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“Sexy?” He puts the ring down and reaches into his suit jacket for his wallet. “Wedding rings are not meant to be sexy.”
“Because you’ve never worn one.” I bury myself with an eager comeback.
The saleslady jumps on his weakness about the ring and says, “Let me take your measurements. I’ll have these delivered to your home by tomorrow.”
The way the woman slides several silver bands clamped together with a wand up and down Kieran’s thick finger, sends jealousy firing through me. I look down at his lap, though, and see no sign of arousal.
Then again, he is annoyed.
We get into Kieran’s Range Rover, and I expect to be taken back to Astoria. Back to my prison. Instead, he asks me to join him for lunch.
“That fruit plate sure has worn off,” I joke and hide the sudden buzzing of excitement to spend more time with this man. Although, I’m not sure where it’s coming from.
“Why do you really want me to wear a wedding ring?” he asks, leaning in with a menacing smile.
His stare wrecks me, as if he sees through my charade. If he came up through the ranks of his organization like my father did, Kieran worked the streets. Which means he can do a lot of damage with just his hands, the fingers I want to brand. Yet, where I saw evil in my father’s eyes, I don’t see that in Kieran’s.
I’m a challenge for him, sure. Somehow, I think that sparks intrigue in him. My mind swirls as I consider what I really want. Kieran wants to prop me up as a queen and parade me at dinners and balls. But with Ivan, I’d be in the shadows since a bagman doesn’t get invited to the Met Gala. Obscurity sounded so delicious when we were getting to know each other this summer. Ivan’s hands were always cold, though. Even in the sweltering heat.
My heart pounds, remembering Kieran making me come with just his hand. His very warm, very big hand. His smile was more wicked than evil—seductive. He loved his former fiancée. Which means he could love again. Unless her death tore his heart out.
“It’s like I said at the store…” I answer him about wearing a ring with a simple shrug, inwardly doing a happy dance at the victory of getting what I want. “If you want everyone to know you’re married, especially to a woman who’s not allowed to leave the house, a ring will do the trick.”
“I didn’t say you canneverleave the house,” he utters through clenched teeth. “I said give me time to arrange your security first.”
I know he’s right, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to fight him anyway. I can’t make this too easy on him. This situation sure isn’t easy on me.
The car pulls up to one of those exclusive restaurants where you have to step down to get inside. The hostess, who’s wearing a long, backless white dress, smirks at Kieran.
Who wears that at noon?
“Come here often?” I sass him as we follow her.
“Yes, it’s one of my favorites. When I meet someone who I’m afraid I’ll lunge across the table and kill, I bring him here so I’m restrained.”
I don’t know if he’s joking. “I’d like to know more about your businesses. All I know is Papa runs the docks.”
“And gambling, which probably got him into trouble. The house always wins, until it doesn’t, because the boss is skimming.”
“You don’t know that,” I say forcefully, sitting down. “Then again, I don’t know either.”
We’re seated at a corner table in the back. Immediately, a basket of bread and a whiskey for Kieran is set down as someone else hands us the menus.
When they leave, Kieran leans in. “Your father is in massive debt, Isabella. He ruthlessly took away benefits and pay raises from longshoremen. They’re not exactly altar boys who let ‘Jesus take the wheel.’” He makes air quotes. “They’re coming after him. My theory is your father needs cash to renegotiate those contracts or he’ll lose thousands of men. I can’t prove it, but I think he had something to do with Stasia Koslov’s disappearance.”
“Why, though?” I didn’t see the connection. Maybe because I’m hungry.
“To blackmail her father.” He sits back. “That would have gotten him out of the red. But now, a grave, because Koslov suspects him.”
“Papa wouldn’t do that to another father,” I argue out of habit.
“You think he’s a saint? How’s your cheek feeling this morning?” he snaps.
I gasp and lift my hand, the tender bone feeling like the size of my head. “Jerk,” I mutter freely, feeling in my gut I’m safe to express myself.
“Shite, I’m sorry.” He reaches out to hold my other hand and squeezes it. “He won’t ever touch you again. I promise.”
I clear my throat and nod.
