Chapter 4 Chapter 4

The receptionist pressed her lips together again, and I had to give the woman credit for managing to maintain some semblance of professionalism when I was reasonably certain she wanted to laugh.

I drew a slow breath, reminding myself that Mark wasn't responsible for the fact that I'd spent the better part of two hours working up the nerve to come here. He didn't know anything about my marriage, the separation, or the ridiculous number of times I'd considered turning Lady Bug around before reaching the parking lot, and as far as he was concerned, I was just another woman asking to see the owner without an appointment. Still, I hadn't driven across town to leave Torin a fucking message. “Look, Mark,” I began, softening my tone, “I understand you have procedures to follow, and I'm not asking you to disregard them. I just need you to tell Torin I'm here. He can decide whether he wants to see me.”

Mark studied me for a moment, and I thought I saw a flicker of uncertainty cross his face before he shook his head. “I understand your position,” he replied, “but Mr. Montero has made it clear that personal matters aren't to interfere with club operations.”

I stared at him, because that was a fascinating development coming from a man who'd once shown up at my workplace because I hadn't answered my phone for twenty minutes. “Has he now?” I asked, lifting my eyebrows.

Mark nodded, looking relieved that I seemed to understand. “Yes, ma'am,” he confirmed. “He's been very specific about maintaining professional boundaries.”

Professional boundaries. I nearly laughed, because if there was one thing Torin Montero had struggled with throughout our marriage, it was recognizing where his responsibilities ended and my right to make my own decisions began. And now he was running a business where boundaries were supposedly the foundation of everything, which made me wonder whether he'd experienced some miraculous personality transformation while I wasn't looking.

Then again, I couldn't deny that something had changed over the last four weeks. He'd stopped calling constantly, stopped showing up whenever he thought I might need him, and stopped finding excuses to insert himself into my day. I'd asked him to give me room to breathe, and he'd finally listened, although I hadn't expected the resulting silence to bother me nearly as much as it did. And now here I was, standing in the reception area of a BDSM club, arguing with a stranger because I wanted to see the very man I'd spent months trying to get away from.

Jesus Christ. If somebody ever wrote a book about my life, I hoped they had the decency to file it under psychological horror.

Mark shifted slightly, drawing my attention back to him. “If you'd like to leave a message, I'll personally make sure it reaches him,” he offered, gesturing toward the reception desk.

I looked at the small notepad the receptionist had placed beside her keyboard, then back at Mark, who genuinely appeared to believe he was being helpful. Under different circumstances, I probably would have appreciated his dedication, but my patience had been wearing thin since the moment I'd learned what Torin had purchased, and the prospect of leaving my name and number for a man who already had both was beginning to feel ridiculous.

I smiled, although there wasn't anything particularly friendly about it as, watching his face, I suggested, “Then perhaps you should tell him his wife is here.”

Mark went very still, and behind the reception desk, the woman stopped typing. For one glorious moment, nobody said a word, and I had the distinct pleasure of watching Mark reconsider the conversation we'd just spent several minutes having before he cleared his throat and straightened.

“His wife?” he repeated, looking considerably less certain of himself.

“Yes,” I confirmed, tilting my head. “You know, the woman he married. There was a ceremony, rings, paperwork. Very traditional, considering the circumstances.”

The receptionist lowered her head, but not before I caught the smile she was trying to hide. Mark recovered quickly, although the faint color rising along his neck suggested he wasn't particularly pleased with himself.

“My apologies, Mrs. Montero,” he said, adjusting his jacket. “I wasn't aware.”

“Neither was I,” I replied cheerfully. “About the club, I mean. The marriage I remember quite clearly.”

Mark glanced toward the receptionist, who suddenly became very interested in rearranging a stack of brochures, and I almost felt sorry for him. He'd spent the last several minutes doing exactly what Torin had instructed him to do, only to discover that the woman he'd been trying to send away was married to his employer. There were probably worse ways to meet the boss's wife, although I couldn't think of any at the moment.

“I assure you, Mrs. Montero, I meant no disrespect,” he explained, his expression considerably more accommodating.

“I know,” I replied, allowing my smile to soften. “And I wasn't trying to make your job difficult. I just thought it might be easier to tell him I'm here than explain our entire marital history in the lobby.”

Mark gave a short, uncomfortable laugh before reaching toward the phone on the reception desk. “I'll contact him now,” he assured me, lifting the receiver.

“Thank you,” I answered, stepping back to give him room. “I appreciate it.”

Mark had barely begun dialing when a door opened somewhere beyond the reception area, followed by footsteps against the polished floor and a familiar voice that sent an entirely unreasonable shiver down my spine. “Mark, what's going on out here?” Torin asked as he approached from the hallway.

I closed my eyes, silently cursing myself for believing I could walk into this place and remain unaffected by the man I'd married. I'd spent two hours convincing myself that seeing him wouldn't bother me, two hours choosing clothes, fixing my hair, and rehearsing a perfectly casual explanation for why I'd appeared at his new business, and now, hearing his voice, every carefully prepared sentence vanished.

Opening my eyes, I turned, finding Torin standing at the end of the hallway wearing dark jeans and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, and there was a familiar crease between his eyebrows as he looked from Mark to the receptionist, giving me a moment to take in the sight of him before his attention finally settled on me.

He stopped walking, and for several seconds, neither of us moved. His gaze traveled over my face, dropped briefly to my clothes, and returned to my eyes, and when the crease between his brows deepened, I wondered whether he was trying to figure out why I'd come or whether he was simply as surprised to see me as I was to discover how badly I'd wanted to see him.

“Marlowe?” he said, sounding genuinely stunned.

I lifted one hand in an awkward little wave, suddenly wishing I'd spent a little more time rehearsing my entrance.

“Surprise,” I offered, attempting a smile.