Page 67 of The Devil’s Lair

“Your credit card. I mentioned it in Cornwall, remember?”

A rush of tears fills my eyes. I blink before they fall. I do remember him saying this. Since we returned to Oakleigh it had slipped my mind, and, if I’m being honest with myself, I hadn’t expected him to follow through. Marcus made lots of promises he loved to break.

Tobias isn’t Marcus.

Maybe my first purchase should be to have that tattooed somewhere visible as a reminder. Although, ugh, no. Marcus left enough marks on me, inside and out.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ll use it sparingly, I promise.”

“I hope you won’t.” Tobias chuckles. “I want you to splurge on whatever takes your fancy. Go nuts.”

Vicky leans in. “They don’t have a credit limit, either.”

My jaw unhinges. “No credit limit?”

“Nope.”

“Wow.” Regardless, I could never rack up a huge bill. It’s just not me, but being able to buy a few bits and pieces for Isla without having to ask feels nice. She’s growing so fast.

The difference in my life now compared to a few short months ago is mind blowing. Intense. It’s… it’s a lot, and every time I think I’ve processed the change, something else comes along to send me back to square one.

I’ve gone from scrimping and saving to afford the basics, even though my husband was what most would call upper middle class, to this. To having a personal credit card with unlimited spending power, where I’ll never again have to worry about money. Is there any wonder I’m struggling to believe this is real, that something drastic won’t come along and pull the rug from under my feet?

“On the way to the spa, we’ll swing by the perfect swimwear shop I know not far from here, get you kitted out. Then it’s massages, mayhem, and mojitos.” Vicky squeezes my hand before she gets to her feet. “We’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.”

I wait for her to leave, then address Tobias. “Are you sure you’ll be okay with Isla?”

“Are you kidding?” He grins. “I get to sack off the office and spend the day with Isla and horses? I can’t think of a better day than that.”

What did I do to deserve this man and this life? He’s kept every promise he’s made. A part of me had expected the “no sexual contact” to be some kind of a ruse. Gameplay while he bided his time, yet he hasn’t made a single advance.

A strange prickling sensation tiptoes across my chest. I’m glad he hasn’t tried anything, yet at the same time, I can’t deny a hint of disappointment. Not because I’m interested in anything intimate, but because it’s flattering, I guess, to be wanted.

“If you need me, I’m on the end of a phone.”

“We’ll be fine. Go.” He flicks his wrist. “Have a good time. You deserve it.”

It’s with a mixture of reluctance to leave Isla and exhilaration at having time to myself that I walk down the stairs to meet the girls in Oakleigh’s entrance foyer.

We pile into two SUVs. Me, Grace and Vicky in one, with a bodyguard and a driver up front, and Imogen and Saskia, plus more bodyguards in the other. A half hour later, I’ve bought two swimming costumes and a bikini that shows off far too much of my body, which Vicky insisted I had to buy because, and I quote, “You look hot as fuck.”

I’ve never once been told that by anyone, male or female so, I admit, I had my head turned, and into the bag the bikini went. Guess I can’t hide my scars forever.

The spa is the kind of place I’ve seen on reality TV for the rich and famous, and not the sort of establishment I ever thought I’d find myself in. Our personal guide—which is Vicky’s description, not mine—leads us through to a changing area, and once we’re in our costumes and dressing gowns, we’re led through to a relaxation room.

One by one, we’re taken in for our treatments. I’m tense when I slip off the dressing gown, but the masseuse doesn’t mention my scars, only asking if the pressure is okay and to speak up if anything hurts. By the time I emerge ninety minutes later, I’m more relaxed than I’ve ever been in my life and I smell incredible. Vicky and Imogen are in the relaxation room when I arrive, drinking champagne and nibbling on strawberries.

“How was that?” Vicky pats the lounger.

I sit beside her. “Incredible.”

“See. I knew this was what you needed.” She hands me a glass of champagne. “Cheers.”

We all clink glasses. I’m not a big drinker, too aware that I needed to keep my wits about me. I take a sip, then set it on the small table next to me.

“How are you settling in?” Imogen asks.

“I’m getting there.”