I feel the chair shift as Pam’s large weight rests on the arm, her face close to mine as she reaches forward, pointing to a photo of the two of us. “This is my favorite photo of him. Whew!” She fans herself dramatically. “What I wouldn’t give to trade places with you, honey.” She laughs, a pleasant trill of joy.

“Can I hold on to this? I’d like to show it to Dad when he wakes up.”

“Certainly.” She pats my shoulder, heaving to her feet and stepping over to his bed, checking his lines and recording in his chart in clear, precise writing. It is one of the things I appreciate about this place. His records are kept clean, orderly, his blood work easy to read, his tests occurring when they should, according to schedule. That alone is a Godsend, never mind the daily delivery of fresh flowers, the delicious food, or the endless patience of the doctors. There are only sixteen patients in this entire complex that employs five doctors, twelve nurses, and round-the-clock support staff. Here he is a name, not a number. And here, he is actually getting better.

They still don’t know what is wrong. But they have been able to determine what helps. He is on a cocktail of drugs and antibiotics and is slowly responding, the digital figures on his charts improving. And slowly, tentatively, I am beginning to have hope.

He wakes at two, his eyes watching me before I am aware of it. I glance over, surprised to see his peaceful stare, a smile on his face. I set aside my book, standing and stepping to his side, placing a soft kiss on his check before adjusting his bed. “How you feeling, Dad? Are you in any pain?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good, Candace. Sit down. They fuss enough over me as it is, you don’t need to do it also.”

I hold out a cup of water, waiting until he takes a sip before I sit.

“What are you reading?”

I hold up the book. “John Grisham.”

“I thought you would have read all of his by now.”

I grin. “I have, but I’m out of material. This one’s a loaner from Pam. I’m going to swing by the bookstore tomorrow to get a fresh stack.”

“What’s that?” He points to the magazine, still open on the table. I stand, folding over the page, and pass it to him. I have reviewed it carefully, making sure that my new name is not mentioned. Thankfully, any references ignore my first name, mentioning only Nathan in their descriptions.

He studies the pictures, glancing up at me occasionally. “This is from your trip a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah, when we went to California.”

I’m not sure what I expect. Admiration at my celebrity, at Nathan’s success, at our happiness shown clearly in full gloss before him? My father has been less than enthusiastic at my announcement of a husband. I had waited until my second visit to spring it on him, waiting until after the courthouse ceremony in case something fell through. I had gushed and raved about Nathan, creating a picture of a loyal, faithful, loving husband — a fantasy that he probably wouldn’t live long enough to debunk. I think he is hurt that Nathan hasn’t visited, didn’t ask him for my hand in marriage, hasn’t made any effort whatsoever at a relationship. So I hope these photos help — hope they support my façade, soothe his concerns, and cause him to beam and squeeze my hand, falling asleep a happy man.

I don’t expect the magazine to be carefully set down, a pinch in his face as he turns to me. “And you’re happy, Care Bear?”

The childhood nickname causes my throat to stick, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. A sudden, irresponsible urge flows through me. The current almost causing my mouth to open, raw, unfiltered truth to come out. I swallow hard, smiling brightly, and instead of the clean, smooth flow of truth, dirty, filthy lies spew out.

CHAPTER 9

Word: 9 letters, sixth letter is ‘D’

Clue: contraband, and, at one time, fruit

I have angered Drew with too many questions, which is a common mistake I make. But my workout is over, two mind-crushing hours with Beth, the bitch who won’t stop ‘til I vomit, the one who thinks soy is delicious and sweat is pleasure. And I feel, as I twist the cap and chug cold water, that I should get some sort of reward, such as answers.

I don’t know why the questions make him so mad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it is the mention of Nathan that boils his blood. But if he were that easily riled up by Nathan, the man would have gone crazy by now. Drew’s life spins around the axel that is Nathan, his every move orchestrated by the manicured hands that are Mr. Dumont’s.

My question of the day is a simple one, coming to me during an agonizing long set of sit-ups. Why marriage? What is the reason that Nathan needs a wife? I pondered the question through dead lifts, pull ups, and squats, my eyes flitting to the clock, counting and waiting for this hell to be over so I could return to my other. And as soon as it was, as soon as I had ripped off my sweaty t-shirt and encountered Drew in the kitchen, I started; my questions tumbled over and around each other, each one more anxious than the last to receive an answer. Is it a citizenship problem? Inheritance requirement? Is he committing a crime and needs a spouse who won’t testify? Is it his family? A crazy ex-girlfriend? What is he hiding? Who is this charade for?

His eyes go from disinterest to stone to anger to fury. My water bottle hits the floor, water jetting in all directions as he grips my shoulders, slamming the refrigerator door closed and shoving me against it, his face close to mine. I tense, closing my eyes to his furious green ones, taking a gasp of air before shutting my mouth, willing my questions to shut the hell up for a moment.

“Shut up,” he whispers, the words a growl against my skin, my feminine body realizing so many things in one brief second — his hard body against my own, the unforgiving ridge of his muscles impressive and rough against my damp skin. The peppermint flavor of his breath, hot in my ear, yet finding its way to my nose, and I inhale his scent — a blend of grass and sweat and mint that is intoxicating.

His hands, originally against my shoulders, have moved. One is now cupping my neck, pulling my head to one side, the other grips my ass, his large hand slipping under the loose hem of my shorts and grips my bare skin tightly, fitting our bodies together in one unending connection.

His breath, that hot air that was against my ear moves, along the curve of my neck, his head lowering to my skin, his breaths quickening to match the fast beats of his heart, which thud hard against my breasts.

Oh, and that arousal. Hard and hot, a brand against my leg, my body twisting underneath his hands in order to put that arousal where it belongs, tight against my sex, the thin material of my shorts doing nothing but increasing the pleasure when I involuntarily grind against him.

He swears, his hand forcing my head to straighten, his mouth hesitating over mine.

I need it. I need his lips on mine, need his passion for me. I need that hard c**k in more places than against the silk of my shorts. I want his fire and energy inside of me. I need confirmation that I am still woman, and I am still desired. I grind again, one small movement that confirms the size of his need. He groans, his hand gripping my ass tighter, pulling me against his c**k as he thrusts against me.

His mouth makes the final move and closes the distance, his mouth drinking of me in an agonized, desperate fashion.

My heart beats erratically, pumping blood in wild fashion to all of the organs that are crying out. My cl*tis demanding an enormous amount, my core so wet, so aroused, so needy for more stimulation. My brain is screaming a loud, unintelligible sound that wants to know what the f**k is going on. Then he pushes off me, one hand moving slower than the other, his bottom hand delayed in its release of my skin.

We stare at each other, the distance between the island and the fridge too small, our bodies too close. I must look like a mad woman — my hair wild from his hand, my lip gloss smeared, eyes needy, mouth panting. He is staring at me as if he is terrified of me, his hands gripping the granite of the counter’s edge, his chest heaving. He suddenly moves, holding up his hands and moving slowly away. “Just … Christ! Just stop asking questions. Please.” He moves away, a door slamming a moment later as he moves to his part of the house.

I worked at the Crystal Palace a total of three years, three months, and twenty-one days. My empty days give me time to calculate useless statistics like that. You’d think that length of time spent before men, gauging their level of arousal, would have taught me something — would have taught me the difference between harmless flirting and a danger zone. It would have given me enough experience to steer me in a direction other than the one I am in right now, which definitely feels like danger.

My hands are shaking. I hold them before me, staring at the tremor. I sink to the kitchen floor, picking up my water bottle, my eyes noticing the spilt water. I take a deep drink, waiting for my heart to calm, my hands to still, my shakes to pass. I need to get to my room, need to separate myself from him, from this kitchen. I need to take a shower, to lie down, take a nap. I stumble away from the counter, grabbing my t-shirt, putting foot ahead of foot in a quest for normalcy. As I walk, leaving Nathan’s house and returning to my sanctuary, two last questions dominate my mind, possibly the most dangerous questions of all.

What if Nathan finds out?

What if it happens again?

CHAPTER 10

Word: 3 letters

Clue: A low-lying island or reef

8:30 AM: My phone rings, an electronic melody that somebody at some point in time deemed to be the proper level of fancy. I hate it. What’s wrong with a good, old fashioned ring — the kind created by a physical bell in the phone that vibrated with the power of an incoming call? My phone rarely rings, Drew or Mark typically taking the short walk to my room if I am needed. I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. Dumont would like to leave in fifteen minutes. Will you be ready?” Drew’s voice is cold and efficient.

“He wants me to go with him?”

“Yes.”

I hesitate, looking down at my outfit. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I am nervous as I approach the house. Does he know about Drew? Is this about my father? Where are we going? I step into the cool confines of the house, seeing Nathan’s profile in the dining room, his phone to his ear, his head turning at my entrance. He stands, looks me over, and then nods in approval. My innards relax at this subtle compliment. I don’t know why I am nervous. My outfits have all been selected by his stylist, all the proper level of sexy society wear. My hair is how he has deemed it, my makeup carefully applied as I have been taught. There is no reason for him not to approve my appearance. But I still feel stress leave my body at that subtle nod. He waves his hand, beckoning me to follow him, and we step into the bright sunlight of the front drive, where Drew and the Maybach await.

The Maybach. I am surprised, the limo our typical vehicle, the Maybach used when Drew and Nathan are alone. I arch my eyebrow at Drew as he opens my car door.

“Guess it’s not that kind of trip, princess.”

I hope my quick entrance into the car hides my blush. Nathan does often use the space of the limo to satisfy his sexual needs. In retrospect, maybe that is the only reason we take the limo. We certainly don’t need that much space.

In the back of the Maybach, Nathan seems too close, the area not large enough for his ego and my nerves. I think this is the smallest space we have ever shared. I clasp my hands in my lap, cross my ankles, and try to breathe normally.

Nathan ends his call and looks over at me. “I have to go to the courthouse to sign some documents. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone and get your new identification.”

My mind groans at his words. Nathan had insisted, in an attempt to cover up my past, that I change my name. That process has been a nightmare, form after form, office after office, affidavits, fingerprints, and nine forms of ID required — all which, creepily enough, Nathan already had copies of. “What’s wrong with my identification? We just went through all this.”

His dark look silences me, and I bite my bottom lip and look out the window, squeezing my hands so tightly they hurt. I want nothing more than to rip off this man’s head with my next words. Instead I swallow, smooth my face into a pleasant smile. “Nathan, I didn’t bring any of my identification.”

“Drew has all of that. You just need to smile for the photos.”

You just need to smile for the photos. The statement is so comically accurate that I want to cry.

We leave the courthouse two hours later; my name officially changed again — this time to Jennifer Ann Dumont. Nathan picked my middle name and I, for the pure reason of stubbornness, hate it. Ann. A boring, old lady middle name. Drew seems to pick up on my irritability, glancing in the rearview mirror as he drives. I can feel another adolescent incident, like my pool strip down, pushing at my psyche; a devil stripper perched on my shoulder, whispering scandalous ideas into my ear.

Scream. Just scream, ‘FUCK YOU,’ as loudly as you dare.

Look, the car is slowing. You could step out onto the street. Kick off those overpriced heels and take off running. There was a Krispy Kreme one block back. You could sink your teeth into a hot & fresh glazed donut and tell Beth to f**k off.

Look at your husband. He’s smug, he’s happy. Jennifer the Wife has behaved — danced as ordered, changed her name to a tasteless one of his choosing.

“What’s next?” I say brightly, holding up an imaginary middle finger to the stripper slut who seems intent on sending me straight to Crazy Town.

“I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat, and then Drew can drop me at the office and take you home.”

Like a date? My naively romantic self wonders. “Lunch sounds good.”