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He’s showered, clean shaven and wearing a three-piece suit, looking every inch a GQ cover model – minus the black eye. Though even with the black eye the sense of money and power he exudes is still evident.
Money. Power.
A horrible, selfish idea percolates, mixing with my growing panic. But before I can take a breath, think things through, Ms al Abbas begins her let-down speech.
‘You see, Miss Truman, it’s the belief of—’
‘It’s Moore, actually.’ The crack in my voice echoes in the hallway. Out of the corner of my eye I see Thomas pause mid-stride.
Ms al Abbas frowns. ‘I’m sorry?’
I try for a light laugh but grimace at how brittle it sounds. ‘It was such a crazy morning that I forgot to inform you of my recent marriage.’
Thomas begins walking again. Faster.
The social worker’s forlorn look morphs to surprise. ‘You did?’
When Thomas is within reach, I grab the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him closer. ‘Yes, this weekend.’
Her eyes widen further at Thomas, then drop to my death grip on his suit.
‘My, uh, husband, and I were actually flying home from our elopement when the hospital called.’ I turn enough to hide my expression from the women, squaring up to Thomas. ‘Isn’t that right, dear?’ I stare intently at him, hoping my wide eyes convey what I need them to – please, please go along with me, I’ll do anything.
His expression, handsome as it is, gives nothing away. As usual.
‘You.’
Startled at the vehement tone, I look back at Miss Clatch.
She gives me a good once-over, disbelief written all over her face. Her first genuine expression since I’ve met her. ‘You, married Thomas Moore?’
14
THOMAS
‘Do you know me?’ I stare down the woman, regretting that I’m not as much of an asshole as people take me for.
Because if I was, I wouldn’t be here. Instead, I would’ve given my lawyer Alice’s contact information and let him call her for whatever else he needs to begin the annulment – even if she’s currently dealing with family issues.
I watch the overly familiar woman in front of me turn as red as the blazer worn by the woman next to her. ‘We met earlier.’ She sticks out her hand. ‘I’m Rachel.’
I remember the fake smile, but I also remember not giving her my name. ‘Indeed.’ I continue to stare at her until her cloying attitude melts away.
‘And I, ah—’ she retracts her hand, using it to smooth her hair ‘—just remembered seeing your picture in the paper recently.’
The woman in the blazer snaps to attention. ‘You’re Thomas Moore, one of the New York Moores?’
I fight the urge to react. I may hold power and sway in New York, but that doesn’t mean I’m normally recognized in public. I’m not a celebrity. I’m not my brother with his many Page Six exploits. But I am a part of a family that does considerable charity work, and a lot of those charities are youth focused. Which is probably why Red Blazer knows my name.
Rachel, on the other hand, seems more a gossip rag enthusiast. Meaning the picture she mentioned is probably from one of the many articles about the recent Moore family drama involving my father.
Which also means, Alice boldly claiming to be my wife in front of either of them cannot be allowed to happen.
Ignoring both their acute interest and questions, I lift the arm Alice has a hold of. ‘If you’ll excuse us.’
I don’t wait for them to answer before stepping back into the hospital room behind us and closing the door on their slacked-jawed expressions.
As soon as the door clicks, I turn on Alice. ‘What in the—’
