whether to cry, scream, or throw up. She suddenly realized why he had been so encouraging of her spending time with her sisters at the ranch.
She went through the drawer and didn’t find anything else, but that was enough. There was no thong underwear under the bed, and feeling even sicker, she went around the bed, and checked the drawer in Peter’s night table, where she found half a dozen gynecological photographs of the same girl, which left nothing to the imagination. He had obviously forgotten the photographs in the drawer, or didn’t know they were there. She sat on her bed, feeling paralyzed, and burst into tears. She lay there for what seemed like hours, and then got up, washed her face, didn’t bother to change as she had planned, put the photographs from his drawer in the stack with the others, and sat in a chair in the living room, waiting for him to come home. She had no idea what she was going to say to him, or where to go from here. Should she leave him, divorce him, move out, throw him out, demand an explanation, or call a lawyer? There was nothing he could say to undo what she’d found. It was obvious what had gone on in their bed while she was away. And how often had it happened before? Every time he said he had to work late on a deal, was he cheating on her? Had he done it before? Despite his natural reserve, and cool conservative demeanor, and his long working hours, she had always believed that their marriage was solid and he loved her. She had always thought he was completely trustworthy, and clearly he wasn’t. She felt as though her heart had broken in a million pieces that afternoon. Was he in love with Veronica Ashton, or just having sex? Or did that even matter?
She heard his key in the door at seven-thirty. He walked into the living room and saw her there, came across the floor in rapid strides, picked her up and swung her around with obvious delight, and was about to kiss her, when she pushed him away and stood staring at him. He hadn’t realized at first that she was limp in his arms and not responding.
“What’s wrong?” he said with a puzzled look.
“Everything,” she said in a small tight word, and stepped away from him.
“What does that mean?” He sounded hurt when he said it, and she turned to face him again.
“Why don’t you tell me what it means, Peter?” Her voice sounded cold and jagged.
“I’ve missed you. I was excited to see you. Why are you upset?”
Without saying a word, she walked into their bedroom, opened the drawer in her bed table, gathered up the photos, the condoms, the lube, and the datebook and walked back into the living room and handed them to him. He stood juggling them for a minute as the blood drained from his face. Clearly, he recognized them.
“The pictures are great, by the way, terrific angles. You get a really good view. I didn’t call her to return the datebook, although her numbers are in it. I thought I’d let you do that.”
“Caro, I can explain,” he started, with the oldest line of all cheaters, and she held up a hand to stop him.
“No, you can’t. One picture is worth a thousand words, your penis, with a heart around it, her vagina, some interesting positions, condoms, lube, what part of that do you want to explain, how you took the pictures? Or that you had a stunt double screwing her? For chrissake, don’t make a fool of both of us. One is enough, and I’m it.”
“I was lonely. It was stupid. I was drunk and I called an escort service. It’s never happened before,” he said, sounding lame and unconvincing.
“Jesus, you must think I’m brain-dead. Escort service girls don’t put their datebooks in someone else’s night table, and you don’t look drunk to me, and frankly I don’t care if you were drunk or sober. You’re as big a liar as my father,” she raged at him. “You had that girl staying here, in my bed, using my night table, fucking my husband.”
“Who told you that?” He looked panicked.
“You’re pathetic. Get out of my house. I was happy I was going to see you too. For about five minutes, until I opened my night table.”
“You’re not serious about wanting me to leave?” She looked at his