The phone buzzed again. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. It sounded like a countdown.
Calla lunged for it, desperate to silence the noise, to hide the evidence.
Christ's hand got there first. His long fingers slammed down on the phone, pinning it to the table.
"Answer it," he said. His voice was silky, terrifyingly calm. "Speakerphone."
Calla went pale. "Please. Christ. Don't let him know."
"Why?" Christ tilted his head. "Are you ashamed of your husband?"
"It's not that! He'll... he'll be so angry. Please."
Christ ignored her. He slid his finger across the screen and tapped the speaker icon.
"Calla?" Francis's voice filled the room. It was tight, laced with panic. "Where are you? Gemma said you left with some guy last night. Are you okay?"
Calla stared at the phone, her lungs paralyzed. Christ watched her, his finger tapping a rhythm on the glass table. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"I..." Calla swallowed dryly. "I'm okay, Francis. I'm at the hotel. I just... drank too much. I fell asleep."
"Which hotel? Are you alone? Who was the guy?" Francis fired the questions like bullets.
Calla looked at Christ. He was smirking. It was a cruel, cold expression. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His hand slid under the table.
His fingers brushed the bare skin of her inner thigh.
Calla jumped, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
"Calla?" Francis's voice sharpened. "What was that noise?"
Christ's hand moved higher. His thumb traced the sensitive skin just above her knee. He was watching her struggle, enjoying the torture.
"Nothing!" Calla said, her voice an octave too high. "It's... room service. They just brought breakfast."
Christ's eyes darkened at the lie. He picked up a silver fork and dropped it onto a ceramic plate. Clatter.
"Room service?" Francis sounded suspicious. "Is there a man in there?"
Calla grabbed Christ's wrist under the table, digging her nails in, begging him to stop. He didn't budge. He was solid rock.
"It's the TV!" she lied frantically. "I'm watching the news! It's loud!"
Francis let out a breath, a static sigh over the line. "Okay. Okay. Just... don't scare me like that, Cal. Come home. The jet is waiting. Annamarie is asking for you."
Calla flinched at the name. "Okay. I'm coming."
"Safe travels, sweet pea."
The line went dead.
Calla slumped in her chair, sweat beading on her forehead. She felt like she had just run a marathon.
Christ snatched the phone from the table. With a sudden, violent motion, he threw it against the far wall. It shattered on impact.
Calla screamed, jumping out of her chair.
"Room service?" Christ stood up, stalking around the table. He crowded her against the edge, his body radiating heat and fury.
"You'd rather lie to him than admit you belong to me?"
"It's complicated!" Calla cried, backing away until her hips hit the console table. "You know how he is! He's possessive! If he knew..."
"If he knew what?" Christ grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "That he lost? That his little girl is a woman now? My woman?"
"That he would be heartbroken!" Calla blurted out.
The words hung in the air.
Christ's face went blank. The anger vanished, replaced by that terrifying, dead calm.
"Heartbroken," he repeated flatly.
He released her chin as if touching her disgusted him.
"Pack your things," he said, turning his back on her. "We're going back to New York."
