The Swap - Robyn Harding Page 0,30

or another. When Max didn’t answer, I rang again, and again, stabbing the button repeatedly. Still, no one came.

Fuck . . . Fuck, fuck, fuck. Max’s car was there, so he couldn’t be far. Maybe he was in the shower. Or out in the kayak, or windsurfing. I would go down to the beach and look for him, wave him to shore. If he wasn’t too far out, we’d still have time to talk before Freya returned. As I was making my way toward the water, I remembered Freya mentioning Max’s motorcycle. If he’d gone for a ride, he might not be back for hours. Damn it.

The sound of a door closing behind me stopped me in my tracks. I turned to see Max exiting the garage wearing a wet suit. Well, half a wet suit. The top of the neoprene garment hung around his waist, leaving his massive chest and shoulders bare. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face. He was a ridiculously attractive man, but I felt no lust, no attraction as I hurried toward him. All I wanted from him was the truth about what happened that night.

“Jamie,” he said, clearly surprised to see me. “Freya’s not here.”

“I know that,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Are you okay?”

I was about to say that no, I wasn’t okay. I was troubled, stressed, confused . . . And then I saw them. Those four precise puncture marks above his right nipple. I had felt them as I ran my hands over his body, as I kissed him, as I made love to him. It all came flooding back to me in a rush of heat and remorse.

“What happened that night?” I said, my voice barely a whisper, my face burning.

He let a heavy breath out through his nose, his handsome face troubled. “I’m sorry. I thought—” But he didn’t finish his sentence because we both heard it; a vehicle was approaching. Seconds later, Freya’s white SUV pulled up and stopped beside his dark model.

“Hey, you,” she chirped to me, hopping out of the Range Rover. “What are you doing here?” In her hand was a small bag from the day spa.

“Finally finished inventory,” I said. “I thought I’d sneak away for a quick cup of tea with you.”

“Great. Come on in.”

But I couldn’t. Because I knew what I had done with her husband, and yet, I was still wondering what she had done with mine. I needed clarity . . . But not from Freya.

“Low just texted,” I lied, already moving to my car. “The burglar alarm is going off and she put in the wrong code. It’s locked up. I’ve got to help her.”

“Oh no,” Freya said. “Let’s get together soon. We can all have dinner.”

“Yes. Definitely.” A quick wave to Max, then I backed up and peeled out of the driveway.

• • •

My husband was in his office, working on his manuscript . . . if staring at the screen while he stretched his arms overhead could be considered working on it.

“I’m plotting,” he always said, when I caught him staring at the floor or the ceiling or even his phone. He swiveled in his chair when I walked in.

“Hey, babe. What are you doing home?”

I hurried toward him and knelt beside him. “You know I love you. No matter what.”

He gave me a bemused smile. “I love you, too.”

“I’m going to ask you something. And I want you to be honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“The other night . . .” My voice faltered. “Did anything happen between you and Freya?”

“Anything like what?” Brian rolled his chair back a few inches. “What are you getting at?”

I cleared the knot from my throat. “I went to bed so early. I just wondered . . . if . . . you guys . . .”

“God, Jamie. We were on mushrooms not ecstasy.” He rolled forward and took me by the shoulders. “You know I have never wanted to be with anyone else. Since the day I met you . . . you’re the only one for me.”

Looking into his warm hazel eyes, I saw his sincerity. And I hated myself. “Sorry.” I sat back on my heels. “I guess the drugs made me paranoid.”

He kissed my forehead. “You don’t need to worry about me.” Then he swiveled back to face his manuscript.

So now I knew the truth. I had not participated in a consensual couples’ swap; I had betrayed my husband and my best friend. I should