But that was what men like that did, didn’t they? They isolated the woman they wanted to own from her friends and family until she had no one but the guy to rely on. Whoever this Geoffrey was, Marcus was liking him less and less. That was saying something, because Marcus had begun to really loathe the faceless, nameless man in Della’s life without even knowing for sure one existed.
He scrolled through more screens until he found the one that contained her photographs and clicked on those. There weren’t a lot, but there were enough to tell him more about her. Several of the photos were pictures of Della with a trio of other women, all about her age. But it took him a few moments to realize one of the women in the pictures was Della, since she looked different than she did now—her hair was short and black, not the shoulder-length deep gold it was now. But why would she cover up a color like that? Or wear it so short?
Women.
Judging by the length of her hair now, the photos on her phone must be at least a year old. In a few of them, Della and the other women were dressed in business attire and seated at a table with girly-looking drinks sitting in front of them, appearing as if they were blowing off steam at the end of a workday. Okay, so Della had a job and wasn’t necessarily the idle socialite he’d thought her to be. It didn’t mean she hadn’t come from money. She might have even been a client of some kind of one or more of the other women.
Scrolling further down through the pictures, Marcus finally found what he was looking for. Photos of Della, still with short, dark hair, seated with a man on a beach somewhere. A man who looked old enough to be her father, but who was good-looking and fit. Obviously very rich. Obviously very powerful. Obviously very married.
Marcus knew those things about the guy because he knew the guy’s type. Too well. He worked and dealt with men like him every day. A lot of them were his friends. This had to be Geoffrey. Who else would it be? No one else in Della’s contact list was identified informally by first name except for her girlfriends.
He navigated to her call list and saw that the last time Geoffrey had called Della was three nights ago. The last time Della had called him was yesterday morning. And the morning before that. And the morning before that. He kept scrolling. She’d called Geoffrey every single morning, weekday or weekend, always either at nine o’clock or within minutes before or after that hour.
Whoever Geoffrey was, he was keeping tabs on her. And he was making sure she was the one who called him, not the other way around. Another way to exert his control over her. Della hadn’t made or received phone calls from anyone else for more than three months, at least, that was how far back her call log went. Whoever this guy was, he’d had her disconnected from her friends and family for a long time.
Was that why she had come to Chicago? To escape an abusive lover? But she’d told Marcus last night that one night was all she could give him, and she’d phoned Geoffrey yesterday, so obviously this guy wasn’t out of her life yet.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was approaching 8:45 a.m. In fifteen minutes, Della would have to make her obligatory daily call. But it was a safe bet she wouldn’t do it unless Marcus was out of the room—not if she didn’t want him to overhear her. He’d been planning to take a shower after she was finished, but now he was thinking maybe he’d wait a bit. ‘Til, say, well after nine o’clock. It would be interesting to see how Geoffrey—whoever the hell he was—would react to Della’s lack of cooperation. Maybe he’d call her instead. And that, Marcus thought, was something he definitely wanted to be around for.
It wasn’t so much that he wanted to confirm his suspicions that Della was attached to another man in some way—a thought that made the breakfast he’d consumed rebel on him. It was because if someone was mistreating her, whether emotionally or mentally or physically, Marcus wanted to know about it. Then he wanted to know the guy’s full name. And address. So he could hop in his car the minute the roads were clear, and beat the holy hell out of the guy.
When the shower cut off, Marcus hastily closed the phone and returned it to Della’s purse with her other belongings. Then he placed it on the dresser in exactly the same position it had been before. Quickly, he grabbed the newspaper that had been brought up with breakfast and returned to the bed, picked up his coffee and pretended to read.
By the time Della emerged from the shower wrapped in her blue robe again and scrubbing her damp hair with a towel, he’d managed to stow the rage he’d begun to feel for that son of a bitch Geoffrey—at least for the time being.
“The shower is all yours,” she said as she drew nearer to the bed.
“Thanks,” Marcus replied without looking up from the paper.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her glance at the clock. Mere minutes away from nine. He kept his gaze fixed blindly on the newspaper.
Della’s agitation at his tepid response was an almost palpable thing. “You, ah, you might want to hurry. You wouldn’t want them to run out of hot water.” He looked up long enough to see her shift her weight nervously from one foot to the other. “Since it looks like no one will be checking out today. There are probably quite a few people using the shower.”
He turned his attention back to the paper. “I don’t think a hotel like the Ambassador got to be a hotel like the Ambassador by running out of hot water on its guests. It’ll be fine.”
“But still …”
“First I want to finish this article about—” Just what was he pretending to read, anyway? Damn. He’d picked up the Style section. “This article about the return of the, uh, the chunky metallic necklace,” he said, somehow without losing a drop of testosterone. “Wow, did those ever go out of style in the first place? And then,” he continued, “there were a couple of pieces in the Business section that looked even more interesting.” He looked at Della again and saw that panicked look from last night creeping into her expression. “It’s not like I have anywhere to go,” he said. “And it’s been a while since I’ve been able to take my time with the Sunday Tribune.”
“But.” Her voice trailed off without her finishing. “Okay. Then I’ll, ah, I’ll dry my hair.” She pointed halfheartedly over her shoulder. “I have a hairbrush in my purse.”
Marcus nodded, pretending to be absorbed by the fashion icon that was the chunky metallic necklace.
The moment her back was turned, though, he looked up in time to see her withdraw both her brush and phone from the purse, then stash the cell in her robe pocket. When she started to spin around again, he quickly moved his gaze to the paper.
“You know what?” she said suddenly. “I love ice in my orange juice, so I’m going to run down the hall and see if there’s an ice machine on this floor.”
And then, Marcus thought, she would duck into a stairwell to check in with the man who was trying to control her life.
“Call room service to bring some up,” he told her, still looking at the paper.
“I don’t want to trouble them with something like that. They must be busy getting everyone’s breakfast to them.”
Now Marcus put down the paper. “Then I’ll get some ice for you.”
“No,” she said, a little too quickly and a little too adamantly. She seemed to realize she’d overreacted, because she forced a smile and said, “I’m, ah, I’m starting to feel a bit of cabin fever. A little walk down the hall will be nice.”
“In your robe and bare feet?” he asked, dipping his head toward her attire—or lack thereof.
“No one will see,” she said as she began to sidestep toward the door. “Everyone else is probably sleeping in.”
“Not if they’re keeping