Bound to be Dirty (2 page)

Last year, when she'd first suspected he might be having an affair, she had protected her body. She'd lied and told him she'd gone off the pill for health reasons so he had to wear a condom.

How bitterly ironic, to be using both condoms and the pill when the thing she most wanted in the world was children. Since she was a little girl, she'd known she wanted to be a mom. Now that want had become a soul-deep craving. Every time she held her baby niece, her biological clock ticked faster.

Though she and Dax hadn't discussed having kids in years, she'd assumed they'd have a family when the time was right. His genes should make wonderful babies; he was smart, courageous, strong, fit, and handsome. What he wasn't was
there
for her. She had to find out how he felt, how she felt, what they were going to do about their faltering marriage.

Stop thinking about Dax!

She'd been listening with half an ear as Marielle talked about family plans and holiday parties. Now Marielle said, “How about you, George? It's your first Christmas with Woody. He'll be in town, right?” The redhead's fiancé was captain of the Beavers, the Vancouver hockey team.

“Yes, thank heavens, what with home games and days off. We're hosting Christmas at our place.” George had moved into Woody's penthouse condo in Yaletown this fall.

“Is his mom coming?” Lily asked. Woody's mother had almost died of cancer, but was now in remission. He'd bought her a house in Florida and paid for a live-in caregiver companion.

“No, her health is still too fragile for a trip north, but we'll Skype with her. My mom and her guy Fabio will come over. We're being hopelessly old-fashioned—the girls cooking dinner; the boys watching football. A few of Woody's teammates will be there. And a couple of special guests from Manitoba. Sam was Woody's best friend and hockey buddy as kids, and his father, Martin, was Woody's mentor and coach. They had some issues for a while, but they've reconciled.”

“Nice,” Kim said. “That's the Christmas spirit.”

George turned to Lily. “How about you? Do you and your husband have any Christmas traditions?”

Arguing over whether they really had to go to her parents' house, which they always ended up doing, which spoiled Christmas Day. “My parents have a family dinner at noon.” It was formal and more filled with parental fault-finding than with Christmas spirit. But she hated to say no to her parents. Bad enough that she, the daughter of a neurosurgeon mom and a cardiologist dad, had chosen the less prestigious field of family medicine and had married a guy from the wrong side of the tracks. She tried not to disappoint them in any other ways.

The waitress came by to offer more drinks. Longingly, Lily twisted the stem of her empty martini glass. She wasn't driving, but two drinks were her limit. When the others all said, “No, thanks,” she echoed them.

Marielle pulled out her iPad and checked online for books. Kim, beside her, looked on. The two of them pointed, debated, and then agreed on one. Marielle turned her tablet to face Lily and George.

“
Bound by Desire
?” George said. “Okay, sure.”

Lily scanned the blurb.

International businesswoman Cassandra Knightley is at the top of her game, respected and even feared by colleagues and competitors. When it comes to her sex life, she picks, chooses, and discards men as frequently as she chooses the latest pair of designer shoes—because, ultimately, none satisfies her.

Billionaire Neville Winter guesses a secret that even Cassandra isn't aware of. A man used to dominating in every area of life, including the bedroom, he initiates her into a new world of sexual pleasure. Though initially she's intrigued by the notion of spicing up her sex life, it isn't until she submits fully and puts her pleasure—and her pain—in Neville's hands that she learns her true sexual nature. When she is bound by desire, can Cassandra find the true satisfaction that has always escaped her?

Lily barely managed to hold back one of those snort-growl sounds. “Whatever you want.”

“I'll text you the deets,” Marielle said. “I need to get going. One of my friends has a staff party and invited me as his date.”

The staff party for Lily's Well Family Clinic had been last week. She'd reserved a private room at a nice restaurant and arranged a sumptuous buffet. One of the receptionists, Jennifer, had organized a Secret Santa draw, which had livened things up. Lily had drawn Jennifer's name and given her a gift certificate for her favorite cupcake bakery. She was very curious which of the doctors or staff had drawn her name and why they'd chosen a desktop Zen garden: miniature tray, sand, rocks, and teeny rake.

“I'm wrapping presents tonight,” George said. “Woody's going to love the tee you made, Kim.” The redhead had asked Kim, who designed clothing as a hobby, if she'd create something unique for Woody.

Not having a clue what to give Dax for Christmas, Lily had seconded the request. The charcoal tee with its dramatic abstract design of a hawk would look perfect on her rugged husband. “And Dax will love the hawk one. Thanks so much for doing that, Kim. I know how much you have on your plate these days.”

“I thrive on it,” Kim said. “Life's good. Speaking of which, let's do gifts!”

They'd agreed to exchange gifts, but only small ones. Lily had found purse-sized notebooks with lovely Japanese-designed flower covers. Marielle gave lip gloss with fruity flavors, then Kim handed them each a roll of paper tied with a red ribbon. She'd done watercolor drawings of each of them, accurate but also flattering.

Lily gazed at the portrait of a short-haired blonde with delicate yet striking features and wide blue eyes. “Wow, Kim, this is what I looked like ten years ago.”

“It's what you look like now,” Kim said, “when you're relaxed and having fun.”

George reached into her tote and handed them all packages, which turned out to be tank tops: hot pink for Marielle, vivid purple for Kim, and powder blue, the color of her eyes, for Lily. The cotton was soft and fine, the quality excellent.

“You went way over the five-dollar limit, girlfriend,” Marielle said.

“I didn't spend a dime,” George replied. “They're samples from my client, VitalSport. Part of the new spring line.”

“Great gifts!” Kim said. “Thanks, everyone. And now I have to run and pick up my parents. Ty's mom is cooking up a feast.”

They all rose, and Lily thought about her own evening plans.

No feast to look forward to; she'd heat up canned soup to accompany a handful of rice crackers and a slice of Edam. No gift-wrapping; instead, an hour's run along the icy cold seawall, a necessity if she hoped to sleep tonight. No party either. She needed to analyze the Well Family Clinic's schedule. Her clinic's priority—and her own true calling—was patient care, but the workload was expanding and she had to figure out a solution. Thanks to the book club's new selection, she didn't even have a good book to look forward to.

Also on the list of “not looking forward to,” there was Dax's return home on Thursday, and the talk they needed to have. Maybe by the time Christmas dinner at her parents' house rolled around, she'd be going alone. Alone, to be unfavorably compared to her perfect younger brother, the oncologist, with his perfect lawyer wife and the adorable baby girl who tugged at Lily's childless heartstrings.

No, there wasn't a single thing in life she was looking forward to.

Two

D
wayne Arthur Xavier—who'd gone by Dax since he was old enough to understand how geeky his given names were—stepped into the lobby of the condo building in Leg-in-Boot Square, just off Vancouver's False Creek. An artificial Christmas tree decorated with silver balls stood in one corner. Dax shook his head, scattering raindrops. If you were going to have a tree, it should be a live one, its needles green and pliant under your fingers, its fresh scent bringing the wilderness into the room.

A six-pack of Granville Island lager in one hand, he hiked his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and strode to the elevator. Would Lily be there? Likely not. Though it was the day before Christmas, it was also a Saturday. On Saturdays she volunteered at a health clinic in the Downtown Eastside. Besides, he was two days late. He'd swapped schedules with another pilot who'd had a family emergency. After all, it wasn't like Dax had a lot to come home to.

He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor of the six-story building.

Home. Though he'd pumped a lot of his income—which was considerable, in his line of work—into paying off the mortgage, the two-bedroom condo didn't feel like home. But then, when in his life had any place felt like home? Not the numerous rental apartments where he and his self-absorbed, drug-using parents had lived. Nor his mom's parents' house in ritzy Southlands, where she and Dax had gone for a few months after his dad was thrown in jail for killing a guy in a drug deal gone bad.

His grandparents had shunned his mom when she ran away to marry a bad boy whose parents hadn't even set foot on the social ladder. But when, broke and desperate, she showed up on their doorstep with seventeen-year-old Dax, they took them in. That was how he ended up attending twelfth grade at the same school as Lily Nyland.

He unlocked the door to the condo, feeling, as usual, almost like an intruder. “Lily?” Nope, no answer. Hanging his battered leather bomber jacket in the hall closet, he made sure the damp fabric didn't touch Lily's coats.

Just like back in school, when their paths never crossed. The lovely, classy, brilliant blonde was busy with her studies, clubs, and equally wealthy, brilliant friends. Dax blew off school, drank too much, got in trouble, and hustled girls. Following in his dad's bad-boy footsteps, as his grandparents said contemptuously. It had been the next summer, at Camp Skookumchuck, when he and Lily had connected and his life had turned around. And now look where they were. Virtual strangers.

In the kitchen, he put his beer in a fridge that contained yogurt, skim milk, cheese, fruit, and a few condiments.

He walked into the living room. The only sign of Christmas was a pink-and-white poinsettia on the coffee table. The place was, as usual, immaculate. When Dax moved through the world of nature, he tried to never leave a trace. That was how Lily lived at home. She didn't leave clothes, dirty dishes, or magazines lying around. When he first saw her family home, he understood where she'd learned to be so neat and unobtrusive.

When they took possession of this condo, he'd been heading off to fly for a logging company and had left the décor to Lily. Six weeks later, he'd come back to nutmeg-colored furniture, rugs with geometric designs, abstract art. It was comfortable, functional, and tasteful. Lily said she'd taken a decorator's advice. He'd have chosen wilderness paintings and put a few pieces of First Nations art on the mantel, but what did he know about decorating? His parents had used thrift store junk, macramé, and ivy.

In this room, he saw no traces of the old Lily, the girl who'd gone a little crazy that summer at camp, away from her parents' eagle eye. The one who'd snuck out from Heron cabin, where her young charges slept, to go canoeing at midnight or skinny-dipping. Who'd made love on the beach with a boy her parents wouldn't give the time of day to—a guy who worked with the construction crew that was building new cabins. The son of a killer.

Dax went into the home office, where he took his netbook from his duffel and put it on the bare surface of his desk. Lily's desk held her notebook computer, her monitor, keyboard, and mouse, plus stacks of papers, all very neat and organized.

Over the years, she'd grown up and stopped playing. He'd forced himself to grow up too, to become responsible, to deserve the amazing woman he loved. He missed the kids they'd once been. The kids who'd fallen so head over heels for each other. Who'd made love with wild abandon, and spun dreams on moonlit summer nights.

He moved on to the bedroom, and into the walk-in closet where he unpacked, slotting the few clothes he'd brought with him into their allotted space. Her half dozen tailored suits and shirts, three or four good dresses, and few casual clothes looked almost interchangeable in the browns, grays, creams, and white that she favored. The only touch of vibrancy was that one rose-colored sweater he'd once given her. No, wait, what was this?

Cautious of his rough fingers against delicate fabric, he separated Lily's shirts to reveal one he'd never seen before. It was pale yellow, the style soft and kind of floaty. Butterflies covered it, painted in beautiful shades of blue and green, with gold outlining them. It was a work of art, feminine and sensual.

Sensual? He slammed the hangers back in place. Who the hell did she wear it for? And what would he do if he found out, for sure, that she'd cheated on him?

He stripped off his clothes, chucked them in the laundry hamper, and went into the master bathroom, where he turned the shower on full force. He stepped under the spray.

Infidelity . . . He had no proof, but over the past year or two his wife had changed. Her light blue eyes didn't warm for him and she didn't reach for his hand. When they had sex, she climaxed but didn't show passion, much less joy. She'd told him he needed to wear a condom because she'd gone off the pill. Initially, he'd accepted it without question, but now doubts drove him crazy. There were other forms of birth control that didn't require condoms.

And then there were the books she read. Earlier this year, on one of his increasingly rare visits to Vancouver, he'd mistakenly picked up her Kindle rather than his own. When he clicked it on, he found a detailed, vivid, highly explicit sex scene. His wife had always read highbrow books. This book,
The Sexual Education of Lady Emma Whitehead
, was labeled an “erotic novel.” It seemed like soft porn to him, but what did he know about great literature? The next time he was back in town, he checked her reading material and found
Ride Her, Cowboy
, another “erotic novel.”

His wife was reading erotica—and she sure wasn't bringing any of that erotic passion into their bed. Was she sharing it with someone else?

The pounding spray of the shower beat against his tense shoulder muscles but did nothing to relax them.

Dax was a take-charge guy. Always had been, until now. No one who knew him—not in the army where he'd earned a Medal for Military Valour for rescuing injured soldiers pinned under Taliban fire and air-lifting them to safety, nor out in the bush where he'd fought forest fires and rescued fishermen in the middle of a storm—would ever call him a coward. But that's what he was when it came to his marriage.

“Fuck.”
Roughly, he scrubbed his body with soap that smelled of lemon and eucalyptus.

He and Lily had always been a mismatch. In the beginning, lust and love overcame the barriers, but now their marriage seemed to be nothing but barriers. Did some other man—a man better suited to her, a man her damned parents would approve of—have her passion? Her love?

It sure wasn't like she needed Dax. She might look like a princess—fair, elegant, and delicate—yet she was smart, capable, and had an iron will. He admired her independence, couldn't imagine being with a clingy, dependent woman, and yet . . .

His parents had been so absorbed in themselves and each other, they'd barely noticed him. Lily had a full life without him. He was a self-sufficient guy—a loner, some folks said—and it wasn't like he needed to come first with Lily. It had been enough that she loved him, that they got together whenever they could and had a great time together. Now it seemed they'd lost even that. Or that she was giving it to some other guy.

He fisted his hand in anger and frustration and thumped it against the tiled wall of the shower, wishing he could punch whoever the hell Lily might be fucking.

Women came onto Dax, but he believed that if you said marriage vows, you stuck to them. Or else you split.

He turned his face into the shower's needle-fine spray.

Was it that time? He'd hung in there over the past year, hoping they were just going through a rough patch, but he couldn't take it any longer. He had to find out what the hell was going on. With her, and with them. As for him . . . Did he still love Lily? He'd never met another woman who made him feel the way she had in the early days, when he'd been crazy enough to hope that with her he might find the things he'd always secretly dreamed of: love and safety, a home and family. Over the years, growing up, he'd abandoned some of those dreams. He wasn't cut out to be a dad; Lily's clinic had become her “baby” and she put it ahead of everything else; neither of them was the type for a conventional home life. Still, he'd believed in their love, and it sustained him when they were apart. It got him through Afghanistan.

The thought of losing Lily was gut-wrenching. But maybe he already had.

When she got home, he'd put the questions out on the table, hear her answers, and fucking deal with them like a man. Resolved, he turned off the shower, reached for a towel, and dried off.

He ran a comb through his hair. Lily would think it needed cutting and so would her uptight parents, but that was their problem. Nor would he shave off the beard he'd grown. Chances were, this marriage was going to blow up. “Shit.” Love, marriage, dreams. Should have known all along he wasn't that kind of guy.

His muscles as taut as when he'd climbed into the shower, he strode jerkily to the closet and pulled on jeans and a tee. He checked his smartphone and found a text from Lily.

Working late. If you're back, have dinner without me.

He hurled the phone onto the bed. Working late, or with a lover, or just avoiding him? She didn't want to talk to him or she'd have phoned. But he wanted to talk to her. Damn it, he had to know the truth. He wanted to settle things tonight.

Her Kindle sat on her bedside table. He flicked it on. This time, she wasn't in the middle of a book; the device opened to show several covers. One book, with a choker-style necklace on the cover, was titled
Bound by Desire
. More erotica? He opened it, skimmed the review quotes at the beginning, and his eyes widened. BDSM? Lily had chosen to read BDSM? Was she, maybe, into this kind of sex?

No, he couldn't imagine it. She was no submissive; hell, she always had to be in control.

Well, not in the bedroom. There, in the beginning, he'd been the teacher. Once she'd caught up, he'd always thought they were equals. Had she fantasized about being dominated? About dominating? Did she get off on tying a man up? On spanking him? Had she found a man who satisfied those needs?

Dax grimaced. “Oh, fuck it.”

He ripped off the clothes he'd just put on, donned waterproof running gear, and headed out to try to release some tension. Though in some ways he preferred the pristine whiteness of the snowy north, he had to admit there was a lot to be said for being able to run outside rather than on a treadmill in a gym.

The rain still pounded down, dusk was falling, rush-hour traffic was at its peak. Lights from cars, streetlights, and buildings slashed in jagged patterns through sheets of rain. Dax's shoes thumped the pavement, splashing water. He headed across the Cambie Street Bridge, noticing the construction cranes with multicolored Christmas lights. Festive. The opposite of his mood.

He ran through Yaletown and into the West End, on Robson Street. Strings of sparkly white lights looped through the boulevard trees, clothing store windows showed party wear, and pedestrians chattered excitedly as they headed to restaurants and parties. He turned right on Denman, crossed West Georgia, and ran into Stanley Park.

The thousand-acre park, much of it undeveloped, was a frequent destination for him when he was in the city. A paved, six-mile seawall ran along the outside. This Christmas Eve, the seawall and the road beside it were quiet.

Normally, running outside made him feel free, powerful, and connected to nature. Tonight, nothing was going to make him feel good. He tried not to think, only to mindlessly push forward. He returned over the Burrard Street Bridge, then along the seawall on the south side of False Creek. By the time he got home, he'd run roughly ten miles.

He opened the condo door, dripping with rain and sweat. Doubting Lily would be home yet, he still called, “Hello?” No response.

Again, he headed for the shower, and again he dried off and dressed. He still felt like crap, but at least he'd worn off some nervous energy and filled an hour. He'd also worked up a bear of an appetite.

He rummaged through the delivery menus in the kitchen drawer, and phoned in an order for butter chicken and lamb vindaloo. Food at the mining camp was plentiful and decent, but basic. Then he took a beer and Lily's Kindle, and settled at the table in the dining nook, facing the view over False Creek. It was night now, but Vancouver never got truly dark, not with all those streetlights, apartment lights, vehicle lights. He missed the midnight black of nights in the bush, broken on clear nights by crystal stars and a glowing moon, sometimes even by the rippling, dancing sheets of colored northern lights.

When he and Lily had gone house shopping after he left the army four years ago, his pick was a place with a yard, close to a park. The house was old, rundown, but he'd liked the natural setting. Lily had pointed out that his new career as a bush pilot meant he wouldn't be home much. She didn't have the time or interest to deal with a fixer-upper house and a yard, nor did she want a long commute to work. They'd settled on this condo: easy care, a ten-minute walk to her Well Family Clinic, and within nice running distance from Stanley Park and from Pacific Spirit Park up by the university.