Page 60 of The Fighter

He stays where he is. “But you’re angry. I hear it in your voice.”

Because you want this to be just about sex, and I’ve been stupid enough to fall in love with you. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Two reasons. First, there’s this.” He takes a small box out of his pocket and flips it open. “If we’re pretending to be engaged, you need a ring.”

The ring is beautiful. The central stone is a deep blue oval-cut sapphire surrounded by a halo of small, sparkling diamonds. The warm gold setting is intricate, carved filigree work that looks fragile and delicate and oh-so-beautiful.

My heart stops in my throat.

“Dante suggested that I ask you to marry me over dinner in a busy restaurant,” he says. “The more witnesses to our engagement, the better. But I didn’t want to make a production of it.”

I wouldn’t have wanted to make a production of it, either.

He looks into my face. “Yes?”

I nod wordlessly, trying to stop myself from crying.

He slips the ring over my finger. “It fits perfectly.” Some unnamed emotion flashes over his face. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

I stare at the sapphire for a long moment. Everything is confusing. Nothing makes sense. I wish I understood what was going on. “Was this the ring you bought for Estela?”

Maybe it’s the reminder of Estela, a woman he really wanted to marry. Maybe he’s contrasting that actual proposal with this fake one. But when he answers, his voice is clipped. “No, it’s not.”

“You said there were two reasons. What’s the second?”

“We had a date tonight, remember?” He surveys my messy hair and crumpled T-shirt. “But I guess not. Casanova? Do you still want to go?”

This is what it must feel like to be stabbed through the heart. This sharp, specific pain that goes through me when Tomas invites me to go to a sex club with him.

I take a deep breath. And then another. There’s a breathing routine I go through before a fight to clear my thoughts and focus my attention on the ring, and I deploy it now. Because I’m not going to cry in front of Tomas Aguilar. “I don’t understand you,” I say, my voice as light as I can make it. “We slept together this morning. Yes, it’s casual, this thing between us. We’re not dating; it’s just about sex. But even so. Did you really think I would be interested in marrying some random Russian guy?”

His lips tighten.

“You thought I’d marry some stranger because of what he could buy me?” I continue. “Is that really what you think of me? Because if it is?—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, his voice harsh. “You have every right to be angry. It was an unforgivable thing to say.”

I thought he’d deny it. Or bluster or defend himself. But I should know by now that that’s not who Tomas is.

I still don’t understand why.

“Then why did you say it?” I whisper.

His expression is strained. “Because of Estela,” he says. “Her father was a high-ranking member of the cartel. She was meant to marry a man he picked out. When I found out who your father was…” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I had to know.”

I stare at him. I’d forgotten the details. He told me earlier this week, on that quiet, intimate drive back home from Milan, that Estela rejected him in favor of an arranged marriage with cartel royalty. It must have come as one hell of an unpleasant shock when I told him about my father. It would have felt like déjà vu in the worst possible way.

“I’m not Estela.”

“I know.” His eyes are affectionate. “You have more integrity in your little finger than she’ll ever have. I’m sorry, Ali. All I can say in my defense is that I was reeling.” He blows out a breath. “Do you want me to leave?”

Say yes, a cautionary voice whispers in my head. To Tomas, this is still about sex, but you’re falling in love with him. Turn him down. If you go to Casanova with him, it will only lead to heartbreak.

But I’m not strong enough to resist the invitation in his eyes.

“What does one wear to a sex club?”

“Whatever you want.” He smiles wickedly. “It’s not going to stay on you for very long.”

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