Angelique Rising (30 page)

             
She was free, she could do this. By the time all of what was left of her kite was scraping along in pieces on the ocean floor, Angelique was being hauled up spitting and foaming, but alive, onto a small boat.

             
And above her, that thing in the heavens collapsed in exhaustion, all it's strength spent for a thousand years.

*****

              Angelique snuck into the house. She had sworn Maureen and Tinka to secrecy over what had happened with Ira Silverberg, she didn't want Wyatt finding out about it. She needed her flying and if Wyatt discovered Silverberg was hassling her up in the air he'd give her one of his ridiculous
I-so-own-you
looks and tell her
no more of that --
nuh uh, no way
.
Best not to say anything, she'd just have to be more careful when she flew that Silverberg was nowhere around. No problem. Well, not that anyway. The few bruises and scrapes she had, yes, problem, but thankfully none were on her face and the rest she could cover with some well-chosen clothing decisions, careful bedroom lighting and a lot of luck. She was a fast healer. So, all's well that ends well.

             
Except that Angelique had not been in the family long enough to learn why George steadfastly referred to his ex-sister-in-law Maureen as
Bitch Central.
Angelique was, however, about to find out. The hard way. The very hard way.

             
Maureen had her phone video. Of the entire incident with Silverberg. Including audio. Which meant that asking Maureen to remain circumspect when her eager little mind was screaming she had
ammunition
(something she had a tendency to celebrate) was like asking Malcolm Cochran to reconcile his actions with decency, God, and scruples.

             
It wasn't going to happen.

             
The former Mrs. Cochran forwarded the video of Ira Silverberg's attack to Wyatt before the current Mrs. Cochran even crept into the house planning her subterfuge. And it was Maureen's action that ultimately secured Angelique a nonrefusible ticket into Malcolm Cochran's horror show.

             
"Angelique," Wyatt said, his eyes burning in deadly calm as the voice on the video still tore at him in his head
That's Idiot Ira, he's been harassing her, giving her shit for weeks.

             
Weeks! And she'd said nothing.
Weeks.
Had he not been clear?

             
Ah, it appears our little fallen angel has not yet learned her lesson. But that is the way about May-May with most things, haven't you discovered? It takes a few tries with her.

             
"Are you hurt Angelique?"

             
He was in the large living room, seated on a couch, his eyes filled with shards of ice blue fire.

             
"Wyatt! It's afternoon. What are you doing home from work?"

             
"I came to see you. I repeat. Are you all right?"

             
"Why... why wouldn't I be?" she asked, troubled by a vague yet pervading sense of danger.

             
By way of explanation he flicked a remote control and a flat screen affixed to a far wall flitted on. And there she was, or rather her kite. Angelique watched the whole thing, wincing at the collision, cringing as she saw herself smash into the sea, and her kite, her poor kite...

             
"Wyatt," she said with what she hoped was a nonchalant and inscrutable smile, "it was nothing. I'm fine. Really."

             
Oh Christ he was angry. At Silverberg or her she couldn't tell.

             
"How long had he been bothering you until it escalated to this?" he asked pointedly.

             
Her.

             
"Not long, Wyatt. He was just... irritated that I didn't want to be around him. I could handle it."

             
"I saw you 'handle' it. Your neck could have been broken, you could have drowned.
YOU COULD HAVE DIED
.
"

             
"Wyatt I just wanted to protect you from--"

             
"According to the nuns,
I'm
supposed to protect
you."

             
"C'mon Wyatt, they're
nuns,
you don't have to take what they say too--"

             
"I take my responsibility quite seriously, Angelique."

             
"You are
not
my Protector!"

             
"I am your husband. Same thing." He stood and Angelique instinctively stepped back.

             
"What are you going to do?" she asked with a wary edge abandoning her attempts to placate him.

             
"To Silverberg? I'm destroying a deal he needs quite badly right now. And I'm making sure he knows I'm the one responsible.
You
are a different story
May-May
. I told you."

             
You have to learn, Angelique. I don't demand much, but I do demand that you not take risks with your safety.

             
"Wyatt I--"

             
"What did I tell you?
Someone threatens you,
you tell me. I
deal with it."

             
"What--"

             
She saw him reach around to the couch and pick something up.

             
"No, Wyatt, no, you can't be serious--"

             
"I warned you."

             
You can bet if there's ever a next time it won't just be my hand, Angelique.

             
He was holding a small paddle.

             
"You
will
learn this rule. You
must. You tell me, you ALWAYS tell me.
We can do this the hard way, Angelique, or the really hard way. Your choice."

             
"What do you mean?" she choked. He looked manic, crazed, red-hot.

             
"I mean you cooperate and this is over a lot faster."

             
"Cooperate? Wyatt, please, let's talk about this..." She knew he wasn't hearing her, he'd gone someplace else in his mind and that someplace else was her crashing over and over amidst the rocks into the waves. She had no inspiration as her back hit a wall and she couldn't retreat anymore. Never removing his eyes from hers, he reached out and silently grasped her wrist.

             
"Wyatt," she whimpered as he pulled her to the back of the couch, resting the paddle on it. He gripped her shoulders, turning her away from him. She felt his hands reach around her waist, unclasp the button on her jeans, her zipper pulled down. She should have run, it was too late now, his hands were on her,
"please--"

             
And she was bare bottomed, her clothes trussed around her ankles as she felt one of his hands move slowly massaging her buttocks, searing her with almost gentle regret. She felt a hand between her shoulder blades pressing her firmly forward and down over the back of the couch.

             
"Know why, Angelique. In the future you
tell
me. The less you move now, the shorter this is. I love you."

             
WHOP!

             
She screamed, not because it hurt, which it did but not anything she couldn't handle, but because he'd
done
it. Her Wyatt.

             
"Stop squirming." She caught desperation in his shuddering voice.

             
WHOP!

             
It was unhurried. It was deliberate. And to Angelique's horror, it was carnal. Impassioned. And the relief and misery of it was that they both knew in their souls it was
effectual
, achieving a necessity for Angelique to stay alive. She
had
to tell him.

             
"You okay baby? Are you okay?" she heard him call.

             
"Get away from me," she whirled, her eyes brimming with black ice shelling him with a look calculated to eviscerate.

             
"Hate me all you want, Ange, I'll live with it if it's the price I have to pay to keep you safe. Someone threatens you, you'll tell me now, won't you? 'Cause if there's a next time, a paddle will sound pretty good to you, I promise." The look on his face --of pained utter decency-- was unendurable.

             
"Next time!" she yelled, "next time? No next time Wyatt, we are
done
.
"

             
"You know that's not true, babe," he said guilelessly.

             
"Why would I know that?" she parroted him in scorn.

             
"Because of this," he said reaching up and touching the side of her face as his eyes seemed to envelope her in a kind of opalescent light. "This," he repeated, his tone vaguely narcotic.

             
And then he started stroking her hair.

             
"You dickhead," she said but he could see the edge of wildness in her eyes diminishing as he stroked her.

             
"I know, but I'm the dickhead you're stuck with." He was guiding her as he ran his fingers through her hair and she realized she'd stepped out of and away from her jeans and underwear on the floor. Her lips twitched.

             
"Wyatt, you are... you..." she was yielding, it was just too irresistible, the sizzling current between them the violence had left, the strong and vital solace of his arms.

             
"I know," he soothed her, "I know." She leaned her head into his touch, her scalp prickling in a thousand luscious tingles.

             
"You'll keep me alive?" she whispered, "protect me?"

             
"With all that I have." His hands left her hair and were traveling her.

             
"I'm a screw-up."

             
"Understandable." He had her on the couch, his lips brushing hers. There was a cleansing peacefulness surrounding them, a sublime joy-filled private world with extraordinary sensuality, and the sex was more real, more tender, a higher pinnacle than it had ever been. Perfection. And when at last he had fallen into a pleasing weariness, his desperate need vanquished, and he napped, she took off her wedding rings and left him.

Chapter Twelve

             
"Give me tonight," she choked, refusing to be comforted, "I need tonight."

             
"No, Angelique, I'm coming to get you right now."

             
"No, Wyatt! I just can't do this to you. You don't deserve it. It isn't fair."

             
"Oh baby, don't you get it? It's fair. I get
you
.
"

             
"I love you so much, Wyatt. But I keep hurting you. I don't know why but I just keep dragging you into situations."

             
The way she survived was to book it whenever she wasn't sure of a situation
...
She doesn't try and deal or sort a situation out, she just runs. Like she did at the Gala. And, well, sooner or later chances are that you are gonna be a situation.

             
Anthony's words suddenly stung Wyatt. That's what she was doing --deciding whether to run or not. His instinct told him to
fly
to the houseboat and retrieve her but something else in him urged caution --if he overwhelmed her she would run.

             
"You need tonight to sort your thoughts out, babe?" he asked hearing the hopeless impasse she so obviously thought they were in. "If I give you that, will you honestly think through this? Discuss it with me in the morning? Not just take off or something?"

             
"Yes, Wyatt. Yes."

             
"All right. Just tonight. You'll call me first thing in the morning."

             
"I will."

             
"I love you."

             
"You shouldn't."

             
"Someday, babe, you are going to finally understand what you mean to me."