Page 51 of The Bad Husband

There’s a hint of something else in his voice. Something dark and vile, woven in anger.

I can’t get a proper reading of it, so it’s hard to tell what fuels his anger, but it’s directed at her, and it may be in connection to my father’s money.

Perhaps, he doesn’t like this arrangement. I never thought about that. My father hadn’t had Henrietta’s new husband in mind when he drafted his will.

So maybe Damon West is not thrilled that his wife has to fulfill her late husband’s requests and have me here in his house.

How does he feel about her inheriting all that money?

It’s hard to tell.

He’s a rich man. And despite what he said about money, it may just be that he doesn’t want her to still be shackled to her old life.

But that would mean that he was jealous.

And if he’s jealous?

That means he has some feelings for this woman.

He doesn’t look like a man in love, though.

Not with her, not with anyone else.

He moves his hand to my shoulder as if we’re not having this conversation. As if he didn’t say what he just said.

The other thing is, for the first time ever, I have this feeling that he and his wife are at odds.

That they’re not playing the same team.

That being accomplices is not a real possibility.

His fingers trail my collarbone before moving over my shoulder, sliding off a strap.

My top barely clings to my chest, and without a pinch of hesitation, he peels off the other strap.

"We’re not doing anything,” he says. “I just want to see you.”

My back is pressed into the door as he tugs at my top, and he doesn’t stop until it’s crumpled around my waist.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he says, examining my body.

That’s strange coming from a man married to Henrietta, who has always put a lot of effort and money into her appearance.

I may be as beautiful as he just said, but he was saying it with wonder in his voice, as if he’d never seen someone like me.

I find it hard to believe.

“Let me take them off.”

He tilts his chin toward my shorts, and I mull over what’s sexier. The way he narrows his eyes as he looks down and barely pushes a smile to his lips? Or the fact that he’s asking for permission?

He moves his eyes to mine, reads my expression, and without breaking his stare, slides his hand into my shorts.

He moves his fingers between my legs as he pushes the shorts down.

Then he slides them to the side with his feet.

Without a word, he grabs the hemline of my top and pulls it over my shoulders.