hauled Amalie out for the public to see and admire at some function or other at the White House. And four times a year he took her back to France, so she could do new photo shoots for La Natural.
The time was 12:50. He’d called ahead to the housekeeper to have lunch served in the garden and make sure his wife was seated and waiting for him when he arrived. He had dictated the menu in a rapid tone, then cut the connection. There was no doubt in his mind that his instructions would be followed to the letter.
Moss galloped into the house and took the elevator to the third floor, where he’d set up the master suite. He washed his face and hands, combed his unruly locks, then admired his good looks for a full five minutes as he turned this way and that to make sure there was no excess flesh poking at his designer shirt. Mister Fitness Himself, thanks to a three-hour workout every morning and a twenty-mile run four days a week. The custom-made clothes completed his persona. He ate healthy, barely touched alcohol, and never smoked.
When he was satisfied with his appearance, he took the steps to the first floor. He walked at a leisurely pace through the solarium, then to the outdoor patio that led to a garden so rich with flowers one could get drunk on the scent alone. He rounded a path and saw his wife sitting upright at a small table set for two. She was wearing sunglasses.
Moss leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She flinched as he sat down, but he pretended not to notice. He removed her sunglasses and tossed them on the ground. Then he stomped on them. “What did I tell you about wearing sunglasses in my presence?”
“You told me not to wear them, Lincoln. But I didn’t think you’d want the staff to see what you did to me yesterday. Are you saying I made a mistake? If so, I’m sorry.”
Moss looked at his wife with clinical interest as he dug into his lobster ravioli, which appeared as if by magic. “You need to eat, Amalie, you’re getting bony. I forgot . . . I’ll have one of the maids bring you a new pair of sunglasses.” Then he laid his fork down and stared across the table at his wife. Amalie met his gaze. “Are you telling me with all that makeup you have upstairs you couldn’t cover up those bruises?”
“Perhaps tomorrow when the bruising turns yellow, it will cover it up. It doesn’t work when it’s dark purple the way it is now.”
“Well, we’re obviously going to have to call a meeting with our chemists and have them come up with something that will work. You need to eat. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Amalie dutifully picked up her fork and cut through one of the ravioli, hoping she didn’t choke on it. Her neck was still tender from where her husband had tried to choke her just days ago. Somehow, she managed to chew the pasta and lobster to a fine mush so that she could swallow it. She sipped from her wineglass so the food would slide down her bruised throat more easily.
“What did you do this morning, Amalie?”
“Not much. A little yoga. I read the paper. I ordered some books online. I thought you might like Robert Gates’s new book, so I ordered that for you.” She popped the other half of the ravioli into her mouth, hoping it would go down as easily as the first half.
“What are you going to do this afternoon?”
Amalie wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, I am going to plot your death in every way I can think of. Instead, she said, “I thought I’d stay out here in the garden and do a little reading. I thought about a swim. The water in the pool is just perfect now that it’s July. Unless there’s something you want me to do.”
“No. There’s nothing. Eat, Amalie. You need to put those nine pounds you lost back on. I’ll have the cook whip you up some nutritious milk shakes. You will drink them, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Amalie speared another ravioli and cut it in half. She managed to chew her way through it as she waited for whatever else was to come. She was so tense, she thought she would explode. She almost fainted in relief when her husband got up from