Claimed by the Hunk

Chapter 7

Seven years later

Samael Lowell stared at the rolling digits on the gas pump, willing the damn thing to finish filling his tank so he could get back on the road. He had a nine-o’clock appointment with an up-and-coming country-and-western

band who could become regular clients—if this first recording session went well. Being late would be an awesome start to their relationship—the rule was, it was okay for the talent to be late, but not the sound engineer. That was simply the way the world worked.

It was exactly like his wife, Allison, to suggest they swap cars for the day and not notice her Mini was low on fuel.

It wouldn’t have even crossed her mind to check last night on her way home from work, let alone before she took off in his wagon this morning. Just as she never seemed to be aware when she used the last of the hot water or put an empty milk carton back in the fridge.

He frowned, annoyed by the whiny, resentful tone to his own thoughts. Admittedly, he wasn’t exactly a dream to live with, either. He left his shoes to clutter up the bedroom floor and liked to drink juice straight from the container.

Sometimes he even left whiskers around the sink after he’d finished shaving. Tolerating another person’s little habits and preferences was part of marriage, and getting bent out of shape about the small stuff was a surefire way to make himself—and Allison—miserable.

The pump hit the thirty-buck mark and he called it quits—half a tank was more than enough to get him where he needed to go. He leaned into the car to grab his wallet, but it was nowhere to be seen. He swore under his breath.

Why did keys, passports and wallets always go missing when time was at a premium?

He crawled into the car, checking first the floor, then under the seats. He found his wallet wedged between the passenger seat and the door, along with a fistful of crumpled papers and an empty chocolate-bar wrapper. He pulled it all out, dumping the trash in the nearby bin before hustling inside to pay.

He tossed his wallet onto the passenger seat when he returned to the car, his gaze gravitating to the lone piece of trash he’d missed. He reached for it impatiently, the neat freak in him unable to leave a job half-done, even though he was running late. The curse of the detail-minded.

He was about to lob the crumpled piece of paper through the open car window and into the garbage when something caught his eye: a line of dark printing, visible from the wrong side of the paper.

The Annandale Motel.

Huh? He smoothed the paper flat on his thigh. Sure enough, it was a receipt for a queen room for one night, along with minibar expenses—a bottle of wine, a package of pretzels. Total $187.50.

Everything in him went very still.

The date was Wednesday of last week. The same day Allison was supposed to have given singing lessons to one of her many private clients, followed by a girls’ night out with her friends.

There had to be an explanation. Maybe the receipt had fallen out of one of her friend’s bags. Maybe—

Someone tooted the horn behind him. He was blocking the exit. Feeling oddly disconnected from his body, he shoved the car into gear and drove out of the service station, turning onto the nearest street and pulling over. He read the receipt again, his gut churning. Looking for proof that what he was thinking was impossible.

The last four digits of a credit-card number were printed below the total. He grabbed his phone and launched his banking app. He and Allison had separate accounts, but he knew her access code, the same as she knew his. His hands were shaking as he punched in her number then waited while the program processed his request.

Finally the screen filled with data. He scrolled through until he found last Wednesday’s transactions. His hand tightened on the phone when he found a p*****t to the

Annandale Motel for $187.50.

Not a mistake, then.

Allison was having an affair.

He felt… He didn’t know how he felt. Angry. Shocked.

Disgusted. Hurt. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

He bowed his head, trying to think. Trying to get past the tight, hot sensation in his chest.

They’d been married six years. Their relationship wasn’t perfect, but this was real life, not some fairy tale. Marriage was tough, and he’d signed up for the long haul because he loved Allison and because he wanted to grow old with her.

And she’d cheated on him. She’d gone to some sleazy motel and slept with some other man and then come home and lied to him.

He started the car and drove in the opposite direction of the studio. He knew exactly where Allison was—teaching vocal lessons to a bunch of overprivileged kids on the North Shore. Battling his way through rush-hour traffic, he focused on getting to her. He needed to talk to her. Needed answers. Beyond that… He had no idea.

His phone rang as he exited the freeway and headed into Cremorne. Caller ID told him it was Rex, his business partner.

“Where are you?” Rex said the moment he took the call.

“I’m not going to make the session,” Samael said.

Someone cut in front of him and he leaned on the horn, a surge of fury rocketing through him. He wanted to put the pedal to the floor, wanted to blast past all this traffic so that he could be there, standing in front of Allison, looking into her face. So he could know for sure if this nightmare was real or some kind of messed-up misunderstanding.

“What do you mean you’re not going to make it? You’re the one who roped these guys in, Sam.”

“I think Allison’s having an affair.” The words were thick in his throat, so thick he didn’t know how he got them out.

“What?”

“I found a receipt in the car. I’m going to talk to her.” Rex swore. “Mate, do you think that’s a good idea?”

Samael laughed. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

He had to know. Now.

“Okay. I’ll cover for you. Somehow.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Don’t worry about it. And…look after yourself, okay?Call me when you know more.”

Samael tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and concentrated on driving. Twenty minutes later he pulled into the parking lot at Cremorne School for Girls. He could see his wagon sitting halfway down the row. He parked the Mini and got out. His legs felt strange as he made his way into the school, as though they belonged to someone else.

It was easy enough to find the music wing, and once there he simply zigzagged along the corridor, looking through the window of each door, searching for Allison’s familiar dark head.

He found her midway down the hall, dread thudding in his gut like a bass drum.

He watched her for a moment, aware of the adrenaline firing his pulse. She was demonstrating a breathing technique, one hand on her diaphragm, the other gesturing in the air. She wore slim, thigh-hugging jeans tucked into tan knee-high boots and a green asymmetrical top that hinted at her spectacular cleavage. She looked beautiful and vibrant.

His wife. The liar.

He opened the door. Allison turned toward him, a confused smile curving her mouth when she saw him.

“Sam. What are you doing here?”

“Can I have a minute?”

Her smile dropped like a rock as she registered his tone.

She glanced at the class.

“I won’t be a minute, girls. Go over the chorus again, and concentrate on your breathing.”

She joined him, her gray eyes wide with panic. She grabbed his jacket sleeve. “It’s not Mum, is it? God, please tell me it’s not Mum.”

Her mother, Naomi, had had a minor stroke several months ago and Allison had convinced herself it was the beginning of the end.

“She’s fine, as far as I know.” He pulled the motel receipt from his pocket and handed it to her.

Was it his imagination, or did she blanch as she read it?

It seemed to take forever for her gaze to return to his.

“I found it in your car today,” he said.

She opened her mouth and he knew from the look on her face and in her eyes that she was about to lie. Funny that he could see it now. When it was too late.

“I checked the account,” he added.

There was a small pause.

“Sam. I’m so sorry.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Who is he?”

“Does it matter?”

“Who. Is. He?”

She swallowed, a single tear snaking down her cheek.

“I was with Nick.”

Shock was a physical thing, rocking him back on his heels.

“Nick?”

Of all the men in her life—in their life—Nick was the last person Samael would have suspected. Nick had been their band manager in the early days, and he and Allison had gone out for two tumultuous, tempestuous years. Nick had broken her heart and crushed her spirit and when things had finally ended, Samael had been the one to help her pick up the pieces.

Nick was the past, a face they saw occasionally at other people’s parties and barbecues. A mistake Allison had openly regretted more times than Samael could count.

And yet she’d slept with him last Wednesday.

Allison wiped the tears from her face. There was something about the way she was watching him that made the tightness in his chest ratchet even tighter.

“How long?” The question came from his gut, inspired by pure, primitive instinct.

She closed her eyes, as though she couldn’t bear to look at him as she—finally—spoke the truth. “Since he and Lucy broke up. On and off.”

“Jesus.” Samael took a step backward, blinking rapidly, struggling to get his head around that news.

Lucy and Nick had broken up five years ago, barely six months after Samael and Allison had returned from their honeymoon.

Five years. Allison had been sleeping with her ex, screwing around behind Samael’s back for five years.

He felt as though the world had shifted beneath his feet.

Everything he thought he knew about her, about their marriage,

about himself was suddenly as insubstantial as dust.

Five years.

That was when it hit him—nothing would ever be the same again.