Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)

His kiss is passionate and desperate, as if he’s saying goodbye. “Be safe.”

“You too.”

He opens my door but grabs my wrist before I can get in. “Valentina.”

I look back at him. “Yes?”

“Thank you for coming.”

“I couldn’t stay away.”

His smile is both sad and tender.

Guilt attacks me on the way home. I feel bad for leaving Connor with the guys so I could have sex with my dead husband. What kind of a mother does that? What if Connor is hungry or feeling cranky? My worries are unfounded. When I get home, I find Connor playing happily in the playpen and Charlie folding the laundry. Rhett and Quincy give me curious looks.

“You look … different,” Rhett says. “It went well, then?”

“Yes.” I smile, but offer nothing more. Things between Gabriel and I have always been complicated, and it’s no less so now. I can’t even define what we have, let alone explain it to my caring partners.

“Someone we know?”

“What he means is,” Quincy says, “is it someone we’ll approve of?”

“I think so.”

“Wait a minute.” Rhett scrutinizes me. “Is it the guy from the market?”

“Yes. Why? Do you approve?”

“I like him,” Quincy says.

“Ditto.”

“Good.”

They’re going to see a lot more of him in the future. I’m determined to make it happen. The question is will Gabriel admit the truth? Will he come back to me as my husband or as a stranger?

21

Gabriel

Damn me to hell and back. How could I give in so easily? Touching Valentina was every jaded shade of wrong. I should’ve kept my distance. Running into her screwed up everything. I’m not arrogant enough to believe she’s attracted to me or my new face. She merely acted on the instinct I trained into her. Valentina needs pain with her pleasure. Dominance in bed. She’s drawn to the sadist, the monster. Sensing what I am underneath the polished veneer of a man is what brought her to my door. This is who I am. I can’t change it any more than a cat can turn itself into a dog.

After she’d left, I pace the floor. The faint smell of raspberry contracts my chest, reminding me of what I’m missing, and that I’ll be utterly alone for the rest of my life. So be it. I don’t want anyone else. My purpose is protecting her and my child. That’s enough. I’ll feel better when I can make up for the financial hardships she suffered after my death. Once enough profit from my company rolls in, I’ll invest anonymously in her clever company. My heart swells with pride. I always knew she’d survive, and the fact that she’s making such a good job of it without me fills me with a pang of sad jealousy. No man wants to be expendable, dispensible, replaceable. All I ever wanted was to take care of her, and look where that got us. It’s better that I stay far away from her, even as every cell in my body pulls toward her with a force near impossible to resist. I exchanged her life for freedom. I have to hold onto that oath when I feel weak. Which is all the time.

Of course, I’m tempted to take the golden opportunity she presented me, to claim her as a different man, but that will be just another lie, another manipulation, and I’m not going down that road with her again. Ever. I repeat the mantra, hoping it will sink in and that my dick will eventually get the message. Just being near her makes me hard. Fuck, thinking about her does the job. I clench and unclench my fingers, fighting a sudden urge to go after her and throw the truth at her feet, kneel, and beg her to forgive me and take me back. God, I’m such a selfish bastard. No, I won’t blow my cover and her new, hard-earned life to hell. There’s only one cure for taming my uncontrollable desire. I pull on my sweatpants and a T-shirt and punish myself with a grueling workout in the gym. With every weight I lift, I try to expel the memory of her taste, her sounds, and how she felt under my hands, but it’s futile. The more I push, the deeper she seeps under my skin.

After a shower, I set out to do what I’ve been putting off since getting back to Johannesburg. I buy a bunch of white roses and drive to the graveyard. Visiting Carly’s grave rips me to pieces. I was afraid to come here, and now that the full force of the loss tears the patched-up grief wide open again, I sink down on my knees in the mud and weep over the stone of my beautiful girl I couldn’t save. Raw cries tear from my chest. For the first time after her death, I let them out. The violent emotion is far from healing. I’m simply lifting the lid on the simmering pain I carry inside of me. This, too, will always be a part of me, like losing Valentina and Connor. I accept it. This is what I deserve, to be an unhappy man with a whole face and a broken soul. Drying my face on my sleeve, I kiss my fingers and press them on the cold stone.