Page 19 of The Unwanted Wife

He must notice my move, for one side of his lips curl. Then he brings his gaze back to my mouth. "What gives you that idea?"

"The fact that you’re still glowering at me? Or wait"—I pretend to think—"I guess that’s your resting jerk face."

He chuckles. "Or maybe, that’s your imagination?"

"If only it were my imagination that you asked me to marry you," I say in a bitter tone.

"Don’t lie." He delivers his words without heat, but that doesn’t stop me from flushing.

"What do you mean?"

"Admit it, you were affected by our kiss, too.”

I scoff.

“In fact”—his eyes gleam— “I’d wager you spent the last few years dreaming about how it would be when I fucked you."

"Excuse me?" I jut out my chin, ignoring the shiver of need which courses through my veins. "I think you need to leave."

He spreads his legs wider, and that tent between his thighs seems to be bigger than I remember. A tsunami of heat spirals in my belly. My cheeks burn. He snaps his fingers, and I raise my gaze to his face. When I see the curl of his lips, I realize he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking.

"Do you really want me to leave?" His shoulders swell, and he seems to grow visibly larger, as if he’s got an animal inside him that’s now filling out his skin and threatening to jump out. His eyes glitter. "Say the word, and I will."

And if he does, I won’t get the money. And then, what'll happen to my business? I suppose I should be grateful he isn’t reminding me of that. Not that he needs to, considering I can fill in the blanks myself. Isn’t that clever of him? Making it seem like I have a choice in the matter, when what he’s driving home is, I don’t. And without saying it aloud. Aargh! I curl my fingers into fists and glare at him.

His lips curve slightly. "I take that as a no, Starling?"

And how I hate—and love—that nickname. It implies a certain intimacy, which is not real. Except for that kiss. A kiss which he’s now admitted also affected him. Something I had not expected to hear from him.

"Well?" He drums his fingers on his chest. "Yes or no?"

9

Nathan

"I… I can’t accept that." She looks down at the ring on the tray in front of her, then at me. "I can’t."

After she admitted, she wasn’t going to tell me to leave, I asked her to change and accompany me. I didn’t tell her where we were going. I also over-rode her protests that she had to open the bakery. She opens at 11 a.m. on Monday, and I promised to have her back in enough time to prep. She shouldn’t need to work on Monday. Given the size of the dark circles under her eyes, she should take the day off and stay in bed. Not that I’m going to mention that to her. If I did, I'm sure she’d extend the operating hours, just to spite me.

But if I'm doing this marriage thing, I'm doing it properly. And she deserves a ring. Something that proclaims she's mine. I stiffen. No, that’s not why I'm insisting on having her choose a ring. It’s so my grandfather will believe in the validity of this relationship, which is critical for him to confirm me as the CEO. Yes, that’s all it is. That’s the only reason I had the leading jeweler in London open his store early in the morning for a private viewing for us.

I reach for the ring she’s been eyeing since it was placed in front of her. At first, she stared at it with wonder, then with longing, then said she wanted to see other options. But her gaze kept wandering back to this one. Not that she’d ever admit it. She kept looking away from it, until I finally picked it up. Now, she stares at what the jeweler called a bibliophile trilogy ring—one with three interlocking platinum bands to represent our past, present and future together. A whole lot of bull, if you ask me. But I know she’s attracted to the emerald in the center, which appears to rise from between the pages of an open book formed from two overlayed ‘V’ shapes on the ring.

I hold out my palm. She hesitates, then slowly places her hand in mine. I slide the ring onto her finger. For a second, we both stare at it. Her fingers tremble. A drop of moisture falls onto the back of her palm. I glance up to find her eyelashes are spiky with tears.

"What’s wrong?"

"It’s beautiful." She swallows.

"You’re beautiful."

Her chin trembles; she seems overcome by emotion. "You don’t have to do this."

"Of course I do."

"It’s— Whatever this is you’re doing is not real."

"Of course it is."

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