Research.
Kathryn repeated the mantra over and over again in her mind as she and Julian strolled through the jewelry shop’s door, mentally reinforcing the little white lie as she muttered, “All I’m doing is research.”
“If this is the kind of research you usually do, sign me up. All I can say is Daddy likes.”
Julian was more than a little excited to be there. With his wide eyes scanning each and every brightly lit case, Kathryn could only pray he’d be able to keep his raging hard-on in check.
“Down, boy.”
“Welcome to Hayes Fine Jewelers,” the well-dressed clerk said. His scrutinizing gaze pinged between the two, quickly surmising who was the decision-maker as he turned toward Kathryn. “My name is Anthony. I’m here to help you find the next love of your life.”
“Actually, Anthony,” Kathryn said, sliding a tight arm through Julian’s and leaning into him. “My husband here wanted to buy me an exquisite piece of jewelry—”
Eager to play along, Julian said, “It’s our anniversary! Ten years, and we haven’t killed each other yet.” He drove home the idea that they were married by swatting his little lady firmly on her ass.
The only reason he still had that hand was because that was his right hand, and by extension his livelihood. If she took Julian from his duties as head nurse at a premier plastic surgery institute, it would mean an eternal damnation of never hearing the end of it and forever buying his drinks.
Back to the task at hand.
“But I had something in mind,” Kathryn said. “Something special. Similar to a piece you sold a friend of mine just the other day.” Her voice lifted, and she batted her eyelashes.
“We pride ourselves on the confidentiality of our clients,” the salesclerk said low.
“Money’s no object,” Julian said proudly.
Anthony’s reserved smile widened to a toothy grin. “Many of our pieces are custom and one of a kind, but I’ll see what I can do. Who is your friend?”
Nervous, Kathryn lowered her voice. It cracked a little as she said, “Jake Russo.”
Anthony’s face lit up. “Of course! Any friend of Mr. Russo’s is a friend of mine.”
“Show us what he bought,” Julian said a little too eagerly. When Kathryn elbowed him gently in the ribs, he hushed a yelp under his breath and cleared his throat. “If you would, my good man,” he said, correcting himself in an atrocious British accent.
Anthony began leading them through the store. “Unfortunately, that was a custom piece. An unrivalled one-of-a-kind. I’m afraid I don’t have anything remotely like it at the moment, but we could always custom make something similar, but uniquely to your liking.”
Abandoning his faux British accent for a decidedly Australian one, Julian requested a look-see at something else. “What’s the closest thing you have to what Mr. Russo purchased, mate?”
“One moment.” Anthony moved through the store, a sense of purpose to his steps.
Kathryn gave Julian a semi-stern talking-to, smirking as she narrowed her eyes. “Best friend status, A plus. Community theater, D minus. The only way your acting could get any worse is if we added a top hat and a monocle.”
Julian busted out a cockney accent this go-round. “That’s right harsh, Guv’ner. Bustin’ on me accent and trying to dress me like Mr. Peanut.”
Kathryn couldn’t help letting out a loud laugh that echoed across the store. She quickly covered her mouth, meekly apologizing to a few snooty and disapproving patrons, as well as the sales staff who didn’t mind at all, based on their pasted-on smiles.
“Here we are.”
Anthony and a sales associate presented them with a blinding array of diamonds on a black velvet pillow, along with a silver tray holding three flutes of champagne.
“Happy anniversary, Mr. and Mrs. . . .” Anthony’s question lingered in the air as he handed the flutes around.
Uh-oh. They hadn’t exactly run through their back story, or even their fake names.
“Bond,” Julian blurted. “James Bond. But my friends call me Jimmy. And my wife—”
Kathryn shot him a hateful glance, her expression clearly conveying Mention a Bond girl, and you lose a ball.
Knowing better than to poke the bear, Julian gave her a mischievous grin. “Rihanna.”
I’ll take it. At least it’s better than Pussy Galore.
“To Jimmy and Rihanna.”
They all clinked glasses, and a small round of golf-clap responses filled the air.
Kathryn swallowed the brut and the need to plot her best friend’s death, and let herself be dazzled by the brilliant piece of jewelry shining before her.
“That’s quite the piece,” she said, staring at it in disbelief.
Quite the piece wasn’t the half of it. It was extraordinary. Her fingertips brushed the long single strand of stunning diamonds.
“Isn’t it?” Anthony said proudly. “I know it’s not the style of the piece Mr. Russo purchased, but it’s the closest to the price range of the one he and his partner have.”
“Partner?” Kathryn and Julian repeated in unison, giving each other a questioning glance before returning their surprised faces to Anthony.
He simply nodded.
Kathryn felt Julian press the strength of his palm to hers, tangling their fingers together. Losing all traces of an accent, he probed further.
“What gave you the impression they were more than friends?”
With certainty, Anthony raised a knowing brow. “I’ve been in this business long enough, I can tell the signs. The adorable banter. The loving looks. The way they seemed to know what each other thought before they said it. I’m a true romantic. It’s why I work here. J’adore l’amour.”
Kathryn smartly translated the small phrase using her mostly forgotten high school French. He loves . . . love? This can’t be happening.
“What did this partner look like?” she asked, trying not to snap at the salesclerk. Epic fail.
Anthony held his hand up so high. “About this tall. Espresso eyes. Raven hair. Gorgeous smile. And looking absolutely stunning walking out of here with that exquisite piece of jewelry.”
The gnawing in the pit of Kathryn’s gut turned biting and cold. She didn’t have to guess who that was. Anthony’s description said it all.
How could Jake do this? I saw the receipt. He purchased a necklace—worth more than a car—and not for his mother. Not for me. But for . . . Andi?
Kathryn made a feeble attempt at rational thought. Not easy, since every time she did, all she could see was Jake with Andi massaging his arm. And images of his ropes. Followed by herself going to town on said ropes with a tactical ax.
Could this be like Troy? A BDSM partner? Another sub?
Kathryn thought she and Jake were solid. Hell, he’d proposed.
But facts were facts.
This was what Kathryn did best. Research. Investigate. Wade through the bullshit to discover the truth.
The truth fucking sucks.
“More champagne?” Anthony asked.
I’m going to be sick.
Julian wrapped a consoling arm around her. “We’re gonna need something stronger.” He kissed her temple. “Let’s go,” he said, softly ushering her out the door.
The only way to deal with this was cold turkey. “I can’t go to Jake’s.”
Julian patted her hand. “Say no more.”
Kathryn didn’t need to tell her best friend the drill. He knew.
Death by dessert. Mind-numbing amounts of hard liquor. She wasn’t picky. Moonshine. Rotgut. Whatever would keep her from exploring her emotions or talking to Jake. Because talking led to crying—and that so wasn’t happening. And talking led to getting the wool pulled over your eyes while he was shacking up with another sub.
Talking might also lead to murder.
Julian was a lot of things, but performing the duties of a grave digger would cause him to sweat. And everyone knew the man hated to sweat.
But her best friend was a girl’s girl. He’d keep Kathryn from doing anything stupid. Because stupid, wasted drunk was calling her name.
And absolutely, positively no talking.
Twelve hours and a half-dozen drinks later, Kathryn eyed the expensive bottle of bourbon in her hand. “And let me tell you something, Jake Russo . . . You, sir, are an ass.”
This was some impressive top-shelf stuff Julian had splurged on. Whatever corner the man worked to buy this highbrow shit was totally worth it. She took another swig.
“I’m an ass?” Jake’s words emanated calmly from the speaker of Julian’s phone.
“You sure as hell are. And not because you have an ass—everybody knows you have an ass. A smoking-hot biscuit of an ass—”
“Hell yeah, he does,” Julian shouted in support, a show of solidarity for who knew who at this point.
Kathryn wasn’t the only one stupid wasted. She, however, was not naked. Or flaunting her wares out the luxury penthouse balcony at the great state of Colorado.
“Why don’t I come get you?” Jake asked.
Wondering if it were two thirty in the morning or three thirty, Kathryn squinted in vain at the blurry clock.
“We can talk,” he added.
“Talk?” That set her off. “There will be nooo talking,” she screeched, full-throttle pissed off. “I,” she pointed to herself with the bottle, “am not speaking to you, Sir Ass-a-lot.”
“Can I speak with Julian?”
“Julian . . .” Kathryn checked out the balcony serving as a stage for her gyrating friend. “He’s not talking to you either.”
She tucked the bottle under her arm, devoting both hands to her phone.
Muttering, “Where’s the FaceTime,” she pressed a button. “Here. Julian,” she hollered. “Jake wants to talk to you.”
Loud, but not in the frame, Julian was heard shouting, “I am so gonna eat your ass, Ass Man.”
Cocking his head, Jake lifted a stunned brow. Kathryn thought it over for a beat, shook her head, and translated. “He meant beat your ass.”
Exasperated, Jake said, “It’s Julian. Are you sure?”
With the camera pointed strategically, she pivoted her body, bringing Julian’s birthday suit in full view of the phone. “Julian, tell Jake what you think of him?”
“Wooooo. Take that, Ass Man!” Julian cried with reckless abandon, smacking his ass for the world and the camera, that perfect triple threat of naked, stupid, and wasted.
Determined, she moved the screen to his butt.
Julian was all in, popping his SquatMaster-sculpted hiney right at the screen. “Uh, uh, uh. Take it, take it, take it!”