Quinn takes me shopping at the most expensive stores in Manhattan, one by one. Not only at the couture clothing ateliers, but also for shoes, handbags, perfume, cosmetics, lingerie, and luggage.
It takes the entire day.
He arranges for most things to be delivered to his home address, but what doesn’t get delivered, poor Kieran lugs to the car with the patience of a saint.
When I ask Quinn why he doesn’t help him, he grins.
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
And because the man has a highly developed sense of the absurd, our last stop is at the Cartier store where we went to pick out Lili’s ring.
When we pull up in front of the building on Fifth Avenue, I frown. “You said you returned the pink diamond already.”
He chuckles. “Did you think a ring would be the only piece of jewelry I’d ever buy you?”
“It’s not as if I’ve had oodles of time to think about it.”
“I’ll spare you the effort. I want you covered in pretty sparkling things. The more, the merrier. You’ll look like a bloody Christmas tree by the time I’m done with you.”
Just to be subversive, he carries me across the threshold of the store in his arms.
The manager is overjoyed to see him. You’d think Quinn was his long-lost brother the way the man reacts. I expect him to burst into tears of joy at any moment.
I suspect with the purchase of that red diamond, Quinn has likely paid the man’s rent for the rest of the decade.
When Quinn tells him, “We need more jewelry. Lots of it,” he almost passes out.
We spend more than an hour in the store. When we emerge, I’m the new owner of a few million dollars’ worth of luxury baubles and am more than a little dazed.
Dazed and dismayed, because this feels much too one-sided.
“What’s that sour puss for?” he asks the moment we’re back in the car.
“It’s just that you’ve bought me all these wonderful gifts, and I haven’t given you anything. You even had to buy your own wedding ring.”
He gathers me into his arms, smiles at me, and plants a kiss on my lips. His voice soft, he says, “You’ve given me everything, you bloody daft woman.”
“Really? Because it seems like all I’ve given you are headaches and a constant barrage of death threats.”
“Aye. Those, too. Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure you make it up to me later tonight.”
His sensual smile leaves no doubt as to what kind of “making up” I’ll be doing.
By the time we drop everything off at the hotel and head to dinner, we’re half an hour late. The house is on the outskirts of Boston in the wealthy suburb of Westwood.
And when I say “house,” I’m being ironic.
Declan and Sloane live on a forty-acre parcel with its own stream-fed pond, infinity pool, pool house, boat dock, and guest house. The estate is a masterpiece of contemporary design, with twenty-foot ceilings, entire walls of glass, and ten thousand square feet of understated opulence.
Its sleek elegance makes Gianni’s house look like a bad dream.
When we’re inside and I tell Sloane how much I love it, she smiles.
“Hopefully, this one’s a keeper.”
“What do you mean?”
She says vaguely, “We’ve moved around a lot. By the way, I love that dress.”
Standing beside me in the living room, Quinn puffs out his chest. “I picked it out.”
Smiling, I say, “You made a phone call. A hotel employee picked it out.”
“It still counts!”
Sloane grins. “Yes, it does, Spider.”
She seems fond of him, which I like. I like her, too. She’s smart, sophisticated, and the center of a room without trying. She also has a gorgeous husband who obviously worships her. Declan’s blue eyes track her every move with unconcealed adoration.
We have cocktails on the patio overlooking the pool and miles of manicured lawn. Though we only met once at the wedding rehearsal, Sloane and I settle into an immediate easy familiarity, chatting about topics as varied as shoes to current events.
There’s no bullshit with her. She says exactly what she thinks. She doesn’t give a damn about trying to impress.
Which is good for her, because the meal she serves is awful.
Seriously god-awful. I wouldn’t even feed it to starving rabbits, which seem to be the target demographic.
Sitting at their huge rectangular glass dining table, I stare down at my plate loaded with inedible, unidentifiable nubby twiggy things and wonder how poor Declan manages to keep so much muscle on his frame.
If I had to guess, he probably eats out a lot.
“Try the tempeh soy seaweed cakes,” she suggests, pointing with her fork to an ugly oblong greenish-brown lump on her plate. “They’re super good for your colon.”
I spear the tempeh—whatever in God’s name that is—with my fork and nibble on it.
It tastes like what a filthy piece of driftwood from an old shipwreck might taste like: salty, soggy, fishy, disgusting.
“Mmm. Yummy.”
Watching me from across the table, Declan pulls his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing.
Sloane beams. “Right? I just love tempeh. It’s so versatile. Do you cook, Reyna?”
“Like a bloody Michelin chef,” says Quinn, warily eying a poisonous-looking fleshy gray lump on his own plate that could be a mushroom of some sort. Or possibly a boiled toad.
“Really?” says Sloane, intrigued. “What’s your specialty?”
“Sicilian cuisine in particular, but Italian food in general. My mother was born in Sicily, so many of my favorite recipes are handed down from her.”
With a hint of pride in his voice Quinn says, “She makes everything from scratch.”
Declan says forcefully, “Don’t tell me you make homemade pasta!”
When I nod, he groans. “Spider, you lucky bastard!”
With arched brows, Sloane turns to Declan. “Why, exactly, is he so lucky?”
Avoiding her searing gaze and an answer that might cost him a testicle, he takes a long drink from his wineglass.
Tactfully hiding my smile, I intervene. “I’ve always loved to cook, even when I was little. Then, when I got older, food became even more important. It’s really the only pleasure I have in my life.”
Reaching for my wineglass, I send a warm look in Quinn’s direction. “Had, I mean.”
When I set my glass down after sipping from it, I realize everyone is staring at me.
But only Quinn’s eyes are blazing.
Declan saves me from what could be a rogue attack from Mr. Handsy sitting next to me by asking, “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
I laugh. “Oh God. That’s like asking a mother which is her favorite child. Five-cheese lasagna with spicy sausage, truffle risotto, saltimbocca, Sicilian stuffed flatbread, the list goes on.”
With wide eyes, Declan says faintly, “Bread.”
“You should taste her carbonara,” brags Quinn.
Even fainter, Declan says, “Bacon.”
Sloane gives him a smack on the shoulder.
We make it through the rest of the meal with small talk as I try to move things around on my plate so it looks as if I’ve eaten them. For dessert, Sloane serves vegan ice cream made without cream, eggs, or sugar, or anything else resembling actual food.
But at least it’s bland and tasteless, so there’s that.
Then the men excuse themselves to speak in Declan’s office while Sloane and I sit on the sofa in the living room with our wine.
Thank God she likes wine, or I’d already have jumped into the pond.
“So. Reyna. How are you?”
With her bare long legs stretched out and propped up on the coffee table, Sloane gazes at me with the intensity of a professional interrogator.
I smile. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
After a beat of silence in which she examines every minute expression on my face, she says bluntly, “Bullshit.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve got many years’ experience compartmentalizing my feelings.”
“Swallowing them, you mean.”
I tilt my head in a gesture that’s neither a yes nor a no. “An unexpected arranged marriage isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to me. I’ll survive.”
“I bet you will.” She spends a while in thought, then says, “So it doesn’t bother you, the arranged marriage thing?”
“Bother is one of those words that can have many different meanings.”
After a moment watching me over the rim of her wineglass as she takes a swallow, she pronounces, “You would’ve made an excellent politician.”
That makes me laugh. “I’m the ranking female of one of the Five Families of New York. I am an excellent politician.”
She pulls her legs off the table and leans over to peer more closely at me, propping her elbows on her thighs. “You like him, don’t you?”
I have to pause to decide how to answer. Then I go with the truth. I say softly, “For the most part, yes.”
When she grins, pleased, I add, “His mood changes are pretty rough, though.”
She waves a hand in the air. “He’s been through a lot lately.”
I can tell she regrets that instantly.
Sitting back against the sofa, she crosses her legs and drinks her wine, gazing up at an abstract painting on the wall that suddenly seems to fascinate her.
From someone so forthright and self-confident, this avoidant behavior tells me that whatever it is Quinn has been through lately, she doesn’t want to tell me about it.
Which, of course, makes me desperate to know.
I say, “I understand you’re his friend. I won’t ask you to put yourself in a position where you feel you’d be being disloyal by betraying his confidence. But if there’s anything you can tell me that might help me understand him, I would appreciate it.”
She slides her gaze in my direction. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. Then she says, “It’s his story to tell, but I can tell you this: he’s been hurt.”
I nod. “He told me that himself. It’s the reason he wanted an arranged marriage.”
Looking encouraged that I already know that, she uncrosses her legs and turns her body toward me.
“So he told you about my sister, Riley?”
I have a split second to decide how to answer.
I remember what Gianni told me the night of the home invasion about the sister of the wife of the Mob boss getting impregnated by her Russian kidnapper, and decide to walk the gray line between truth and lies.
Looking down at my hands, I say, “I know she’s pregnant by the boss of the Moscow Bratva.”
“Yes. Which Spider blames himself for.”
Startled by that, I look up. “Why does he blame himself?”
“He was her bodyguard when she got kidnapped. Plus, you know, he had feelings for her…”
She trails off, then makes a face. “You didn’t know about that part.”
I keep my expression completely impassive when I say, “How long ago was this?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I feel like maybe I’ve already said too much.”
Ignoring that, I think it through. If her sister is still pregnant, that means whatever happened, it was within the last nine months.
So this year, Quinn was so devastated by the woman under his protection being kidnapped and impregnated by the Russian that he took the drastic and life-altering measure of agreeing to an arranged marriage with a stranger in response.
He was in love with her.
He’s still in love with her.
That’s what this morning was about. His mood change, his silence, his inexplicable scowls.
He married me and made love to me and woke up with me, a stand-in for the woman he actually wants.
I feel sick. Foolish, ashamed, and sick to my stomach.
A week ago, this wouldn’t have hurt. I wouldn’t have felt a thing. But last night seemed so real to me. All the passion and emotion we shared felt so damn real.
It felt good.
For the first time in my life, I felt wanted.
Protected.
Safe.
Right now, I feel as if I’m the butt of a vicious cosmic joke.
Because no matter how I might feel about my new husband being in love with another woman, I’m basically shit out of luck. I can’t do anything about it.
There’s a contract.
In front of four hundred witnesses, vows were made.
To make matters worse, I traded my freedom and Quinn let Lili walk away with Juan Pablo like it meant nothing to him. He would’ve done it anyway. Because I know him a little better now, I understand that if only he’d known about Juan Pablo before he married me, he would have canceled the contract and walked away.
All of us would’ve been free.
I made myself a sacrificial lamb for nothing.
All that goes through my head within heartbeats. Sloane waits for my reaction with a worried look, but I put on a smile and reassure her.
Because, like she said, I would’ve made an excellent politician.
I can lie and smile and wave, when inside, I feel like dying.
“It doesn’t matter. What’s past is past. Thank you for your candor.” I lift my hand and wiggle my ring finger at her. “Can we talk about diamonds now? Because I noticed you’ve got a rock the size of a skating rink. That thing is gorgeous! Did you pick it out, or does Declan just have exquisite taste?”
She laughs, holding out her hand to gaze down at her ring. “Yeah, it’s pretty sweet, isn’t it? He likes to spoil me.”
We go from there. The conversation flows naturally. If she notices anything strange about me, she doesn’t mention it.
About twenty minutes later, I ask where the restroom is.
“Down that hall, third door on the right.”
“Thanks. Be right back.”
“Should I pour us more wine?”
“Absolutely!”
I head down the hall, desperate for a moment of privacy, but get distracted as soon as I put my hand on the powder room door handle.
I hear voices coming from farther down the hall.
It’s Quinn and Declan in his office.
I hesitate, trying to talk myself out of it, but ultimately give in and creep down the hallway toward the cracked open door. A foot outside, I stop and listen, holding my breath.
“…can’t have had anything to do with it. That was twenty years ago, lad. And you killed him. People don’t come back from the grave.”
Quinn sighs heavily. “Aye. I know. But I can’t help thinking I’m cursed.”
“That’s your guilt talking, not your good sense.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. Forget about it. Now tell me about your wife. How’s the situation?”
I lean closer, my heart thudding as I wait to hear how Quinn responds.
When there’s only silence, Declan prompts, “Remember what you said to me when you first asked me to set up the meeting with Caruso?”
“No, what?”
Declan chuckles. “You said, ‘There’s nothing like new pussy to get over the old,’ you cold-blooded bastard.”
That feels like a knife plunged through my solar plexus. I don’t wait to hear the rest.
I turn and walk away, cursing myself for being so foolish as to let him in.
Women can never trust men. They only want to fuck things or break them.
