Chapter 9: The Study

The headline ran Wednesday morning.

GALLERY WIFE'S SECOND ACT: HOW A CEO'S SPOUSE KEEPS HER JOB.

The story quoted "a source close to the gallery."

The source said I had my position through marriage and had been "difficult" with the new director.

I read it at the desk, and my hands were so cold I could barely turn the page.

Nobody on the staff said a word.

At the end of the day the registrar left a mint on my keyboard.

That was all.

I took a cab home instead of the car Scott had offered.

The townhouse was dark except for the light under his study door.

I didn't knock.

He was sitting at the big oak desk with his jacket off and the paper spread in front of him.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbow.

He looked up, and I saw that he had been reading it for a long time.

"I called their editor," he said.

"Don't."

"I haven't done anything. I called him and said I'd answer questions about my wife at any hour."

He rubbed his jaw.

"He said they'd print a correction."

"Scott."

"I'm not fighting it for you. I'm telling you where I stand."

I shut the door behind me and locked it.

His eyes followed my hand on the lock.

"Come here," he said.

I crossed the room.

I was so angry I was almost shaking, and I couldn't tell any longer whether it was at Blair, or the paper, or myself.

I stopped in front of the desk.

"I want you to stop being so reasonable," I said.

"Do you?"

"I want you to look at me like you did in the kitchen."

He stood up.

He walked around the desk and took my chin in his hand.

"Like this?"

"Yes."

"You want me to stop being polite."

"Yes."

"Then say it."

"Take me, Scott. Right now. I don't want to think."

His mouth closed on mine.

He backed me against the desk and swept the paper off it with one arm.

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