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He taps his hand on the counter. “Oh, ok. I should get going.” He jabs a thumb toward the door.
I thank him for coming over as I walk him to the door. We both step outside onto the porch, and I pull my sweater together in the front to warm me. “Bye, Ronin. I’ll see you at the wedding, I guess.”
His eyes do this strange sweep of me. “If you ever need anything…” He lets the words linger in the night air, because he knows just as well as I do, that with Gabriel, I’ll want for nothing.
Except. “I could probably use a friend.”
His eyes lighten. “No truer words have ever been spoken.”
“And maybe, if I ever need it…” I chew on my bottom lip before finishing, “a getaway plan.”
He winks. “You got it.” His eyes linger on my face again. “You look so much like her,” he whispers. And then he does the most unexpected thing. He leans in, cupping my cheeks with his hands.
My heart beats an unsteady rhythm as his cool, dark eyes meet mine. And then his lips touch mine and I don’t know what to do.
His tongue pushes my lips apart, and he deepens the kiss. His hands are now in my hair, pulling the strands closer to him. His tongue runs along mine and I reach my hands up his chest to push him away.
I break the kiss, stunned.
“I’m not her, Ronin.”
Pain, that looks so much like mine, stares back at me. “I’m sorry,” he says.
And with that, Ronin leaves my house.
Chapter 8
Gabriel
“Everything’s all set?” I ask the lawyers assembled in my office as they read over the final paperwork that will chain Clementine to me for the next year.
“Yes, sir,” Patrick tells me. “The marriage contract is ironclad.”
“Good. That will be all.”
After they’re gone, I stare at her dainty signature on the papers. I suspect even if I had chosen my own bride, the details would have remained the same. A simple prenup with an added addendum for all the monies Clementine will have once we separate.
It’s crazy that we already know the date of our divorce before we even say our vows.
Beside the expensive legal documents sits her single page of self-made demands. I pick it up and skim over her contract, reading through her sexual no-no’s and wonder if she’d be this way with anyone she’d marry.
I doubt it.
She has a spark inside her that could start an inferno, if I’m not careful. I see it flare every time I’m around her. It almost amuses me, in a sick way, when I see her getting all riled up at something I say. When you’ve bent enough people to your will, it’s like discovering a rare tech gadget when you come across someone who won’t.
It makes me want to keep pissing her off. It makes me want to show her all the things she’s missing out on—my tongue, my fingers, my dick.
But, this isn’t a game. I need a wife, not a playmate. Clementine won’t be my bride because I want to fuck her.
So, I pick up my Meisterstück platinum-coated pen, trying not to smile when I remember her cat pen, and sign on her dotted line.
Instead of having my personal assistant make sure she receives it—because what’s the fun in that—I grab my cell, scroll through my contacts and bring up her name.
“Come meet your husband,” I text her.
“I’m at work,” is her swift reply.
Her work ethic is admirable, but I can’t wait until she won’t need her job and can meet me on a whim when I so demand it. An extensive background check into Clementine revealed all the basic details of her work resume. Her cake making job—although cute—could never pay her what she’ll be getting from me. She could work all her life and never come close to what she’s being offered.
