a laugh. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
Marcella gritted her teeth. “You’re very lucky I didn’t react at the time.”
Marcus soured. “This isn’t a good look on you, Marce.”
The car pulled up in front of the Heights, and Marcella resisted the urge to storm out. She flicked open the door and rose, smoothing the gold scales on her dress as she waited for Marcus to round the car.
“Good evening,” said the concierge. “Nice night?”
“Flawless,” said Marcella, stepping briskly into the elevator, Marcus in her wake. He waited until the doors were closed, then sighed, shook his head.
“You know what those guys are like,” he muttered. “Old guard. Old money. Old values. You wanted this. You wanted me to do this.”
“With me,” she snapped. “I wanted us to do this, together.” He tried to cut in, but she didn’t let him. “I’m not a fucking coat, Marcus. You don’t get to check me at the door.”
The elevator stopped, and she strode out into the hall, heels clicking on the marble floor. She reached their door, but Marcus caught her hand and pinned her back against the wood. On a normal night, she would have thrilled at the swift display of strength, would have arched against him. But she wasn’t in the mood.
Let the men talk.
“Marcella.”
The laugh. The patronizing smiles.
“Marcella,” said Marcus, drawing her face toward his. Her gaze toward his. And then she saw it—or maybe she just wanted to see it—there, beyond the flat, dark blue. A glimpse of the Marcus she’d met, young and hungry and utterly in love with her. The Marcus who wanted her, needed her.
His mouth hovered a breath from hers as he spoke.
“Where I go, you go,” he said. “We’re in this together. Step for step.”
Marcella wanted to believe him, needed to believe him, because she wasn’t willing to let go, wasn’t going to lose him, everything she’d built.
They never seem to realize.
We’re the power behind the throne.
Marcella leaned forward and kissed him long, and slow, and deep.
“Show me,” she said, leading him inside.
VI
FOUR WEEKS AGO
MERIT SUBURBS
MARCUS Andover Riggins had always been a man of routines.
An espresso in the morning, a bourbon before bed. Every Monday after breakfast, he got a massage, and every Wednesday at lunch, he swam laps, and every Friday night, rain or shine, from dusk until dawn, he played poker. Four or five members of Tony Hutch’s crew all got together weekly at Sam McGuire’s place, since Sam was single—or at least, he wasn’t married. He had a rotation of sorts, a new girl every week, but none of them stuck.
Sam’s was a nice place—they were all nice places—but he had a bad habit of leaving the back door unlocked instead of giving any of his short-term girls a key. Marcella had warned him a dozen times—someone could walk right in. But Sam would just smile, and say that no man would walk in on one of Tony Hutch’s crew.
Perhaps, but Marcella Riggins was no man.
She let herself inside.
The back door gave onto the kitchen, where Marcella found a girl doubled over, ass in the air and head in the freezer, as she rummaged for ice. She wobbled in too-high heels, bangles clanging against the freezer, but the first thing Marcella noticed was the girl’s dress. Dark blue silk, with a short rippling skirt—the same one that had hung for more than a year in Marcella’s own closet at the Heights.