Page 25 of The Billionaire's Pact

I covered my laugh.

“You laugh?” Rocco mused. “I hope it’s because you’re happy.”

Am I happy? I searched myself. Rocco was straight forward with his answers and reasons for our marriage. It wasn’t conventional, and we didn’t know each other, but it was a partnership all the same. It would take work, and he seemed willing to do it. Of course I had no experience, so I couldn’t decide if it was all charm. But it made me happy to know that he was putting an effort.

I gazed at the ring; it was stunning. “It’s so fancy. I never wear jewelry.”

“That’s something that needs to change. Women should have many jewels,” Rocco trilled.

My heart hammered in my ribs as he lifted the ring and slid it on my finger.

“We will celebrate and honor our marriage, Adelina. But I want you to know you’re a Marini now. And you will have only the best.” His gaze was intense, penetrating. The air between us shifted as I continued to warm under his stare. He truly is magnificent to look at. How thankful I was that I hadn’t been given to Willy.

“Bella,” he whispered, lifting my hand and pressing a kiss to the ring. It was his seal at securing his wealth and future, not for me. Still, I felt drawn to him. His lips brushed my finger, and they were warm, soft, luring. I felt a giddiness rising inside of me, laced with romantic notions. However, Rocco had been clear he didn’t care for love. He was more interested in duty and commitment. “That will last.” That was how I needed to be.

Don’t give him your heart, Adelina.

Don’t ever do that.

The lunch was delicious, and my tension and nervousness eased as we ate. Even though it was easy to get lost in Rocco’s blue-eyed gaze and his dazzling grin, he had a way to keep me talking. He reminisced about his college days in Boston, and we connected on having roamed the same libraries and spent countless hours walking Harvard Square and Boston Commons. When we touched the subject of art, our conversation flowed easily. We were delighted by the same classical exhibits. It surprised me how easy it was to talk to him and how we had some things in common. At the end of the meal, we rose to leave.

“Where are we going next?” I asked him.

“Dancing,” he answered.

“Dancing? Like in a nightclub?” My brows raised. New York was in full summer, and it was a hot, sunny afternoon.

“We’re having a dance lesson. Unless you already know how to swing dance?” His tone raised.

I scrunched my face. “Swing?”

He touched the pucker in my brow with amusement. And that mere brush lingered. I blinked rapidly.

“Watch out. You don’t want to be photographed like that,” he mused.

I quickly wore a blank expression, and we walked out of the restaurant. My pulse jumped in my throat. There were photographers out front, but his car was double parked, and with a security guard I hadn’t seen before, we were in the back of the Mercedes within a minute.

During that time, I thought about swing dancing. I remembered a movie I once watched that was full of flips and shaking hips. Definitely splashy, definitely something my grandparents would hate. Now I know why my grandfather was trying to get Rocco to change his mind. But even they backed down. It was clear, Rocco Marini was a man who got his way.

“Why swing?” I asked.

“My family will want to dance with you.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Really? They’ll have to pull me onto the floor.”

He clicked his tongue. “That won’t stop them. Swing dancing is their favorite. Put on Benny Goodman or Louis Armstrong, and you can’t keep them in their seats.”

I tilted my head. “Not mine. I don’t think my family dances.”

“I’ll get your mother to dance with me,” Rocco said.

I cackled. “I doubt it.”

Judge Colby used to try to get Mama to dance with him when he was on a “lucky streak.” He’d lose soon after and blame her with a backhand to the face for getting his hopes up.

“The Brass Clarinet is a big band dinner club. I want to spin you around the dance floor. It’s fun. We won’t do anything that would break your leg, but I want us to celebrate. Make it special, build memories.”

Build memories? Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as Rocco’s expression turned dreamy. There was the Rocco I’d seen in the press: imaginative, exciting, and impulsive. He also had a charm that was hard to turn down.

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