Page 16 of Ricochet

“Michael left?” I shot my gaze to hers in the mirror’s reflection. We were due to leave in twenty minutes, for the hospital charity he’d made a point to remind me of that morning. “How do you know, Renata? I thought he was working in his office?”

She shook her head. “Strangest thing. He normally keeps his office locked, but it was wide open when I arrived this afternoon.”

The words were almost blasphemous. Michael never left his office door open. “This afternoon? It’s been unlocked all afternoon?”

“I knocked, like I normally do before going in, and there was no answer.” She slapped a hand to her face. “Oh, my! I hope he isn’t …”

Dead? I tightened my face to keep my eyebrows from winging up into a happy little smile. “Did you go inside?”

“Oh, no. I would never go in unless he gave me the permission. He’s very particular about that.”

“Perhaps …” I cleared my throat and smoothed my hand down the front of my dress. “I should check it out. Make sure he didn’t keel over on me!” I hoped my laughter didn’t come off as fake as it sounded to my own ears.

“That would make me feel a whole lot better. I didn’t even think that something could’ve happened to him!”

We can only hope. As much as I knew I’d be disappointed, the prospect of finding him lying on the floor, some vacant, lifeless expression amidst the blue of his skin that would surely pronounce his death, was exciting? Jesus, had I become just as psycho as the bastard?

“Thank you, Renata, that’ll be all. I’ll check on Michael. I’m certain he’s only stepped away.”

She nodded and smiled. “Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Culling. Again, you look stunning.”

“Gracias,” I added, a little too jubilant for the morbid conversation we’d had two minutes ago.

Once she’d disappeared from the room, I made a beeline for Michael’s office.

Please be dead. Please be dead.

“Shut up!” I whispered, chastising myself.

Why, it’s not like he can hear your thoughts!

“He’d certainly try if he could,” I muttered to myself.

Down the stairs, past the foyer and down another hall, I finally reached Michael’s office. What if he’s in there? I’d think of an excuse. Even snooping around the door of his office was enough to land myself in punishment, and after limping all afternoon, it was a wonder I’d even attempt something so dangerous.

I knocked on the door. Once, twice. At the third knock, I peeked my head inside. Damn, my heart felt like it might beat right the hell out of my chest!

“Michael?” I cringed at the normalcy in my voice, almost a plea, as if I needed him for something all of a sudden. When he didn’t answer, I slipped inside.

The sight of his office spurred an urge to throw up, but I tucked it back. Keep it in check. The shit was monumental and I didn’t intend to screw up the opportunity with a battle of nerves.

As expected, Michael was nowhere to be found. I rounded his desk and opened drawers. For months, I’d been anxious to find something on him—a photograph, a document, a goddamn severed head that might act as indisputable evidence in court. Though, knowing Michael, his connections would probably fabricate some outrageous story, like the headless victim fell on a guillotine, and Michael would be set free.

His desk was something out of a mental health magazine for OCD. Everything neatly spaced, stacked. Nothing appeared to be suspicious.

I lifted a document, knocking a flash drive to the floor, and ducked under his desk to retrieve it, setting the papers back in the drawer along the way. Chip in hand, I quickly backed out from under his desk and rose to a stand, gasping at the shadow in the doorway. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. My stomach could’ve fallen in a heap of bloody organs onto the floor at that very moment, while a blanket of ice slithered through my veins, crushing my chest with panic.

“What are you doing in here?” His voice carried the daunting calm that’d always acted as a red flag.

“Checking on you.” The words tumbled from my mouth in all my stomach churning alarm. “Your door was open.”

“My door is never open.”

It would be futile to argue the point, and I wasn’t interested in getting Renata killed—there’d be no convincing him that it was, in fact, unlocked. My stomach tightened as I dragged my finger across his desk, slipping into a necessary skin, but one I loathed, and came to a stand in front of it. “The truth is, Michael. I can’t stop thinking about last night.” The approach was tricky. I’d made it a point not to express any measure of enjoyment when it came to sex with him. “There’s … something about fucking on your desk. Ruining your perfect papers, with your cum dripping down my back. I like to destroy your important things that way.” I had to stifle the urge to throw up in my mouth. Jesus Christ, the thought of his cum dripping off of me made my skin itch.

The short span of eternity that followed had goose bumps forming on my skin. He’s not buying it. He’s not buying it.

“Perhaps we’ll revisit this conversation later this evening.” I could almost feel his eyes scanning me for any degree of deviation from the truth. “We’ll be late for the charity ball.”