The Perfect Wife Read Online Free PDF

When she raged and screamed until her voice grew hoarse at his lack of foresight in leaving her practically penniless. Sabrina had come to grips with those feelings years ago, and if she never quite forgave him, with the passage of time she at least understood him a little better. She gazed at the portrait. Could the letter be hidden behind his painting? Concealed behind his cocky smile, his laughing eyes?
    So far she had Jack’s portrait, the other paintings and the remainder of the books left to search. And there was still the furniture. Her cozy library held only the desk and its chair, plus a worn wing chair near the fireplace and her chaise longue. She studied the pieces with a critical eye. All looked their age and should have been replaced years ago. But they were as much a part of this room as the bookshelves and mantel.
    Her gaze lingered on the couch, which beckoned seductively. Weariness slammed into her. It wouldn’t hurt to lie down for a few moments. She’d been up all night, and if her head wasn’t clear, she’d never find that bloody letter.
    Sabrina sank into the tufted comfort. Through the years her form had left its impression in the worn, scarlet upholstery, and the chaise conformed to her curves like a velvet caress. Her eyes drifted closed.
    She’d thought about Jack more in the last few hours than she had in a long time. Now, she remembered how he had bought her this piece. The couch was one of the few gifts from him she hadn’t had to sell after his death. Even her jewelry had had to go.
    Sabrina hovered somewhere between awareness and oblivion and the years rolled away. She remembered how Jack presented her with the couch and ceremoniously declared the library her own personal kingdom. She snuggled deeper. Memories wafted through her mind. He said, when she reclined on it, she reminded him of Cleopatra. She smiled to herself, and coherent thought drifted farther away.
    Jack always said that on the chaise she looked like a queen ... like the queen of the Nile ...
    The queen of the Nile.
    She bolted off the chaise, immediately alert, exhaustion forgotten. Sabrina stared at the unsuspecting couch. Could it be? Was it possible?
    Swiftly, she ran her hands along the serpentine lines and the curled head, down its velvet length, around to the carved feet. She poked in each seam, every tufted crevice. She prodded and probed every point where clawed wooden feet joined the frame. She perused every surface, examined every inch.
    Nothing.
    Sabrina stepped back and narrowed her eyes in concentration, studying the puzzle. So far there was no indication of any disturbance, no mended tears in the fabric, nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps if she turned it over and examined the underside ...
    The couch proved far heavier than Sabrina expected. Several minutes of pushing, lifting and tugging left her breathless, but finally the chaise flipped over on its side. One more shove and it toppled onto its back, looking for all the world like a wounded beast begging for mercy.
    Sabrina laughed aloud in triumph. Quickly, she examined the underside. A coarse fabric tacked securely at the frame covered the bottom. Thoroughly, she studied every stitched section and every point where wood met material. Just as on the other side, here, too, nothing appeared touched. Jack was no upholsterer, no seamstress. Surely if he had hidden something here it would be apparent. Her momentary sense of triumph vanished, replaced by a surge of disappointment.
    “Bloody hell.” She gazed with disgust at the innocent chaise. Like a spark amid dry tinder, anger flared in her veins. She glared at the portrait over the fireplace.
    “It isn’t fair, Jack. I really need that gold. I need it for your daughter and I need it for myself. Damn you, Jack, why does it have to be so bloody hard?”
    The smile on his lips lingered unchanged. Frustrated and furious, Sabrina drew back a slippered foot and let it fly. Flesh and bone connected with wood.