Page 8 of Secret Husband
“Perfectly okay. Though he might prefer a witness when I throat-chop him into the middle of next week.”
“Okay, then! Let me know if you need anything.” She slow-walked out of the office and closed the door.
I turned to Nazarov. “Why are you here?”
“You have been ignoring my texts and calls. And now I live in Chicago.”
“Yes, I know. Everyone knows.” Official news of Nazarov’s trade to the Rebels had broken a few weeks ago, but I already had the inside track because I had connections to the Rebels C-suite. “And I would have thought the block on your number told you all you needed to know.”
He stood from his seat. Already? And was that disappointment gnawing at my internal organs?
But he didn’t leave. He walked to the window and looked outside, drinking in the view from the tenth floor of Canary Tower in downtown Riverbrook. Home of the Rebels, the bustling suburb was a scenic thirty-minute drive from the Chicago Loop. I had taken a risk leasing this much space, but I expected to be able to fill the other offices in the next year.
“This is a good fit for you. Top of the world.”
“Instead of skates on the ground?”
“You have always fit in everywhere.”
Unsurprising that he would view me like that—the girl next door, every guy’s best bud, easy and malleable.
“Could you get to the point?”
“We had fun in Vegas, Silver Eyes.” A non sequitur? Not likely. Just as his use of that nickname was designed to soften me up, though for what, I couldn’t be certain.
“That was months ago. We drank too much. Let off some steam.” I shook my head at the memory. Nazarov in his Marilyn wig, me with an absurd Elvis pompadour, while a trio of impersonators sang “Suspicious Minds”—an ominous choice, for sure. “Did you find photos you needed to share?”
“Oh, much better than photos.”
“What does that mean?”
Still leaning on the windowsill, he had the look of a gleaming lion in repose in the midday sun. But I wasn’t fooled. Predatory energy shimmered off him, which meant I was the poor antelope being stalked by the king of the jungle.
I would not be sitting still to take this nonsense. Standing, I gestured with my hand for him to get on with it.
“About a month ago, I was packing up my belongings in preparation for the move to Chicago. I came across some memorabilia.”
“A Marilyn wig? A poker chip? An unused condom?”
“A marriage certificate.”
Dread trickled down my spine. “Excuse me?”
He extracted a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“What’s that?”
“I just told you.”
“Hilarious, Nazarov.” I did a gimme gesture with my hands. “Absurd piece of paper, please.”
Amused, he passed it over.
I unfolded it. Our names. Married. What the?—?
My mind revolted at the evidence before my eyes. “They don’t let drunk people marry. And you said it was a joke.”
He remained silent, stoic, allowing me to process it in my own way, which involved saying most of the words in my head out loud, peppered with color commentary that was better suited for the ice rink.
