Page 18 of Marrying the Enemy

Nothing happened.

“He must have taken the generator with him.” He released another tired curse and gave his damp face a final swipe before tossing the towel onto the pile of clean ones. “Why the hell didn’t you come straight back to the beach when you left Logan?”

“Really?” Just like that, her temper was back at explosive. “You want to make this my fault? I didn’t want to see you,” she spelled out belligerently. “Okay? You were standing at the lookout with your girlfriend and I was sick of men, given what Logan had done—”

“What did Logan do?” he asked in a tone that was so lethal, her scalp prickled.

“He said something to my brother that I didn’t like,” she grumbled. “Why didn’t you tell someone you thought I was missing and ask them to find me?”

He muttered something about this being an unproductive conversation and closed both window and door, leaving the awning open to provide light and a view of the heavy surf as it crashed onto shore.

“Is there anything to eat?” He started to open a cupboard.

“Potato chips and candy bars, crackers and caviar, pickles and olives, canned pineapple and beets. When that runs out, each other.”

She regretted her sarcasm as soon as she said it. She heard his thick voice asking, “Do you want my mouth here?” She remembered his tone perfectly because she’d been replaying it for four years. Her body flushed with heat and her cheeks stung.

He stared right at her, smug as he reached for a Bloody Mary, opened it with a pop, then drained half of it in a few healthy swallows, never taking his eyes off her.

God, she hated him.

But when he offered her a can of her own, she took it and opened it, taking a big gulp of the tangy, vodka-laced drink to wet her dry throat.

“You really didn’t know who I was in Budapest?” he asked in a voice thick with suspicion. He leaned his hips beside her against the back counter so he stared at the water, but she felt his attention on her as though she was under an interrogation light.

“No,” she choked. “I would never—Did you know who I was?”

“Hell, no.” His profile was carved from granite. “Did you tell anyone? Your brothers?”

“Gawd, no. I’m dreading having to explain this.” She started to sip, then had to ask, “Did you? Tell anyone?”

“No,” he scoffed, sounding as though he’d rather have a bullet dug from his chest with a rusty knife and no anesthetic.

His repulsion was as insulting now as it had been then, making her reach for hostility to hide the fact she was so deeply stung.

“And by the way, my father did not leave your uncle to die. Your father and his brother were horrible to Dad while they were all at Harvard. Dad didn’t have any love for either of them and didn’t even want to be at that party with your uncle. Which is why he was leaving when your uncle asked for a lift. Dad thought he was drunk so he said his car was full. Yes, it was spiteful, but he didn’t know your uncle was diabetic and needed his medication. It eats at him to this day that he brushed him off instead of taking him to where he might have got help. But there were dozens of other people there who also could have helped him. It wasn’t Dad’s fault.”

“Yet he had no qualms about keeping up the pressure on my father after that, pushing him into an early grave. Then he came after me while I was burying him.”

“Look.” She put up a hand. “I was sorry to hear about your father. That must have been a difficult time for you.”

“You think?” He snapped his head around to pin her with his hard stare, making her heart stutter and thrum in her chest. “Did you set them on me? Your brothers?”

“No. I was trying to forget we’d ever met!”

“I’m sure,” he said facetiously. He took a pull off his can and returned his attention to the surf and the falling rain.

“I don’t have a say in the business one way or another,” she said with a surge of resentment. “My brother is being a sexist jerk about it, if you want the truth. But think about it. Your father accused mine of murder. Dad has had to deal with that for decades. So yes, it was tasteless of him to go after WBE when your father died, but he felt justified. He said your grandfather did the same to him when Nonno Aldo died.”

Dom drained his can and set the empty can in the sink, making her stiffen as the air stirred beside her hip before he resumed his stance against the counter, ankles crossed and arms folded, glaring at the foam washing up the beach.

“How has this feud persisted this long anyway?” she muttered. “My grandmother didn’t want to marry your grandfather. Maybe Michael Blackwood should have got over that instead of dedicating his life to making my family suffer?”

“He was insulted that she preferred a war criminal.”

“Oh, please. Nonno Aldo could be accused of being a profiteer. Maybe. But people do what they have to when times are tough. Your great-grandparents were bootleggers trying to survive the Depression, same as mine. Don’t throw stones at Nonno because he sold olive oil and cheese on the black market during the war.”

He snorted, unmoved.

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