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Bee stops short. Her cheeks and lips pale to the same sickening shade of pasty white. “You what?”
I nod. “At the department store. Dmitri was downstairs going behind my back and I was in the baby section when he just… showed up.”
She swallows and tries to paste an easygoing smile on her face again, but it’s too late. I saw the fear already. “What did he say?”
“He didn’t come right out and accuse me of having an affair with Dmitri, but he might as well have. So I told him that I was a surrogate. I have no idea if he bought it or not.”
She places her elbows on the counter and purses her lips in thought. “The bones of that story are true.”
“He was not happy about the fact that I was out shopping with Dmitri. What if he drops in again? You really think seeing me walking around in Dmitri’s shirts is gonna convince him that there’s no funny business going on? He’s already suspicious as hell!”
Bee cocks her head to the side to look at me. “You did the right thing, okay?” Patting my hand, she straightens up. “Let’s not ruin this beautiful day by talking about my father. Let’s just enjoy Dmitri’s pie without him.”
“I’m gonna go change first.”
“So stubborn,” she laments. As I’m leaving the kitchen, I swear I can hear her mumble something that sounds a lot like “… made for each other.”
25
DMITRI
The moment Bee steps foot in my office, I’m tempted to throw her back out again.
The shopping trip this morning was one thing. But giving Wren my shirts to wear around the house? That’s crossing the line.
“Busy?” she asks, strutting over to my desk.
She stops short in wide-eyed alarm when I leap to my feet. “What are you playing at?” I hiss at her. I’m relishing how, for once, she actually reacts to my anger.
“Me?” Her lips are pressed into a thin line. “What did I do?”
I’m irate. She has the gall to pull this innocent Pollyanna crap on me? No. Hell no. I’m in no mood for this shit. Wren already has me feeling like my nerves are being flayed with a rusty butter knife. The last thing I need is Bee throwing her own edges into the mix.
“Need I remind you that this is my house and the only reason you have any kind of freedom at all is because you are under my protection?”
Her silence and submissiveness are short-lived. “Answer this: is the reason you’re angry because I gave Wren a few of your shirts? Or is the real reason because you liked seeing her in them?
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You care about her!” Bee cries in my face, planting both palms on my desk and leaning up to meet me eye-to-eye. “Everyone with eyes can see it!”
“She’s a walking womb. Nothing more than a means to an end. That is all.”
Bee practically spits on the floor of my office in pure, undeniable disgust. “You think being cruel makes you a man?”
“No. Protecting what is mine makes me a man.” I crack the knuckles of one hand. “And that includes you. Do you really think that playing these silly little games will keep you safe? Will keep her safe?”
Bee opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. This is unlike her—this back-and-forth, hot-and-cold routine. She’s normally hot-and-hotter. It takes me a moment, but eventually, I do recognize the flittering, skittering emotion on her face.
It’s fear.
“What’s going on?” When I speak this time, my voice is devoid of the fury it had just a moment ago.
“Nothing.” She toes at the carpet, eyes downcast. I can feel her wilting away from me.
“Bee.”
She glances at me and then away again as fast as she can. “I think Vittorio may have eyes on Wren. He was at the department store this morning.”
