All Chapters of Contracted Husband : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

His eyes flick up to mine. “Leave it with me. I’ll have my head of security determine who it belongs to and take care of it.”“How?”“They’re chipped. Beneath the ruby.” He touches the gemstone. “It’s a sort of magnetic keycard.”“Fancy,” I say.“It is. You should visit sometime. I’ll give you a trial membership. Cancel anytime.”“Art isn’t my thing.” I tilt my chin toward the ring still in his hand. “Tell me who it belongs to, and I’ll owe you.”“Member information is confidential,” he states.“Then why the hell offer to help me?” I snatch it from his hand before he can think about pulling it out of my reach.He smirks. “I didn’t offer anything. I said I’d find out who the owner is. Losing one of these rings is unacceptable.”Sliding it back on, I grin. “Well, unless you’re willing to take it off my cold, dead body, I suggest we make a deal.”“I could kill you.” He smiles a deadly sort of smile that only someone like me can recognize. I can see beyond the expensive blue suit and tie,

From my position, I can clearly see inside the gallery through the long windows that flank the entrance. It’s exactly what I’d expect an art gallery to look like—a large, open industrial space with a high ceiling that exposes beams and duct work, the supporting walls made of red brick and wood flooring.However, there are several narrow walls at various angles on which art is displayed that block part of the view to the back.Was he shot here before he somehow made his way to the Hudson? Was he chased and forced into the water?My gaze follows an invisible trail from the building to the river, mapping all possible routes.When I feel enough of a crowd has gathered inside that I can easily walk around unnoticed, I head toward the entrance. The security guard, who’s dressed as well as the patrons, greets me, moving aside to allow me in.A man in black slacks and a white button-up shirt lifts a silver tray filled with champagne flutes. “Drink, sir?”“Thank you,” I say, taking one. But I

Her lips quirk.Raya “was in my class at Pratt. Her least popular pieces are my favorite. But art speaks differently to everyone. That’s why they say it’s subjective. Like beauty.”Thinking beauty might be subjective with certain things, but not her—she is most definitely, factually, beautiful—I say, “You’re an artist too, then.”She shrugs. “Subjective. Some would say all I do is draw lines. Others see rainstorms.”“Some see beautiful trees,” I add. “And a beautiful woman.”Cheeks flushed again, she parts her lips. But before she can speak, someone calls from across the room.“Em!”We both turn to the man coming our way, his strides long and determined. When he reaches us, he’s staring at me, not her, his gaze hard and judgmental.Beside me, the girl flashes every shade of red, her eyes going from me to the man I recognize instantly as Harry Kane .“Dad, this is…” She narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to remember. “Actually, we didn’t introduce ourselves.”Dad? Did she just call him

“Raw, huh?” I asked. Then he turned to me and I forgot how to breathe. It was his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like his before. The color of the sun shining through a jar of honey, with hues of rich caramel melting into bright gold and tiny specks of brown. But beneath all that glow was something else. Something that smoldered darkly deep under the surface, like pebbles you can almost make out at the bottom of a clear stream. So painfully beautiful, you want to reach in and hold one; however, you can’t be sure if what you’re really seeing is a stone or something dangerous lurking in the water, waiting for that unwitting victim. When he focused that honey gaze on mine, I felt it slice through me like a razor-thin blade and embed itself in my mind. I’ll never forget those eyes. The way they raked down to my feet and up to linger on my lips. It was all a blur of motion, where I could only register what he was doing, my own body completely forgotten. He licked his lips before he smiled.

“I know. But I’d rather have my own things. Goodnight, Dad.” I kiss his cheek and go upstairs to my room.Shutting the door gently behind me, I let out a long, exhausted breath. The white damask comforter on my wrought iron bed looks very inviting. But first, there’s something I’ve been itching to do.Kicking off my shoes, I go to my desk nestled under a bay window and open my laptop. I pull up my browser and search Nathan Manguire , New Jersey. When I hit Enter, one hundred thirty-five people come up.I go over them one by one, hating that I don’t have anything else to go on. What if he doesn’t even live in New Jersey? Why the hell am I doing this like a stalker? It’s not like I would do anything with the information I found. Or would I? Maybe I would. I could call him. Then I’d have to admit I was looking him up like a psycho.When I get to the last one and none of them are him, I retype his name as Nathan Manguire . It’s possible I misunderstood. Again, nothing.A great, big yawn l