“—begged for me to come inside you. Begged me. And the whole time, you weren’t on birth control.” He bites my throat, then says hotly into my ear, “What does that mean?”
Shivering, I whisper, “That I have brain damage and should be taken to see a specialist immediately.”
He wraps a hand around my throat and takes my mouth.
The kiss is consuming in its intensity. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth and ravages it passionately until I think I’ll pass out. When he breaks away, we’re both panting.
But he’s the only one laughing.
Low, rough, and thoroughly pleased, his laughter is a victory lap around the race that I’ve obviously just lost with my admission.
“Quinn?”
“Aye, viper?”
“Don’t talk to me for the rest of the day, okay?”
Still chuckling, he kisses me again. His mouth is possessive, his embrace is tight, and his eyes are living fire.
“Whatever my queen wants.”
Looking away from his triumphant face, I wonder how soon is too soon to start marriage counseling.
31
Rey
Quinn takes me shopping at the most expensive stores in Manhattan, one by one. Not only at the couture clothing ateliers, but also for shoes, handbags, perfume, cosmetics, lingerie, and luggage.
It takes the entire day.
He arranges for most things to be delivered to his home address, but what doesn’t get delivered, poor Kieran lugs to the car with the patience of a saint.
When I ask Quinn why he doesn’t help him, he grins.
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
And because the man has a highly developed sense of the absurd, our last stop is at the Cartier store where we went to pick out Lili’s ring.
When we pull up in front of the building on Fifth Avenue, I frown. “You said you returned the pink diamond already.”
He chuckles. “Did you think a ring would be the only piece of jewelry I’d ever buy you?”
“It’s not as if I’ve had oodles of time to think about it.”
“I’ll spare you the effort. I want you covered in pretty sparkling things. The more, the merrier. You’ll look like a bloody Christmas tree by the time I’m done with you.”
Just to be subversive, he carries me across the threshold of the store in his arms.
The manager is overjoyed to see him. You’d think Quinn was his long-lost brother the way the man reacts. I expect him to burst into tears of joy at any moment.
I suspect with the purchase of that red diamond, Quinn has likely paid the man’s rent for the rest of the decade.
When Quinn tells him, “We need more jewelry. Lots of it,” he almost passes out.
We spend more than an hour in the store. When we emerge, I’m the new owner of a few million dollars’ worth of luxury baubles and am more than a little dazed.
Dazed and dismayed, because this feels much too one-sided.
“What’s that sour puss for?” he asks the moment we’re back in the car.
“It’s just that you’ve bought me all these wonderful gifts, and I haven’t given you anything. You even had to buy your own wedding ring.”
He gathers me into his arms, smiles at me, and plants a kiss on my lips. His voice soft, he says, “You’ve given me everything, you bloody daft woman.”
“Really? Because it seems like all I’ve given you are headaches and a constant barrage of death threats.”
“Aye. Those, too. Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure you make it up to me later tonight.”
His sensual smile leaves no doubt as to what kind of “making up” I’ll be doing.
By the time we drop everything off at the hotel and head to dinner, we’re half an hour late. The house is on the outskirts of Boston in the wealthy suburb of Westwood.
And when I say “house,” I’m being ironic.
Declan and Sloane live on a forty-acre parcel with its own stream-fed pond, infinity pool, pool house, boat dock, and guest house. The estate is a masterpiece of contemporary design, with twenty-foot ceilings, entire walls of glass, and ten thousand square feet of understated opulence.
Its sleek elegance makes Gianni’s house look like a bad dream.
When we’re inside and I tell Sloane how much I love it, she smiles.
“Hopefully, this one’s a keeper.”
“What do you mean?”
She says vaguely, “We’ve moved around a lot. By the way, I love that dress.”
Standing beside me in the living room, Quinn puffs out his chest. “I picked it out.”
Smiling, I say, “You made a phone call. A hotel employee picked it out.”
“It still counts!”
Sloane grins. “Yes, it does, Spider.”
She seems fond of him, which I like. I like her, too. She’s smart, sophisticated, and the center of a room without trying. She also has a gorgeous husband who obviously worships her. Declan’s blue eyes track her every move with unconcealed adoration.
We have cocktails on the patio overlooking the pool and miles of manicured lawn. Though we only met once at the wedding rehearsal, Sloane and I settle into an immediate easy familiarity, chatting about topics as varied as shoes to current events.
There’s no bullshit with her. She says exactly what she thinks. She doesn’t give a damn about trying to impress.
Which is good for her, because the meal she serves is awful.
Seriously god-awful. I wouldn’t even feed it to starving rabbits, which seem to be the target demographic.
Sitting at their huge rectangular glass dining table, I stare down at my plate loaded with inedible, unidentifiable nubby twiggy things and wonder how poor Declan manages to keep so much muscle on his frame.
If I had to guess, he probably eats out a lot.
“Try the tempeh soy seaweed cakes,” she suggests, pointing with her fork to an ugly oblong greenish-brown lump on her plate. “They’re super good for your colon.”
I spear the tempeh—whatever in God’s name that is—with my fork and nibble on it.
It tastes like what a filthy piece of driftwood from an old shipwreck might taste like: salty, soggy, fishy, disgusting.
“Mmm. Yummy.”
Watching me from across the table, Declan pulls his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing.
Sloane beams. “Right? I just love tempeh. It’s so versatile. Do you cook, Reyna?”
“Like a bloody Michelin chef,” says Quinn, warily eying a poisonous-looking fleshy gray lump on his own plate that could be a mushroom of some sort. Or possibly a boiled toad.
“Really?” says Sloane, intrigued. “What’s your specialty?”
“Sicilian cuisine in particular, but Italian food in general. My mother was born in Sicily, so many of my favorite recipes are handed down from her.”
With a hint of pride in his voice Quinn says, “She makes everything from scratch.”
Declan says forcefully, “Don’t tell me you make homemade pasta!”
When I nod, he groans. “Spider, you lucky bastard!”
With arched brows, Sloane turns to Declan. “Why, exactly, is he so lucky?”
Avoiding her searing gaze and an answer that might cost him a testicle, he takes a long drink from his wineglass.
Tactfully hiding my smile, I intervene. “I’ve always loved to cook, even when I was little. Then, when I got older, food became even more important. It’s really the only pleasure I have in my life.”
Reaching for my wineglass, I send a warm look in Quinn’s direction. “Had, I mean.”
When I set my glass down after sipping from it, I realize everyone is staring at me.
But only Quinn’s eyes are blazing.
Declan saves me from what could be a rogue attack from Mr. Handsy sitting next to me by asking, “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
I laugh. “Oh God. That’s like asking a mother which is her favorite child. Five-cheese lasagna with spicy sausage, truffle risotto, saltimbocca, Sicilian stuffed flatbread, the list goes on.”
With wide eyes, Declan says faintly, “Bread.”
“You should taste her carbonara,” brags Quinn.
Even fainter, Declan says, “Bacon.”
Sloane gives him a smack on the shoulder.
We make it through the rest of the meal with small talk as I try to move things around on my plate so it looks as if I’ve eaten them. For dessert, Sloane serves vegan ice cream made without cream, eggs, or sugar, or anything else resembling actual food.
But at least it’s bland and tasteless, so there’s that.
Then the men excuse themselves to speak in Declan’s office while Sloane and I sit on the sofa in the living room with our wine.
Thank God she likes wine, or I’d already have jumped into the pond.
“So. Reyna. How are you?”
With her bare long legs stretched out and propped up on the coffee table, Sloane gazes at me with the intensity of a professional interrogator.
I smile. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
After a beat of silence in which she examines every minute expression on my face, she says bluntly, “Bullshit.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve got many years’ experience compartmentalizing my feelings.”
“Swallowing them, you mean.”