“What happens after your thirtieth birthday?”
“I’ll be one hundred percent free to do whatever I want.”
“Hmm. And what would I get out of it?”
“Money.” Her answer is prompt.
Doesn’t she know how much I’m worth? She spoke of having her own inheritance, but I doubt it’s much. Large inheritances tend to be held in complex trusts that are designed specifically to preserve the wealth for the beneficiary and their descendants for generations to come. They can’t be undone with something as simple as a marriage.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” she adds.
“Don’t want it.” My response is as decisive as hers.
She cocks her head, the berries on her fork forgotten. “Everyone wants money.”
“Not me.”
“Oh.” She looks down, then scoops up strawberries, making sure they’re laden with cream, and brings them to her lips. She puts them in her mouth, then licks the cream on one corner. The sight of her rosy tongue is shockingly erotic.
Fuck. My libido is out of control, and I’m sober. How crazy was it last night when I had no control?
“What do you want, then?” she asks warily.
“Absolutely nothing you can give me. You aren’t what I have in mind for a suitable wife or ideal marriage.”
“I’m not?” Her eyes widen, then she bites her lip, looking away briefly to hide the uncertainty in her expressive gaze before raising it to meet mine. “What’s wrong with me?”
I open my mouth to respond, then change my mind. It’ll be less hurtful to tell her what I have in mind for my future. “I want a marriage of respectful indifference with someone who has a busy life of her own. She and I care enough about each other to be considerate, but never cross the line into being nosy or controlling. Pleasant dinners when neither of us is working late. Annual vacations to someplace pretty and relaxing. Well-raised children, likely to head to Harvard or Yale Law and take over Huxley & Webber when they’re ready. Unfortunately, a marriage with you wouldn’t offer me any of that.”
Or anything of value. If Soledad were a normal human being, I might assume my marital status would discourage her, but she’s a self-centered sociopath and won’t care. Mom won’t give up whatever horrific plot she comes up with to reunite the family just because I’m married. And Lareina doesn’t fit the image of a “good, respectful woman” The Fogeys have in mind.
“I can be respectfully indifferent,” she protests. “And I can get a job and stay busy. I promise. Plus, I’m totally open to giving you children.”
I return to my food. “No.”
“I’ll even let you ask me for a favor later, as long as it’s not illegal or something.”
Her plea is difficult to resist, but I’m not letting myself get suckered by a pretty face and the sexual need she arouses in me. “Still no.”
“But you told me last night that you wanted to be my knight and protect me,” she says in a small, shaky voice.
What?Be her knight and protect her… That’s a sentiment I’ve had for Queen…and Queenonly. I’ve never expressed it to anyone else.
I lift my gaze from the plate and look at Lareina. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears of frustration as she looks out at the Vegas sky, then at her fingertips.
My mind conjures how sassy she was after the hair-raising balcony stunt she pulled yesterday. Something about her spirit and appearance reminds me of Queen, even though I know it’s not her. But this reaction…
You crushed her, asshole. Congratulations. With your sterling personality and charm, where are you going to find a wife? You only have two days left before the month is up. The Fogeys picked the timeline, knowing you’d fail. And youwillfail and never make partner.
I get up and pace. Sometimes I really hate my conscience. “Your condition is that we stay married for six months?”
“Yes. Well. And as long as you agree that it doesn’t cross any inappropriate boundaries… I wouldn’t want to be disrespectful or clingy, but…can we have sex while we’re married? Other than just for making babies?” She peers at me to gauge my reaction. Thankfully I’m done with coffee, so I have nothing to shoot out of my nostrils. “I think our chemistry is pretty good.”
Suddenly the air feels too thick. I feign nonchalance, sit down again and slowly chew on some raspberries to buy time. “Is it?”
“Don’t you remember?” She smiles, then bites her lip. The bright sparkle in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks make her look like a teenager in love. “You said the kiss we had was amazing.”
I raise an eyebrow. I remember nothing, and it’s infuriating. But that kind of praise is unlike me. It’s my policy not to discuss or analyze bedroom technique. If it’s good, the relationship proceeds. Otherwise, it ends. No point in putting things into words.
