How could he have known Eve Reilly would intervene, convincing management to give his wife the position over better-qualified candidates—and putting ideas in her head about exercise classes and dieting and becoming more active in her church?

He gritted his teeth and muttered a few choice words he’d picked up years ago from his dad. Thanks to Miss Radio Personality, his wife was starting down the same path as his mother.

And he couldn’t let that happen.

He yanked out his cell.

She either had to quit—not a choice she appeared inclined to make—or the job had to go away. Especially after tonight. Working late wasn’t acceptable . . . even if he’d only arrived home ten minutes ago himself.

Finger poised to jab in her speed dial number, he paused as headlights appeared at the end of the street.

Fifteen seconds later, a car swung into the narrow access lane beside their house.

Finally.

Shoving the cell back in his pocket, he stomped into the kitchen, positioned himself a few feet from the back door, and crossed his arms. It wouldn’t take her long to appear. Since the single-car attached garage was his, she always parked in the alley behind the house.

Two minutes later, the door opened.

She halted as soon as she saw him. Offered a tentative smile.

He didn’t return it.

“Hi, hon. Sorry I’m late.” She closed the door but waited inside—as if she was uncertain of her welcome.

“It’s after nine.”

“I know. I texted you about what happened at work. Didn’t you get my message?”

“I got it—and I didn’t like it. Your salary doesn’t justify working long hours.”

“Doug said they’d add overtime pay to my check, given the unusual circumstances.” She eased into the room and deposited her purse on the counter. “How was bowling?”

“I don’t want to talk about bowling.” He moved toward her.

A flicker of fear flared in her eyes . . . as if she was worried he might hit her.

Good.

He wanted her submissive and compliant. That’s how a wife—a woman—should be.

But physical violence wasn’t necessary. There were much more effective ways to exert control, as he’d learned from his dad.

However . . . they only worked if you kept a woman isolated and dependent.

That’s why Meg’s job had to go—sooner rather than later.

He stopped in front of her, lifted a hand as she watched him with trepidation . . . and stroked his fingers down her cheek. “I’m worried about you, babe. The situation at that station is dangerous.”

“N-not for me.”

After a few beats, he motioned to the kitchen table. “Let’s sit.”

She hesitated—but when he pulled out a chair and waited, she slid onto it.