His strong hands flexed with power around the delicate photographs. His tanned and kissable throat rippled as he swallowed. His entire body was sculptured and groomed into a fighting machine—every inch spoke of readiness and a ruthless temper that could kill.
I sucked in a breath at the tiniest shimmer in his green eyes.
Tears?
No, it can’t possibly be.
Anger.
Glittering anger that never left him alone—no matter how gentle and loving he was with me.
Arthur’s neck snapped up; he quickly slapped the photos color side up on the tiled floor. “What are you doing up?”
I didn’t take my eyes from the hidden images. “I couldn’t sleep. You left—I couldn’t go back to sleep without seeing you. Without reminding myself that you’re real and not a dream.”
He sighed, opening his arms. “Come here.”
Moving around the couch, I slid down the wall beside him and snuggled into his masculine warmth. He kissed the top of my head, breathing in the scent of my shampoo. “I am real. You are real. We’re never losing each other again.”
His voice was strained, the strange mix of hatred and guilt plaiting together to form a heavy oath.
“What are the photos of?” I murmured. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable and force him to show me things he’d rather not reveal, but at the same time, I wanted truth. I wanted to rip aside the curtain and see the secrets beyond.
“It’s nothing, Cleo. You should go back to bed.” His arms tightened in direct retaliation of his words. His mouth said he wanted me gone, but his actions said otherwise.
I sighed, liquefying against him. “What are you so afraid of?”
He tensed, not answering.
I waited for a few minutes, but he never slipped or admitted.
“When will you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“The story of how you ended up in prison? The tale of what happened while we were apart? The fable of why you were so adamant I was dead? There’s so much I don’t know. So much I need to know before giving everything that I am to you.”
“You haven’t given me everything?”
The darkness was a soft voyeur around us, hushing our confessions. “No. Not yet. You’re keeping too many things from me.”
“You’re keeping things from me, too.”
“Yes, but not on purpose. I remember in sporadic bursts. I can’t control it.”
Arthur squeezed me hard. “Is it getting easier?” Once again the fear and hope waged war in his tone.
I sighed heavily, wishing he would stop lying and tell me what he was so afraid of. Anger filled me and I stiffened in his hold. “Wallstreet means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”
Arthur went deathly still. “He’s the reason why I’m free and rich and in a position to take revenge on those who betrayed me. So, yes… he means a great fucking deal.”
Tracing the grout between the white tiles by my toes, I whispered, “You do know he has other plans for you? The way he watches you, Art. He’s hiding so much but demands everything in return.”
Arthur pulled away, untangling his arm from around my shoulders. “What exactly are you saying?”
Sitting taller, I braced myself. I hadn’t meant to rip open this particular festering wound, but he’d left me no choice. “Do you know what he’s truly after? Do you know what he’ll take as payment for everything he’s given you?”
Arthur stood up in a rush, pacing in front of me. “What the fuck has gotten into you, Cleo? You can’t be fucking jealous of a guy who was the only one there for me.” Stopping, he growled, “I don’t care what his ultimate plans are. They’re in my best interests, and I could obey every request and still not give enough to repay him for what he’s done.”
Pushing up off the floor, I stood with my hands fisted. “What exactly did he do, Art? Please tell me, because I’m sick of living in the dark. What is he making you do? What does he want?”
Arthur dragged both hands through his jaw-length hair. His body rippled with anger, his chest rising and falling fast. “It’s none of your business!”
“You’re wrong.” I pressed forward, deliberately taunting him to face the truth. I might be floundering in the dark with incomplete memories, but he was worse—he willfully ignored things right in front of his face. “Do you know who Grasshopper is?”
Arthur stopped, hands tangled in his hair. His green eyes popped wide. “What? What the fuck does Hopper have to do with this?”
I wanted to shake him. “Come on. You haven’t noticed? In the years you’ve been dealing with both men, you haven’t ever truly looked at them?”
Arthur froze, his eyes blazing as realization pounded into him.
Finally.
“Oh, fuck.” His hands fell from his head, hanging by his sides. “You’re right. They look—” He shook his head. “It can’t be. Jared’s last name isn’t Connors. It’s Shearer. They can’t be…”
Closing the distance between us, I rested my fingers on his arm. “Not having the same name doesn’t mean a thing these days. He could be illegitimate, having taken his mother’s name. Hell, he could’ve changed it. Look at me. Cleo Price has a grave and a death certificate confirming my demise. In the eyes of the law I don’t exist; only Sarah Jones does. Isn’t it possible that everything you think you know has two meanings? Two purposes?”