Constantine was insatiable. They had sex twice more, and now Sutton—Justine—really was sore. The sun was setting when he started in for a fourth round, and she put him off. He didn’t like that, teased her a bit about being a delicate flower, literally swept her off her feet and threw her back onto the four-poster and then had her squirming under him, first in aggravation, then in delicious, illogical enjoyment of being dominated by this man she barely knew.
Anything not to think. Anything not to feel. She’d gambled and lost, knowing deep down it was going to happen, knowing she didn’t deserve anything good in her life. But this felt good, and though she knew from long experience she’d feel empty later, for the moment, she let herself ride the waves of pleasure being with a new man gave her.
Finally, he gathered up his clothes, casually wiped himself with the edge of the sheet and dropped the condom in the toilet, and claimed he needed to head out. She promised to meet him the next day. The sky was deeply pink and gray when he left.
Sutton—Justine—showered, changed the sheets, ate some cheese. She was suddenly possessed by a single thought. You idiot girl, you should have taken him to a hotel. Now he knows where you live. How could you be so stupid?
It was the champagne. She wasn’t a good drinker; the meds made it even worse. One was always her limit in social settings. They’d ended up splitting a whole bottle of champagne, followed it with some crisp, cold Sancerre and a couple of croque monsieurs, and when she’d felt the warmth of his lips on her neck, delicately asking without saying a word, she’d thrown caution to the wind, as she did, and suggested she take him home.
It had been her idea. Make no mistake. Though she’d been loose with alcohol, she’d wanted Constantine badly, wanted to feel those fingers trailing along her thighs, wanted the oblivion she knew she’d find with him.
Inside her flat, the door barely closed, when he’d kissed her on the lips, gently at first, then insistent, something inside her cracked open. She could barely see straight with the thought of it, the desire, the wanting.
It wasn’t the first time she’d bedded a stranger. Ethan was simply the one she’d married.
Constantine had been a lovely diversion, but she had work to do. The night was young and fresh, early moonlight spilling in the window, the clock pushing ten, and she was desperate to get some words down from her earlier thoughts.
Hair wet and draped into a loose bun, she sat at the desk and opened her computer. For the briefest of moments, she laid her fingers on the keys and wanted, so badly, to open her internet browser and type in her name. See what the world was saying about her. But she knew that was how she’d be found. One of the books she’d read had been very specific. It was by a skip tracer, a man who hunted down people who disappeared to avoid jail, or paying large sums in divorce settlements. People who faked their own death.
The first rule: don’t Google yourself.
She slapped the laptop closed. Sipped some water. She had a dreadful headache from the champagne, and the sex. An orgasm hangover.
She’d followed all the steps, all the rules, for disappearing. For the few weeks leading up to her departure, she’d carefully plotted out her path without a qualm. She needed the freedom of starting over. She needed the anonymity being in this city could bring her. She couldn’t be Sutton Montclair anymore.
But just in case someone really came looking for her, like a detective, or private investigator, she’d followed the course of action she’d found in a book. It was a trick recommended for battered wives who need to leave their husbands. She’d left behind a single Post-it note with a single phone number in her Day Runner. The phone number rang directly to the Metro Nashville Sex Crimes desk.
If—if—a professional investigator came searching for her, they’d get that number and realize she was running away from an abusive relationship. They’d back off. They’d leave her be. She’d be free.
When she’d left the number, she’d felt badly about it, for a fraction of a second. The police might think there was foul play, a woman disappearing from her life in such a manner. They might look at Ethan. They might make his life hell. But he’d made her life hell, so tit for tat seemed fair enough.
The thought of his name, his face, so familiar to her, caused the strange feeling of love commingled with guilt and hate to rise up in her. She must stop thinking about the past. She needed something to help her focus on the future.
Constantine? Perhaps, though she hardly wanted more than a roll in the hay from the man. He’d be gone soon enough, and she could continue moving on with her life. Justine Holliday was writing a book in Paris, and it was going to be a smash hit.
She opened the laptop again, the scene from the café replaying in her mind. Glanced at the Tour as it began its hourly sparkling in the night. She felt the new world opening, sucking her in. Saw the roses flung from the parapets, felt the horse’s strong muscles bunching beneath her thighs, smelled the sweat of her guards, and she was gone.