Page 39 of Stolen Bride for the Don

“They were well compensated.” I wave off her concern. Their reservations were shifted to a few weeks away, and they were offered complimentary champagne with their meal. No one complained.

She looks like she has words to say but our waiter has arrived. “The 1796 Lenox Madeira,” he says, turning the bottle to show me.

“1796, huh? Sounds expensive,” Andrea comments as I give the waiter a nod of approval.

“Only the best for my bride-to-be.” I wink and her cheeks turn a charming red. I smile to myself as the waiter uncorks the wine and fills my glass. When he turns to Andrea, I don’t miss the appreciative glance he gives her. My hands form a fist on the table.

“Where is the waitress?” I ask sharply and he jumps, spilling a drop of wine on the tablecloth. He glances at the mess with wide eyes like he just signed his death certificate and gulps as his terrified gaze meets mine.

“Which waitress would that be sir? We-we have several.” He takes out a napkin from his back pocket and uselessly dabs at the stain.

“The blonde one.” Anyone but him.

“Do you mean Donna?” he asks cautiously, and I wave at him.

“Yes, her. Where is she?”

He gulps again and slowly backs away. “I’ll uh–I’ll go get her.”

“What was that about?” Andrea asks, frowning at me.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” I answer honestly as I pick up my wine glass. I swirl the liquid around the large glass, but I’m distracted from my drink when her lips–not unlike the deep color of my wine–part.

“You didn’t like the way he looked at me?” she asks looking dumbfounded, “He wasn’t looking at me any way, he just–” She stops talking when the waitress, Donna, steps up to us with our first course.

“Lobster tartare,” she says with a grin that shows more teeth than necessary as she drops our plates in front of us. She blinks and asks, “Was there a reason you asked for me, Mr. Moratti?” Blink blink.

“I need someone professional to serve us, and he was anything but that,” I answer coolly. That gets her to stop fluttering her eyes and she gives me a short nod.

“Understood, sir.”

As soon as she leaves, Andrea announces, “And if I want to change our waitress?” I raise a brow. “I don’t like the way she looks at you either.”

I wave a hand dismissively and say, “I don’t fuck my employees. While they may not know I own the building, they’ve been made to understand that I’m very important.” I nod at her plate as I drop my wine glass back on the table. “Try it.”

I watch her as she sinks her fork into the lobster and dips it into the buttery sauce. When she lifts it to her mouth, her eyes close and an expression of pure bliss washes over her face. Fuck, that look is just like the one that she gets when she comes. I’ve seen it countless times on security footage and now a couple times by my own doing. My cock stiffens.

“Well?” I demand more harshly than I intend to and her eyes snap open.

“It’s good. It’s really good.” She smiles and, fuck, that’s the first time she ever has. I want more of it. I want all her smiles directed my way. I stab my own lobster, nodding in approval.

“Now, back to the question you dodged earlier. Why are you marrying me?” Andrea asks as she spears more lobster with her fork. Damn, she’s a persistent one.

CHAPTER 25

ANDREA

He heaves a long suffering sigh, and I suppress the urge to give him a smug smile. He thinks I’d forget so easily? I bet none of the folders he has about me informed him as to just how stubborn I can be when I set my mind to something.

“You really want to know?” he asks, taking a bite of his own dish, making the action look annoyingly sensual. He chews quietly, and I wait for him to finish with raised brows. “Fine. Because I want you. I want you, so I took you for myself and now I’m blackmailing you to marry me, happy?”

My lips part in surprise. I kind of suspected that might be the underlying reason. A man like Hudson wouldn’t go ahead with a marriage–fake or not–unless it serves him.

Plus, I felt his hardness the night I was kidnapped, but I thought there might be another, sinister reason. Like punishing Ezra or something. “So, that’s it? You see something you like, and you have to own it?” I ask, lips curling in disgust but damned if my belly doesn’t get a little fluttery. He wants me.

“Precisely,” he answers arrogantly.

“I was ready to invite you upstairs that night, you know,” I confess. “This could’ve all been avoided if you’d just stuck around a little longer and spent the night with me. You could’ve scratched that itch and moved on.”

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