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Finally, we were alone.
My heart beatas fast and frail as the wings of a butterfly.
Conner was staring at me. Studying. Waiting. I needed to push back my chair and meet his gaze like a normal, rational human being, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I wasn’t sure what this man wanted from me, and I was scared to find out.
“You must not be a romantic holdout if you’ve agreed to this.” His comment struck a nerve, spearing through my hazy state of shock.
I took the notepad that had remained untouched throughout dinner and scribbled my response. Sometimes I used my phone to type out messages, but I preferred a notepad. It was the same when I read books. I liked the feel of paper in my fingers rather than a device.
Pushing back my chair, I held out my message and finally faced him.
I wasn’t told about the arrangement until you arrived.
His stoic mask slipped for a second. “Is that right? Yet you sat through dinner without complaint.” Two pools of turbulent azure studied me with a scrutiny that made me squirm in my seat.
Turning the page, I scribbled again.
What choice did I have?
I didn’t know what I was thinking, being so honest. If he told my father I was challenging the engagement, I would be in so much trouble. I needed to be more cautious, but he seemed to draw out my brash side. Made me reckless and emotional.
Conner shrugged, drawing my attention to how well his suit fit his broad shoulders. He was athletically built and tall. When he’d first helped me to my chair, he’d towered easily a foot over me. At five-two, that wasn’t unusual for me, but somehow his intimidating presence magnified his height even more.
“And if I said you have a choice right now? You could say the word, and I’d call the whole thing off.” His response stunned me. I hadn’t expected him to give me an out, but I wasn’t sure how genuine it was. His words said one thing, while the flash of anger in his eyes said another. For a man who normally exuded effortless calm, I got the sense he was pissed.
Why had his offer to back out made him so upset? And why had my first reaction been to argue? Did Iwantto marry this man? I couldn’t possibly know the answer to that. I didn’t know him well enough to form an opinion except to know he was a criminal. A man forged in the same fires as my father. I hadn’t wanted that for myself, but this might be the escape from my father that I’d been praying for.
I was so damn confused. I didn’t know what to think, so I didn’t. I went with my gut and slowly shook my head side to side.
“No? Are you telling me you’re willing to go through with it?”
I nodded, my stare unwavering.
I wasn’t sure if he was even aware, but his entire body relaxed a fraction. He was pleased. My heart did a funny dance at the realization.
“Here’s what I propose, then. Neither of us expected to be in this position, but there’s no reason we can’t make the best of it. A sort of professional arrangement. Our families get their alliance. You’ll have status and security while keeping the interruptions to my life at a minimum.”
A professional arrangement? What did that even mean? How would I feel about a marriage in name alone? Would he expect sex? Children? Just howprofessionalwould the marriage be?
He must have seen the wariness in my eyes because his own darkened. “I’m not planning to fuck you against your will, Noemi. I don’t need to coerce sex from a woman when plenty of others give it freely.”
I flinched at the lash from his comment. He hadn’t spoken harshly, but the reality of what he suggested was repulsive enough that I couldn’t help my visceral reaction. I hated the idea of a loveless marriage. A husband who slept with everyone but me. Would I be given the same freedom? Maybe if we stayed apart and I had my own relationships, it wouldn’t be so hard to tolerate.
I peered deep into his eyes and tried to guess his response to my next question before I hesitantly held up the notepad.
What if I wanted a lover?
I knew how these Mafia men worked, whether Irish or Italian. They didn’t like to share, and they certainly didn’t want to allow their women to stray, but if I was going to suffer the embarrassment of a cheating husband, I should at least get to have some fun of my own.
The muscles rippled along his jaw. “I suppose turnabout is fair play, but…” He angled himself forward until he was so close I could smell him—expensive cologne, wine, and masculinity so intense I could feel it between my legs. “Have you considered that you might not need one?”
I could hardly breathe with him so close. And at the same time, I wanted to bury my face in his chest and inhale until my head swam with his scent.
Damn hormones. I shook myself internally and focused on what he’d said.
What had he meant? That I could be one of his many hookups? That I could use him to scratch my itch and not feel devastated when he went off with other women? I was insulted by the insinuation. I wanted to be with a man who wanted me, not just used me for sex. But if I was married to Conner, would that even be a possibility? What honorable, loving man would be in a relationship with a married woman? And how could I, in good conscience, involve myself with a man beyond the physical when I knew I was bound to another?
The whole situation felt impossible. Frustration swelled to irritation.
