Perfect Strangers

My brows shoot up. “Bypassing what a weird statement that is for a second, you say it like you were keeping me safe in the States.”

He stares at me, all glaring eyes and a hard jaw. “I had twenty-four-hour surveillance on you in New York. So yeah, I was keeping you safe there.”

My jaw drops. Horrified, I gape at him. “You…you were having me watched? You were spying on me?”

His tone stays even. “No. I was protecting you. The surveillance was a security detail.”

Angry and confused, I sputter, “P-protecting me? From what?”

I watch him sift through a thousand possible replies before he settles on one. “Blowback.”

When he doesn’t add more, I spread my hands open, like What the hell?

He buys more time before answering because the waiter returns with his drink, setting it down in front of him with a flourish then asking if we’d like to order our entrees. I banish him with an aggravated wave of my hand.

When we’re alone again, Chris picks up the glass of bourbon and downs it in one go. Setting the empty glass carefully down, he licks his lips, then meets my eyes.

“My job is high profile. You know that.”

“Congratulations on being the United States Ambassador to the UN,” I snap. “You’re the big cheese. Yay. What does that have to do with anything?”

He responds through gritted teeth. “High profile means high security risk.”

I wait, but once again he fails to provide an adequate explanation. Great. I’ve got another sphinx on my hands.

“Help me connect the dots here. We’re no longer married. We haven’t lived together in forever. We don’t speak—or communicate in any way for that matter—or ever see each other. We have no ties. How is your position a threat to me?”

His stare burns a hole straight through my face. “Because you’re the only thing in my life that can be used against me. You’re the only weakness I have. You’re my Achilles’ heel, and there are certain people who know that.” He pauses. “People who wouldn’t think twice about using it to their advantage. Using you to get to me.”

My jaw is unhinged. My eyes are unblinking. An eerie sound echoes in my ears, like a thousand wolves howling at the moon.

I’m his weakness? His friggin’ Achilles’ heel? Since when?

Even during our courtship when we were falling in love, his work was always his priority. He never made it a secret that his career would come first—and boy, did it—but now he’s telling me in a raw, emotional voice that I somehow still matter to him?

I matter enough that I’m blackmail bait?

Finally, I manage to ask, “What people?”

“Bad people,” is his instant, clipped response. “I have enemies, Livvie. Powerful ones. Ruthless ones. Which is why I need you to get your ass on a plane and get back to New York. Today. Right now. This minute.”

For a moment, I’m frozen with disbelief. I can’t believe I’m hearing what I’m hearing.

Chris had a security detail when he was a member of the legislature before being appointed ambassador, but it was minimal, restricted to comings and goings at the Capitol and other affairs of state. There weren’t any guys in black SUVs sitting outside our house at midnight. The Secret Service wasn’t lurking around the bushes with drawn guns.

Then it hits me like a thunderbolt: if I’m blackmail bait…so was our daughter.

I go ice cold, then hot. Fury claws its way up my throat like a rabid animal. Adrenaline floods my veins, and my entire body starts to shake.

Leaning across the table, I grab Chris by the lapels of his suit jacket. “If you had anything to do with Emmie’s death,” I snarl into his face, “so help me God, I’ll kill you.”

Jean-Luc sails past our table on his way to another, saying, “Don’t take it personally, monsieur. Elle est folle.”

Chris is on his feet and dragging me across the patio before I can lash out at Jean-Luc. He pulls me inside the restaurant and makes a hard right turn toward the restrooms down a hallway at the back. He kicks open the men’s room door, slams it shut behind us, and pushes me against it with his hands gripped around my upper arms.

Leaning in so we’re nose to nose, he says gruffly, “Of course I didn’t. Emmie’s death was a freak accident, you know that—”

“She was murdered,” I say loudly, my face hot. “A drive-by isn’t an accident, Christopher. It’s murder. She didn’t fall into a pool and drown. That’s an accident. She didn’t slip and hit her head, or choke on a piece of food, or chase a ball into traffic. She was shot.” My voice breaks. Tears swim in my eyes. “Our baby girl was shot to death, and that is fucking murder.”

Exhaling a ragged breath, Chris nods and squeezes his eyes shut. He whispers, “I know. I’m sorry. I know. I only meant that it wasn’t meant for her. It’s like the police said…she was an innocent bystander. The gang wars…that bullet was meant for someone else.”

He cuts off, his voice choked and his expression one of utter misery.

Then, to my total astonishment, my ex-husband starts to cry.

He pulls me into his arms, buries his face in my neck, and sobs like a child, his embrace so tight I’m left breathless.

Never, not once during all the years I’ve known him, has he ever shown anything approaching this level of emotion. If someone had told me before now that he was actually even able to cry, I would’ve laughed.

It would be more plausible that the rock of Gibraltar would shed tears.

All the fury drains out of me, leaving me filled with only a hollow ache.

“It’s okay.” I awkwardly pat his back. “Hey. Hey, now. C’mon. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry I yelled—”

Before I can say another word, Chris takes my face in his hands and kisses me.