Page 4 of The Devil's Pawn

My father chokes on his whiskey. Jessica, Imogen’s mother, looks as though she might faint, and Scott’s face blooms with color.

“Imogen! Apologize to Alexander. Right this second.”

I direct my attention toward her, curious how she plans to handle this. An apology doesn’t interest me, but her reaction to her father’s demand does.

Rather disappointingly, she lowers her chin to her chest, the fire that had enchanted me perishing beneath Scott’s scolding.

“I apologize unreservedly.” She refuses to meet my gaze. “That was rude and unnecessary.”

I say nothing. Fiddling with the cuff on my shirt, I run my thumb over the family crest and my initials stitched into the fabric, my eyes not leaving her for a second as I wait for her to look at me.

When she doesn’t, I intervene. “I’d like to talk to Imogen.” I pull my gaze away from her and settle my attention on my father. “Alone.”

He smiles, pleased at my request. “Of course.” He gets to his feet and motions for Jessica and Scott to do the same. “Good idea to leave them to get acquainted without us breathing down their necks.”

Imogen’s mother kisses her cheek, and her father squeezes her shoulder. It looks more like a warning than asupportive gesture. After her unauthorized outburst, I’m not surprised. I’d wager he’s made her practice how to behave at our initial meeting a hundred times over the last five days.

As soon as the door closes, Imogen shifts her gaze to me.

I run a finger along my bottom lip, appraising her as she, in turn, appraises me. Neither of us speak, though I know she’ll break first. I’m an expert in the art of silence.

Give the girl her due, she lasts approximately sixty seconds. That’s more than most people manage in my company.

“Why didn’t you want to meet me before now?” Her opening gambit isn’t the question I expected, although I’d have put it in the top five.

“What was the point?” To me, it seemed futile to go through the charade of meeting ahead of schedule, as though this were a normal relationship. A waste of time if you will. A senseless endeavor that wouldn’t change anything.

Her eyes flare, her forehead wrinkling. “Wow. How charming.”

“If you’re looking for charm, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Clearly,” she mutters.

I rise from my chair and help myself to a cognac. After taking a sip, I let the burn slide down my throat, and return to my seat, crossing my legs. “Miss Salinger, let me be clear. My family expects me to marry, and my father has chosen you as my bride. But if you’re looking for a fairy tale…” I trail off.

“I’m not looking for a fairy tale,” she snaps. Standing, she goes over to the drinks cabinet and snatches up a bottle of gin. “Nor am I expecting a gentleman. Which, considering your behavior, is just as well.” Turning her back on me, she makes herself a G and T.

I’m… impressed. There aren’t many people in my life willing to stand their ground. A powerful name like De Vil usually garners respect and, in some cases, fear. At the very least, a desire to tread carefully.

“I’m glad we understand each other.” I knock back my cognac and set the glass on the coffee table. Lacing my fingers together, I wait for her next comeback. I’m rather enjoying the exchange.

She breathes out a heavy sigh. “Okay, couple of things. One, don’t call me Miss Salinger. If you do that after we’re married, you’re going to look like a complete weirdo. Two, as hard as it might be for you, at least try to see this from my point of view. I’m the one who’s had to leave my home behind. I’m the one who’s had her dreams tossed into the trash. I’m the one having to make all the sacrifices. I’m alone here, whereas nothing has changed for you. The least you can do is try to be civil.”

Further evidence that isolation is the right approach to put a speedy end to this marriage. “I thought I was being civil.”

She looks at me as if she might kill me. My groin heats again, and I adjust my position.

“Oh, my God. You actually believe that, don’t you?” She massages her temples as if to stave off an oncoming headache. “We should at least try to get to know each other a little before the wedding.”

“Why?”

Her impatience with me goes from about a three to one hundred in the time it takes her to blink. “Jesus Christ.”

Her lips purse, and she wrings her hands. Although, if I had to guess, she’d rather wring my neck. This initial meeting isn’t going as I thought it would, and I couldn’t be happierabout it. If I’d known she was this feisty, I might have changed my mind and met her before today. It’s so boring when people grovel, fawn, and bootlick. Forcing her hand into demanding a divorce will be the most fun I’ve had in a long while, especially as fun isn’t a concept I’m all that familiar with.

“Do you like coffee or tea?”

I arch a brow. “Neither.”

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