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When I return with the drink, Damian’s attention is back on Maxime.
“Thank you, cherie,” Maxime says, taking the glass and kissing my lips.
“Congratulations on your wedding,” Damian says to Maxime, watching him like a shark circling a seal in bloody waters.
“Thank you.” Taking my hand, Maxime pulls me down next to him on the sofa. There’s not a stitch of guilt in his voice or comportment.
I cringe in an involuntary reflex, but quickly smooth it over by pretending to be cuddling closer to my husband.
Maxime’s arm tightens around me. “We should go out for dinner and celebrate.” He adds in a tone that’s neither hostile nor friendly, “Now that you’re here.”
His words are intellectually correct, the suggestion the socially acceptable response that the situation calls for, but they lack emotional substance. He’s saying what’s expected of him, reciting the phrases like a parrot.
“I don’t want to put you out,” Damian says.
“I’m sure my brother is tired after the long flight,” I add quickly. We don’t have enough money for a fancy restaurant and the French cuisine Maxime will no doubt feel obliged to entertain Damian with. Getting to my feet, I make my way to the kitchen. “I’ll just throw something together.”
I give Damian a bright smile from the counter where I pause to measure his reaction. To my relief, neither of the men pushes the issue, but Damian’s next words almost have me gasping out loud.
“Where are the photos?”
Maxime regards Damian with a blunt expression. “What photos?”
Damian’s gaze sharpens. “Your wedding photos.”
I open my mouth to make up an excuse, to say that in our rush we’d forgotten all about it, but Maxime beats me to it with an even tone.
“They’re not ready yet. The photographer hasn’t finished developing them.”
Damian relaxes a fraction. “You’ll send some to us, I hope.”
“Of course.” Maxime’s smile is a little more genuine this time.
Wiping my hair from my suddenly clammy face, I swallow away my nerves.
“How’s the business?” Damian asks.
I watch Maxime from under my lashes as I fill the big pot with water and turn on the gas.
“Great,” my husband says, not missing a beat. “Thank you for your support. Black diamonds are only taking off in Europe now, but I congratulate you for your vision.”
Damian picks up his glass, takes another sip of his wine, and sets the glass aside again. “What’s your vision?”
“To follow the trends.” Maxime’s eyes are fixed on Damian, giving the impression my brother has his undivided attention, but I know he’s watching my every move and measuring my expression.
I don’t dare to look at him for fear that Damian will catch something passing between us. Instead, I pour a scoop of salt into my palm and add it to the water before dusting my hand on my jeans.
“What about buyers?” Damian asks. “Will they follow?”
I’m not stupid. I know the buyers are afraid of showing disloyalty to Alexis by supporting Maxime now that he’s broken away from the mob. That’s why the business is suffering. If I could’ve figured it out, so has Damian. I tear open the box of spaghetti with shaking hands, trying not to spill the pasta as I dump it into the bubbling water.
“They’ll come around,” Maxime says with so much certainty he makes even me want to believe him. “These things take time.”
Damian nods, seemingly pacified for the moment.
“Would you like to visit the office?” Maxime asks. “I’d love to introduce you to some of the prominent business players.”
Damian’s smile is polite. “Maybe another time.”
Understanding flashes in Maxime’s eyes. “How’s your wife doing?”
My brother’s features darken. He’s taking Maxime’s forced interest as a threat.
“We’re both excited about the baby,” I say.
Damian’s gaze finds mine briefly before he says, “She’s doing great.”
“Good.” Maxime sounds sincere. “I’m sorry we can’t be there for the birth.”
Damian glances at me again. “If Zoe wants to come, I’ll make sure she’s safe.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to protect her,” Maxime replies, “but I can’t let her out of my sight.” Rubbing a thumb over his lip as he studies me, he adds, “Yet.”
I roll my eyes at the possessive statement, but it’s a language my brother obviously understands from the way he relaxes with an agreeable if not satisfied nod.
When I carry plates and cutlery from the kitchen, Maxime gets up to help me set the table. Damian fetches glasses and the jug I’ve filled with water. While the men instill themselves at the table, I heat a tin of tomato sauce in a pan.
“I’m sorry for the simple meal,” I say when I put the pasta and sauce on the table.
Damian’s eyes soften as he looks at me. “You know I’m not fussy.”
No. When we were growing up, we didn’t have that luxury. We were lucky to get anything other than a piece of buttered toast for dinner. I relax a bit. It’s easy to forget the wealthy, cultured man in the expensive suit is still my brother. We should never fail to remember where we come from.
