“Find this firm. Send three tactical teams to State Street in Boston. I want Brooks hauled out of his bed and brought to my office before the markets open!”
Before Collins could respond, the heavy walnut double doors of the master bedroom pushed inward with a sharp, arrogant creak.
Walking into the room, wearing an ankle-length white cashmere robe over a silk nightgown, her blonde hair falling across her bare shoulders in loose, calculated waves, was Vivian Cross.
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On the fourth finger of her left hand blazed the eleven-point-four-carat diamond ring Marcus had placed there four hours ago at the Bellamy Hotel.
“Marcus, darling,” Vivian sighed, running a manicured hand across her eyes with an irritated, theatrical yawn:
“The drivers are waiting downstairs. Your security guards have been shouting into their radios for forty minutes. What is this pathetic domestic melodrama? Did your little housewife stage another hysterical runaway act because you missed dinner?”
