Perfect Strangers

Café Blanc is crowded with the same annoying assortment of lovers making googly eyes at each other as it was the last time I ate here, on my first day in Paris. I’m irritated at myself for suggesting the place for my lunch with Chris, but it’s too late to change my mind. We’re already here.

“You look beautiful.”

Sitting across from me on the charming outdoor patio in the shade of a striped umbrella, Chris is somber and tense. He’s trying to look calm. Anyone else observing us would think he is, but I know this man too well. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes are darting. His thumb beats a fast, staccato rhythm against his knee.

“Thank you.” Unused to such compliments from him and unsettled by his energy, I’m not sure how to proceed. Self-consciously, I touch my hair. “I went to the hairdresser before I left. Apparently something called ‘balayage’ is the new thing.”

Jaw clenched, Chris gives my hair a cursory look. “It suits you.” His voice gains an edge. “You look happy.”

Here we go. “Take off the damn sunglasses, Christopher,” I say softly, “and talk to me.”

Aggravated, he whips off his aviators and tosses them onto the white linen tablecloth, muttering an oath. This display of irritation and jittery nerves is so out of character for him. The press didn’t dub him “The Iceberg That Sank the Titanic” for nothing.

He drags a hand through his hair. All that dark blond hair, thick and shiny, the rich hue of a jar of fresh honey held up to the sun. He’s always been that kind of Calvin Klein model good-looking. The all-American golden boy with a spotless pedigree that can be traced way, way back to his purebred British ancestors arriving on the Mayflower to wipe out the indigenous populations with their smallpox-infested blankets.

Poison comes in so many sneaky forms, but pretty is the sneakiest.

He says curtly, “You need to get back to New York as soon as possible.”

Leaning back in the chic café chair, I fold my hands over my stomach and consider him.

I loved this man once. Truly. Deeply. I would have literally died for him. I would’ve sacrificed my life to keep him safe. But at the moment, I’d like to drive my thumbs into his eye sockets.

“And you need to tell me what the hell is going on.”

He slams a fist on the tabletop, making the silverware jump. He snaps, “For fuck’s sake, Olivia, this isn’t a game. This is serious. You know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t!”

He stares at me, seething. Several diners send alarmed glances in our direction. From the corner of my eye, I see my arch enemy, the waiter Jean-Luc, smirking at us from a nearby table.

Holding Chris’s furious gaze, I say evenly, “The days of you barking orders and me obeying them are long gone. You want me to jump for you now? I’m not asking ‘How high?’ I’m saying ‘Show me the money, bitch’ and negotiating price.”

Chris’s mouth opens, then closes. He’s not used to this version of me.

Neither am I, honestly, but I’m about at the end of my rope with the men in my life and all their drama.

Chris snaps his fingers. A waiter materializes instantly at our table. “Oui, monsieur?”

“Blanton’s, neat. Make it a double.”

The waiter bows before scurrying away, because Chris has that effect on people.

I say, “Things must be dire if you’re having a double bourbon at noon.”

Leaning his forearms on the table, he runs his tongue along his teeth. He stares at the tablecloth for a moment, gathering himself, then glances up at me. In a low voice, he says, “Dire doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Knowing he’ll spit it out eventually if I keep quiet, I wait, watching him, the muscles in my shoulders and neck pulled tight.

“I can’t keep you safe in Europe, Livvie.”

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.”NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

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.

It’s hard, sloppy, and full of desperation. His teeth clash with mine. Shocked, I suck in a breath through my nose and push against his chest, but he won’t release me. Instead, he presses the length of his body against me and fists a hand into my hair.

All I can think is James.

I want James to be kissing me now, not this man I gave my heart to so long ago who casually tossed it into his Louis Vuitton briefcase and locked it up tight.

Gasping, I break away from Chris’s mouth. We stand there chest to chest for what feels like an eternity, breathing hard, frozen in the unreality of the moment, until he steps back, holding his hands in the air like the victim of a robbery.

“I’m sorry.”

A second apology within minutes of the first he’s ever made. I have no idea who this stranger is.

Shaken, I drag the back of my hand across my bruised lips. I look at him with wide eyes and no idea on earth what to say.

He relieves me of the responsibility by going first.

“I love you,” he says hoarsely, eyes shining. “I’ve always loved you. I’ll never stop. I understand if you’ve moved on with your life, but I haven’t. I can’t. You’re the only thing that has ever made my life worth living.”

I blink, wondering if I’ve finally had that mental breakdown that’s been nipping at my heels for years, but he’s still talking.

“I know I fucked up in so many ways, and I wish to God I could make it up to you, but I’m telling you right now, Olivia, I’m willing to make you hate me if it means you’ll be safe. I’d rather risk your hatred than your safety. So if you’re not back in New York within twenty-four hours, I’ll be forced to make that happen myself.”

The laugh that breaks from my chest sounds crazy, bouncing sharply off the tiled bathroom walls. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’ll kidnap me and smuggle me out of the country?”

Wild-eyed, he stares at me until I begin to feel frightened.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made that kind of arrangement. And trust me when I say you don’t want to meet the men who handle those things. You accused me of being heartless when we were married, but I’m a kitten compared to them. And sometimes the people in their care end up broken in ways that can’t be fixed.”

My heart pounds so fast I can’t catch my breath. I gaze into his eyes—hazel eyes I’ve stared into so many times before—and realize with an icy tingle shooting down my spine that it’s entirely possible everything I thought I knew about this man is a lie.

“Twenty-four hours, Olivia. Don’t test me.”

Before I can reply, he shoves me out of the way of the door and walks through it without looking back.