Behind Her Smile (9 page)

Staring into his sincere, ocean-colored eyes, my resolve wobbles. Only a fool would turn this man down.

On one hand, I’m ecstatic that he wants to commit to me. David is offering unconditional love—something I didn’t consider in the realm of possibility for my life. Love is the most tempting fruit, and, yes, his love tempts me. Husband and wife. I could have a partner. I wouldn’t be alone anymore if I marry this spectacular man. On the other hand, I don’t think I’m ready to get married. I haven’t graduated from college, I have a ton of student debt, and this is the longest relationship I’ve ever had. I haven’t experienced life—I haven’t touched the Pacific Ocean or had a one-night stand or gone on a cross-country road trip.

“Listen to me, David. I love you, and I’m not leaving you. We don’t have to make this decision on the day of your family’s funeral. There’s time for us to make this commitment when our emotions aren’t running high.” Even though I say this as gently as I can, all the sincerity in his expression darkens into anger.

“You don’t know that,” he argues. “Are you hearing me? One moment, my family was here, and the next, they were fucking fireworks over Raleigh. Karolina, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to run the family empire with you as my empress. If you don’t want that, speak up now so we can cut our losses.”

I stare at him with open-mouthed shock. His words don’t contain one ounce of uncertainty. I don’t doubt for a second that if I told him I wanted something different, he’d demand Carlo drop me off at home and never call me again. The decision is almost laughably easy. Be someone special, the most special, to a man like David Morgan or return to my lonely little life.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“What does that mean?” he growls.

“Yes to everything you said. I want all that, too. I don’t want to lose you either, David.” I would rather be with him in rushed marriage nuptials than not have him at all.

“Then it’s done. We’ll get married in a month’s time,” he says with finality and a nod of his head.

W
hen I come to some undetermined amount of time later, I’m bound to a chair in David’s office, sitting adjacent to him. Darkness still cloaks the room. The right side of my face throbs from my unfortunate encounter with the unrelenting gun. I’m unable to open my eye completely, as it swelled while I was unconscious. I am thankful that no symptoms of nausea plague me; a good sign that I don’t have a concussion. There aren’t any ties around my legs; I can wiggle my toes against the carpet and rotate my ankles.

Swallowing back the mounting fear, I take in my surroundings.

David doesn’t notice I’m awake yet. He’s staring,
hard
, at the man with the closely cropped hair who sits in the four-thousand-dollar chocolate leather sofa the decorator put on the wall opposite his foreboding walnut desk. After his parents had died, David decided that we should move into their home. The house was part of the makeup of the Morgan DNA, he told me. And as the man at the helm of Morgan Financial, he couldn’t live anywhere else. As his wife, David left the interior decorating to an insanely overpaid designer and me. For a moment, I’m lost in the memory of David approving the designs as I stood next to his desk nervously waiting for him to sign off. Back then, I hated to disappoint my husband.

“Yo, Cox, get your ass out here,” the other man shouts from outside of the office. Cox, the bald man, jumps to his feet and prowls out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

“We need to find the generator,” the Latino says.

Their boots clunk against the marble floors. These must be the dumbest crooks in Miami for leaving us all alone in here. My husband is a man of considerable strength. Surely, they figured that out when they tied him to the chair.

“David,” I hiss.

His head whips to the side, and he stares at me in shock. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to know they’re trying to find the generator. I guess they figured out the safes are all digital, and they need the power to open them.”

David jerks his head back toward his desk. “They tried to get into the safe in here but couldn’t figure it out. Fucking idiots. Listen—”

“We have to figure out a way to get out of here,” I say urgently, not caring that I interrupt whatever he was about to say. “This chair isn’t terribly heavy. I can wiggle over to you and maybe you can figure out a way to untie me.”

“Shut up, Karolina,” David snaps.

“Don’t tell me to shut up!” I’m loud. Shrill. Remembering that there are two armed robbers in the house, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Why aren’t you doing anything? David, they have guns.”

“Exactly, you moron. This isn’t an episode of television. I don’t have a pair of cable cutters in my back pocket to save the day. These guys are professionals. They know their way around our house, and they know their way around hostage scenarios. And, as you so brilliantly noted, they have guns. If we want to make it out of here alive, we need to play by their rules. That means shut up and let me do the talking. You’ve already pissed them off and have the black and blue marks to prove it.”

“You always find a way to talk down to me. Even in a crisis of epic proportions, you treat me like some stupid hick. Fuck you, David.” I spit the words at him. I feel a freedom knowing that he’s tied to a chair. Whatever I say won’t end with a backhand or kick in the ribs. This time, my husband can’t physically hurt me in retaliation.

“You really are an idiot,” he scowls.

“And you married me,” I return sweetly. “What does that make you?”

David chuckles evilly, shaking his head. At that moment, I realize David’s missing something: fear. He exudes no uncertainty.
He has a plan,
I realize with a mixture of relief and dread. Some married couples know what the other is thinking simply by making eye contact. Our relationship doesn’t operate like that. Some days—no, most days—I barely know the man who sleeps beside me. I have no idea what he could be plotting.

I open my mouth to interrogate him when the sound of heavy boots draws closer. “When this is all over, I’m leaving you, David. We’re getting a divorce, and I never want to see you again,” I seethe. Apparently, I’m brave in a crisis. On some instinctual level, I wanted to divorce David almost immediately after we got married, but I never had the courage to say the words out loud. I’m still young, only twenty-seven; I can make a new life for myself. Living on the streets would be better than this gilded prison.

Cox stomps into the office, pausing in the entryway. Pleased that we haven’t moved since he left a few minutes ago, he goes back to the couch to sit. He watches us with hard eyes and his arms crossed over his muscled chest. A few minutes later, light flickers into the room, and I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

If David doesn’t want to share his plan with me, then I need to come up with one of my own. Trying hard not to draw attention to myself, I glance around the room for inspiration. Something to . . . A buzzing at Cox’s hip makes him glance down momentarily at his cell phone. Leaning back with all the power I have, I hoof myself—chair included–toward the ground. My back arches under the strain of the chair.

“Ouch!” I cry.
Brilliant plan,
I chastise myself. It takes all about two seconds to make me realize I have no clue what I’m doing.

“Do you
want
me to put you out of your misery?” Cox snarls as he crouches down beside the chair. He places one hand on my shoulder and the other on the back of the seat, pushing me roughly into a seated position. All the while, I fight him, twisting and growling in a feeble attempt to escape.

“She’s more trouble than she’s worth.” The Latino reappears.

“If it’s money you want, I can give you access to the safes,” David speaks up suddenly. My stomach twists. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. Somehow, I know what he’s going to say before he says it.
Please don’t be this wicked,
I silently beg.

“My friend, that’s exactly what the big bosses want,” The Latino says mockingly.

My body starts to shake violently. All the way from my chattering teeth to my shivering toes.

“Let’s make a deal. You get rid of her, and I’ll give you whatever you want. No questions asked, no press, no cops, no nothing. Karolina’s the only loose end.”

The Latino watches me pensively. “You want me to kill your wife,” he drawls.

Without hesitation, David answers.

“Yes.”

A
s a young girl, I didn’t dream of getting married. Poring through issues of
Vogue,
I imagined becoming a world-renowned dress designer. As a Diane von Furstenberg, Elie Saab, or Monique Lhuillier, my gowns would grace runways and elite department stores. The designs would be coveted and produced in small quantities. Stars on the red carpet at Hollywood award ceremonies would wear Karolina. My brilliant designs would propel me into the fashion stratosphere. There would be no limit for my career. Watch out Anna Wintour, Karolina Adamchik is going to wow you beyond belief. No prince on a white horse would rescue me from the trailer park. I would rescue myself by working hard, earning a degree, and paying my own bills. I didn’t need a man because I had the power to make my own dreams come true.

Any therapist would probably say my tumultuous, impoverished youth shaped my strong desire to be financially secure. The time I spent chasing my fashion dreams didn’t allow me to ponder the emotional side of the coin. As strongly as I yearn to make my name known in the fashion industry, I’ve uncovered another yearning just as strong—the craving for love. That craving probably explains what I’m about to do.

Today is my wedding day.

Love surpassed my career plans. It only took a few weeks for my priorities to rearrange. The last time I attended class or went to work was last month, the day before I learned David’s parents and brother died. At first, I missed class because I was busy with planning the memorial. Then David recruited me to organize the sale of his and Chandler’s condos so we could move into his parents’ home. Furniture needed to be sold and donated. Clothing had to go to Goodwill. Immediately after that, David decided to throw a benefit dinner in honor of his parents and to raise money for underprivileged children.

“As my wife, you should be the face of the fundraiser,” he insisted.

“But, David, I have no experience putting together this type of event,” I argued.

“There are plenty of party planners salivating at the chance to associate themselves with the Morgan name. One of them will do all the work,” he responded. Like most everything else, I caved at this reasonable explanation. Somehow, David has the perfect answer to every one of my disputes. Jokingly, I asked him if he went to law school when I wasn’t looking. In the middle of learning to communicate with real estate brokers and interviewing event planners, I was making a lace mini dress for the first wedding.

Because the ceremony is going to be informal, I’m wearing something short. The guipure lace mini dress has a sheer front panel between the valley of my breasts. There is a cutout in the back to add a playful twist to the silhouette. The dress fits at the bodice and flares out from the waist into an A-line skirt. The shoes are nude, pointy-toe Valentino pumps David surprised me with last night. I swept my hair into a high bun near the crown of my head to reveal the detail in the back of the dress. David has no idea what I’m wearing, and I hope to please him with the flirty dress.

There are only a few minutes until he expects me downstairs for the tiny ceremony. The justice of the peace is downstairs talking to David, I presume, while I finish the final details of my appearance. I study myself critically in the vanity mirror where I’m applying a shiny coat of nude lip-gloss. This is not what I envisioned my wedding to be like. When I think of a wedding, there are bridesmaids and a long flowing backless gown. I picture the bride and groom writing their own wedding vows with hearts so full they could burst.

Happiness doesn’t surround this wedding. The commitment was borne out of a tragedy. I can’t help but feel the weight of that sadness crushing down on my shoulders. David promised me a bigger wedding in a few months, one where we can invite our friends and write our own vows. But, for the time, he says it may give the wrong appearance to get married this quickly after the plane crash.
Then why rush it?
I still wonder. But when David sets his mind to something, there’s very little that can sway him.