Free The 8th Circle by Sarah Cain Page A

Roxborough and waited for services to let out.
    He’d driven Beth’s Mercedes today and could feel her all around him. He fingered the tiny gouge in the wood trim on the dash, the gouge made by her high heel when they’d fucked in the car.
    It had started as another of those endless parties she dragged him to, the ones he hated. He’d be dressed in a designer tuxedo and still feel like he should be hanging in the kitchen with the caterers.
    “You do clean up well,” she’d said when they walked toward the senior partner’s mansion in Gladwyne. “Please don’t talk about Dad, Ken.”
    She’d taken to calling him “Ken” after one of their acquaintances had remarked that they were a perfect “Ken and Barbie.”
    “Come on, Barbie, let’s go party.” He’d watched the corners of her mouth twitch in an effort not to laugh.
    Since the place was the size of a small museum, Danny had planned to escape to the many side parlors to avoid the inevitable political debates. He’d hold his own against them, but it always led to after-party unpleasantness.
    “You can’t call my father the standard bearer for toxic waste in Pennsylvania,” Beth had said after one gathering.
    “That’s my opinion.”
    “I know he can be a pain in the ass, and I don’t always agree with him. But I love him. I don’t want to constantly have to choose between you. I don’t want that for Conor.”
    Beth had the big money, but he had the celebrity. Danny had just published a book on the growing social divide in America that had received critical praise and decent sales. When they went to parties, her friends didn’t know whether to slither up to him or treat him like a rabid socialist. It had become simpler to hide, and that’s what he’d done that night.
    He’d consumed his third glass of club soda and was pretending to study the painting with the bright geometric patterns of color in the music room when she’d appeared at his side, the blonde with sympathetic smoke-colored eyes. She’d nodded toward the picture.
    “You like Kandinsky?”
    The most he knew about Kandinsky was that he painted abstracts. “Sorry, I’m not an art expert.”
    “You were staring at it like it meant something to you.”
    He’d wanted to make up some lie but couldn’t do it. “I was just faking it.”
    “You mean you were wishing you could escape.”
    “‘Wishes were ever fools.’”
    “‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’” She’d shrugged when his eyes widened. “Okay. I was showing off. I was an English major before law school. Please don’t hold it against me.”
    “Harvard?”
    She’d given him a wry smile. “Yale.”
    They’d spent the rest of the evening talking literature and politics, and he’d felt like he’d been starving, even more so when she’d slipped him her card. For the first time in years, the night had seemed too short.
    Beth had sulked in furious silence until they’d reached the driveway.
    “That bitch latched on to you because you’re my husband. You embarrassed me in front of our friends.” Beth had kneaded her evening bag like it was bread dough.
    “Nothing happened, Beth.” He hadn’t understood her fury. Beth had never really understood that he wasn’t looking to wander; he was hers. He had always been hers.
    “Do you think no one noticed?”
    He’d pulled into the garage, and she’d sat still for a moment before she’d turned to him, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, and began to beat him with her fists. “You bastard! I hate you!”
    He’d caught her wrists, pinned her back against the seat, and for a moment, they’d stared at each other. He’d watched the pulse pounding in her throat, her breasts straining against the deep-red silk of her dress with every breath, and Christ, he’d wanted her so much his insides bled.
    In the dim light, her eyes had looked black, and then they’d changed as if a fire had begun to simmer in their