Husband by Choice

She and Max never seemed to stop talking. They’d see a house and be off discussing something they liked or didn’t like about it. Or drive by a family and discuss the pros and cons of their mode of transportation.

They talked about his work.

And hers.

Even hampered by having to preserve patient confidentiality privileges.

“I got my degree. I’m a speech pathologist now.” She couldn’t just sit here. She’d go nuts. And ruin her plan before she’d had a chance to fully implement it. She’d play right into his plan, get frightened and give in, become his hunted possession again.

“So?” he said, not taking his eyes off the road. “You won’t have to work anymore. You always said you wanted to be a stay-at-home mom and that’s just what you’re going to be.”

“Are you going to be working?” She was just curious. He hadn’t changed much in the four years since she’d seen him. Still in his late thirties, he wasn’t going gray yet. Hadn’t gained any weight.

Yet he looked...smaller.

Or maybe she’d just set her sights higher.

“I’ll work as I please,” he said easily enough. “It’s the beauty of going private. You don’t answer to anyone but yourself.”

“And your clients.” She was beginning to wonder what his client base looked like. There were a lot of high-rolling hoodlums in Las Vegas. And Steve had rubbed arms with a lot of them when he’d been on the force.

“I take the jobs I want and leave the rest,” he said.

So maybe he was on the up and up. From what she understood, when you worked for the big boys, you did what they wanted when they wanted or you didn’t do anything for anybody ever again.

Not that she cared one way or the other.

She wasn’t going to be having his baby. Or living his life.

It would be her life, or none.

That point was nonnegotiable.

Steve just didn’t know it yet.

* * *

PACING THE SMALL grassy area between th

e beach and the road, Max had barely worked up a sweat on his first level of panic when Chantel reappeared.

Alone.

Oh, God. The blood drained from him and he braced himself.

They’d been too late. His throat closed up.

“She’s not there,” his friend called from the other side of the street and for a couple of seconds all Max could hear was the roaring of the waves in his ears. And then, from a distance, the faint sound of her boot heels clicking on pavement as she crossed toward him. “No one’s there. But someone’s been there recently, Max. There’s fresh milk in the fridge.”

“Do you think she’s been there?”

“There’s no sign that a woman’s been there. And nothing that would identify the male. Just men’s clothing, a disposable razor, a can of cheap shaving cream.”

“Let me in there and I’ll tell you if Meri’s been there,” he said. “I can smell her.”

Animalistic, maybe. But also true.

Chantel must have believed him, or just took pity on him, but she walked him through the house. And with a heart that felt like lead, and was thankful, too, he shook his head. “You’re right, she hasn’t been here.”