C alvin Klein shirt, Gucci tie, and Armani suit, tailored to perfection. But going by Morris’s crestfallen expression in the full-length mirror at Romano’s Formal Wear, it still wasn’t perfect enough.
“I look like a jumbo-sized jelly bean.”
“Shush.” Sheila smoothed the lapels of Morris’s jacket and smiled up at him. Her neck muscles were strong. He was thirteen inches taller and she’d had lots of practice looking up at him over the past two years. “It looks great.”
Morris stared at his reflection, the space between his thick eyebrows creasing. He clearly didn’t agree.
Sheila sighed. “You look so handsome. I wish you could see yourself as I see you.”
The small Italian tailor who was fitting Morris’s jacket watched them intently, thin lips pursed. “You don’t like it?” Pietro’s eyes were microscopic behind his thick glasses. “Tell me what you don’t like and I fix.”
“We like it.” Sheila gave her fiancé a look, but Morris said nothing. She smiled warmly at the anxious tailor. “Would you mind giving us a minute?”
Pietro disappeared into the next room.
Sheila faced the mirror beside Morris, linking her arm through his. “Come on, babe. What’s the problem? It fits you perfectly.”
“I look nine months pregnant.”
“You’ve lost forty pounds! Why can’t you be proud of that?” Sheila couldn’t keep the dismay out of her voice. “You’ve been working so hard.”
“Yeah, well, I need to lose forty more.” Morris unbuttoned the suit jacket, exposing the crisp white tuxedo shirt underneath. “Be honest. Would I look thinner with a vest or a cummerbund?”
He was joking, but it wasn’t funny. Sheila touched his hand and his fingers closed reflexively around her palm. Big, capable man though he was, he still struggled with his body image. He might be a bulldog walking into a boardroom filled with millionaire investors, but inside, he was a giant marshmallow.
She loved him for this paradox. It made him real. Human.
Cupping her chin, he tilted her face upward and kissed her.
“Hey, ever done it in a change room?” he stage-whispered.
A zingy reply was on the tip of her tongue, but a discreet cough interrupted her thoughts. They pulled apart to see Pietro standing in the corner of the change area looking completely uncomfortable. Morris’s face flushed a deep red, and Sheila put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you beautiful couple, but my shift end in five minute. You want I fix something or is everything okay?” The tailor fidgeted, tape measure in hand, ready to act quickly at the slightest indication of dissatisfaction.
Sheila glanced at Morris. He was still flushed. “The tuxedo is wonderful, Pietro. Perfect the way it is.”
The little man beamed. “Excellent. That make me very happy. You need handkerchief? Cuff links? You want I fit you for cummerbund?”
Morris frowned slightly, touching the French cuffs of the shirt he was wearing. “I don’t think so, my friend. I’m kind of partial to the James Bond look, no cummerbund, no vest. But I’ll come back if I change my mind.”
Pietro’s smile grew wider. “Okay. I give final price to cashier. Thank you for your business, and, please, you tell everyone who needs good suit that your friend Pietro is the best.”
Sheila thanked him. Morris was still fingering the empty holes at the end of his sleeves where his cuff links should go.
“You didn’t bring any with you?” Sheila pointed to the naked French cuffs. “You must have a dozen.”
“Yeah, but there’s only one pair I would’ve worn for the wedding.” Morris’s face was glum. “I lost one of the cuff links Randall gave me. I looked everywhere-I don’t know what the hell happened. I know I had them on last week. I would’ve worn them for the Okinawa conference call this morning, but I could only find one.”
Morris always wore his monogrammed platinum cuff links when he was working on a particularly difficult business transaction. They’d been a Christmas gift from all three of his sons, back when he was still drinking and married to their mother. The cuff links were special. Shortly after that Christmas, Lenore had filed for divorce and his oldest son, Randall, had stopped speaking to him.
That had been over five years ago.
“I’m sure it’s somewhere at your house.” Sheila squeezed his arm. “It probably rolled under the bed or behind the bureau or something. I’ll help you look tonight.”
She shooed him back into the changing room to undress. When he pulled the curtain closed, she dug into her purse and fished out her BlackBerry.
No new e-mails. Damn. Nothing from Randall.
She’d been trying to get hold of Morris’s estranged son for weeks. But he hadn’t lived in the United States for years and wasn’t an easy man to track down. Randall Gardener’s work with Amnesty International had taken him to seven different countries in the past decade, and while Amnesty kept solid records of where their people were at all times, they were stingy about giving out that information. Sheila had been forced to get creative, sneaking into Morris’s address book to contact his other two sons-Stephen, a high school football coach in Orlando, and Phillip, a grad student in San Francisco-to see if maybe they could help. Neither brother had heard from Randall in months.
Frustrated, Sheila stuck her phone back in her purse. While she was fine spending her Sunday helping Morris search for his missing cuff link, the best wedding present she could give him was Randall. The wedding was four weeks away and she was running out of time-and ideas. The thought of speaking to Lenore, Randall’s mother and Morris’s ex-wife, wasn’t too appealing.
She left Morris in the changing area and headed toward the cashier’s counter at the front of the store. Angling her way past the racks of men’s suits and tuxedos, she took her place in line behind a young couple complaining loudly to the frazzled clerk.
Trying to tune them out, Sheila mentally strategized her next move. Dammit, she had no choice but to call Lenore in Texas. She shuddered; that was bound to be an awkward conversation. Morris and his ex hadn’t parted amicably, and Sheila wasn’t even sure if the woman was aware her ex-husband was getting remarried.
Her thoughts were disrupted by a movement at the store window. Through the fancily dressed mannequin displays, Sheila caught a glimpse of a face, blurry through the rain-streaked glass. The little hairs at the back of her neck suddenly pricked.
Someone was watching her.
She strode to the double glass doors where there was a clear view of the street. The man was already walking away. The rain made it difficult to see clearly, but something about him was familiar. Her breath caught in her throat.
She watched through the watery glass as the man sauntered down the wet sidewalk toward his green and chrome motorcycle, hands stuck casually in the pockets of his worn jeans. Zipping up his leather jacket, he threw a leg over the bike and slid a shiny black helmet over his short, mussed hair.
That walk. Those jeans. The scuffed leather jacket bought used from a secondhand shop on Howell Street. Somewhere on the sleeve of that jacket was a streak of red permanent marker where she’d accidentally bumped his arm while grading papers.
She’d know him anywhere.
Her BlackBerry pinged at that moment, but she kept her eyes focused on Ethan as he sped away. When he was completely out of sight, she pulled out her phone and saw she had one new text message.
He must have sent it while he was at the window. There were no words, only an attachment. She clicked on it, waiting the three seconds it took for it to download, her heart beating so hard she could feel her pulse throbbing in her temple.
The photo was small and grainy, but it was irrefutable. Her back was to the camera, as was her naked ass, but there was no doubt it was Sheila on all fours, looking back with a smile as Ethan took her from behind.
A still shot from their sex video. The one she’d been so sure he didn’t have.
Her life, as she knew it, was over.