I kissed Elle’s warm lips after climbing into the back of the Bentley with her. “That was David. He and Caroline are at the same restaurant and invited us to join them. It’s up to you, baby. We can keep our private table if you fancy that.”
David Nielson was a good friend from graduate school at Oxford University and also a client. His wife, Caroline, and Elle had chatted over drinks a few times.
“Do you need time to talk shop with David? I don’t mind. I haven’t seen Caroline since the wedding. I do like her, you know. I just prefer to take her in small doses.”
“All right, we’ll join them, but let’s not make an entire night of it. And since we’re no longer dining alone, close your eyes for me before we arrive at the restaurant.” I winked.
Tiffany’s was just a few blocks from my building, and the bright artwork displayed outside the storefront had grabbed my attention on my way to the meeting with Director Martin, so I had popped in to pick up something.
“Here’s an opulent interpretation of the key pendant. These stones are nearly flawless. This particular design is chic but also quite sophisticated,” the jeweler explained as she presented me with the necklace.
“Very much like my wife. I’m pressed for time. Send the packaging and documentation to my office,” I told her, chucking my credit card onto the glass counter and slipping the pendant into my jacket’s breast pocket.
I reached inside my pocket for it now. Elle closed her eyes, and I fastened the clasp at the back of her neck and kissed her throat above where the platinum and diamond key lay against her skin. Her pulse quivered against my lips. She held her eyes shut tight, touched the key for a moment, then reached for my face, and rested her fingertips on my cheek.
“Your key,” she whispered, and when she finally opened her eyes and looked into mine, I had no doubt those two small words combined carried a profound meaning for her, for us. She got that I’d given her all of myself from day one, and it made no difference to me what she called it.
It didn’t matter how great or how little the cost, she marked every one of my gifts with a meaningful moment that we had created together. I came to depend on that, and it was the reason I needed to buy her so many things. She showed me how to combat the fear we shared—the fear of losing time—by collecting significant moments, memorializing them with these tangible objects, and treasuring them like precious jewels.
As we arrived in front of the trendy French restaurant where Sean had sent us, Elle kissed me softly on the mouth and told me that my key would always be safe with her.
“Let’s go home to Eastridge tonight,” I said, ignoring the fact that the car door had been opened for our exit. I moved my lips close to her ear. “I don’t want to wait until morning. Tonight, I want to hold you in the bed where we made love on the night you became mine. And in the morning, we can surprise Lissie and take her to school.”
Elle leaned in closer. Paparazzi’s cameras flashed. Neither of us cared right then.
London’s photojournalists had realized it was easier to get what they wanted when they respected the boundaries that I’d set, so it was rare that one would do much more than take a few snaps before moving on. It was safer for Elle and much cheaper for me if we allowed them to get a photo when they found us out for dinner or social events. City pavements were fair game, but everything else was off-limits.
“I was yours before we were married, Will. But I want to go tonight too. I want to be home with our family.”
Colin Wilson, one of the personal protection officers on my security team and our driver for the evening, lowered his head to eye-level. “Sir,” he said. “More cameras are headed this way. Evans will assist you with cover while I drive over to the car park.”
Whenever Elle was out on her own, she was accompanied by three or four men, but when we were together, we usually had one or sometimes two with us. No one would get through me. I would take another bullet for her without question. But my wife was becoming quite good at pushing the boundaries of our protection agreement, so more eyes were better.
I ducked out of the car and helped Elle get to her feet, and we did our thing. Behind me, she straightened her dress and popped into the pretty pose her stylist had shown her.
She teased, “I look like a teapot.”
I grinned. “You look beautiful.”
When she was ready, I moved aside and placed my hand on the small of her back, and we smiled for the cameras.
“That’s it, everyone. Good night,” I told the photographers as I tucked Elle beneath my arm and pressed forward.
Andrew Evans moved into position on her left. Evans, like Joe Turner, was an authorized firearms officer.
David Nielson was waiting inside the entrance and led us to our table, where Caroline rose from her chair with her arms held open wide for Elle.
“Ellie, I’m so happy you decided to join us. It’s been too long since we’ve had a chat,” Caroline said as she embraced Elle with genuine warmth.
“I can’t wait to catch up,” Elle said, then redirected her smile to David when he welcomed her as well.
He did what most men did when they met my wife’s eyes for the first time—or in David’s case, for the first time after a significant period had passed. He stood there, entranced for a minute, then dropped his eyes to the floor, no doubt hoping like hell that I hadn’t noticed his hesitation to look away.
Of course I’d noticed. I was the most jealous motherfucker to walk the earth when it came to Elle, and there would never be a time when I overlooked the reactions of others when they were near my wife.
My old roommate from Oxford fumbled with his wife’s chair, and I grinned like some cardsharp who had just won another hand.
The grin vanished. I had an enormous ego, yes, but there was more to my awareness than that. I had been trained to consider every contact a threat and assess the significance only after securing the safety of my asset. There was only ever one asset for me, and now that I loved her with a madness that couldn’t be explained, the protective instinct had been sewn so deeply into my fabric that it would always remain at the ready.
We sat, and waitstaff approached our table, each of the three displaying a different bottle of wine for our selection. A fourth waiter arrived, holding a bottle of Elle’s favorite Dom Pérignon vintage, and I nodded at that one. Sean knew his shit.
“Bring the bottle to me before you open it here at the table.”
It had become habitual for me to monitor the source of Elle’s alcohol. Thomas and I suspected that her wine had been drugged at a charity event several weeks before. She’d sipped only a few ounces before her speech began to slur, and she’d complained of an unusual weakness in her arms and legs.
“Yes, monsieur, certainly. The chef requests the honor to greet the countess, if you please?”
Elle was deep into conversation with Caroline. I caught her attention, knowing she would scold me later for my behavior if I denied the chef’s request. I smiled at her, thrilled by the thought of doing something more in the same evening to make her happy.
“Tell your chef we’ll be happy to receive him,” I told the waiter.
Elle rewarded me by placing her hand on my thigh beneath the table and squeezing.
“And please bring us a bottle of Glenlivet 18 as well, if you have it,” David added.
After drinks were served and the chef visited our table with his recommendations, David and I waded into the details of some pending business transactions. All the while, I couldn’t help but notice the intensity of Elle’s conversation with Caroline.
I heard her ask, “So, you’re saying Commissioner Brown is your brother?”
“Yes, he’s my twin,” Caroline confirmed.
“Join me in the ladies’ room, Caroline,” my wife demanded, pushing backward against her heavy dining chair until I got to my feet and pulled it out for her.