Shark (Wall Street Beasts 1)

"I thought I said no visitors,” Alex growled.

He hated being stuck in the bed. He hated the tubes and the needles and the drains. Most of all, he hated being rendered physically helpless. He knew that outside the peaceful walls of his room all hell was breaking loose, and only Smithers was there to protect Sophie.

“You know I don't follow the rules," Christo smiled broadly.

It was good to see him again. Alex would never have admitted it, but he had been feeling very much out of sorts ever since he'd woken up in hospital with serious injuries from his bride.

“I owe Indigo for stopping her from shooting me,” Christo said. “Maybe you should have taken the hint.”

“Maybe," Alex admitted.

“Ah, hell. You’ve forgiven her, haven’t you."

“Could be that I deserved to be shot.”

“Could be that you saved her life, and she repaid the favor by putting a bullet in you.”

"Could be something else was at play."

"Like what?”

"I don't know. But I know that she never showed any signs of violence before that moment.”

“Except when she tried to shoot me," Christo interjected.

"Except then,” Alex admitted. "But that at least made sense. This didn't. She wanted to be married. She begged for the wedding. If she wanted to kill me, she could have done it any time. She could had done it while I was sleeping. Why would she wait until the eyes of the world were on us?"

“Maybe she wanted to make a scene.”

“Someone wanted a scene,” Alex agreed.

“You can’t blame anyone else for this. She did it.”

"I know.”

It didn't matter. What had happened was irrelevant. What mattered was the why. Even with his best men and women on the case, that was an answer yet to be given. He knew one thing: everything had to be locked down. There could be no communication with Sophie until the mystery was solved. Either she had betrayed him in the most sanguine way, or she was a pawn without control over her own actions.

Chapter 31

“Can I have some more ice cream, Smithers?”

Sophie had given up. Alex's condition was stable, so she was told, but he obviously didn't want to speak to her. He blamed her, as everybody did. She was dead twice over, and the calories from chocolate ripple really didn't matter anymore.

“You have had three pints already, young madam.”

“My husband hates me and thinks I tried to kill him. I’m entitled to ice cream."

Smithers sighed and fetched her another pint. “That is the last of our reserves. If you finish this, there is no more until next week.”

“I can’t get fucking ice cream?”

“You can be put over the back of the couch and thrashed like the spoiled brat of a young lady you are.”

The words were so unexpected, coming as they did from the mouth of the brutally refined butler. Sophie felt a flush of hot embarrassment, followed by a tingling all the way to the little nub between her thighs. Only Alex was supposed to make her feel that tingle, but that seemed to be over.

“Excuse me?” She tried to look composed and haughty.

“Mr. Roth asked me to ensure your well being. That includes not letting you run amok.”

"He asked you to illegally imprison me in this house, because he doesn’t want the truth coming out about me. He can’t report me to the law, but he can keep me here against my will. I know the guard has been tripled outside.”

“Had you considered that it’s for your protection?”

“I had not considered that. Because it's not. He thinks I want him dead. He's got me penned up here, imprisoned until he can get well enough to handle me himself. He's probably going to kill me.”

“If Mr. Roth want you dead, you wouldn’t be whining for ice cream.”

Smithers’ words hit her hard. He was right. Alex wouldn't tolerate her being alive if he didn't want her alive. But he still thought she’d wanted to kill him, which meant the trust between them was completely shattered.

Over the last few days, Smithers had become her de facto caretaker. She’d barely paid attention to the butler the first time they stayed in the upstate house.

Now he was the only person she was allowed to interact with, so she paid a lot more attention. Smithers was younger than she had first assumed. Maybe fifty. Maybe younger. He was gray, which made him look old if you didn’t pay any attention to him whatsoever. But if you did, you could see that he was actually quite powerfully built in the raw sinewy way that men who used to work out, and still work out do.

He always wore the butler suit, so she never saw anything above his wrist. He was probably covered in tattoos all over his arms and legs and chest and back. Or maybe not.

“You were in the military, weren't you.”