Page 7 of Caged Captain

“You’re in pain?” he asks, setting down the plate and focusing back on me.

“No, not really. I mean nothing awful. The shoes pinch my feet a bit, but…”

The next instant, Marco kneels in front of me, lifting my dress slightly and wrapping a hand around my left ankle. I place my hands on his shoulders to avoid tumbling over and lift my foot. He slips one shoe off and then the other, smiling when I shrink from five foot nine to my normal stature of five-five.

“There. Problem solved.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to… I mean, I’m okay,” I rush to say.

Marco stands with my high heels in hand, then signals for a server. He gives the man my shoes, along with a hundred-dollar bill. Marco doesn’t even give him instructions; he simply nods, and just like that, my shoe problem is solved.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper again.

“But you were hurting,” he replies, his brows furrowed in concern. “Are your feet cold now? Do you want another pair of more sensible shoes?” He raises his hand to signal for another waiter, but I grab his wrist and pull it back down.

“I’m fine without shoes,” I assure him. “In fact, I love being barefoot.”

His left hand curls around mine while he lifts his right hand to my face. Gently, so damn gently, he tucks a few strands of hair behind my ear. Without meaning to, I lean into his touch until he’s cradling my cheek.

The moment becomes too much. Too confusing. Too real.

“That’s settled, then. No girlfriend of mine will be in pain. End of discussion.” He drops his hand from my face and resumes his mission of gathering food on a plate.

I can tell he’s trying to cover up the surprisingly tender moment by bringing it back to our deal, which is good. That’s how it should be. Just business. Nothing else. Certainly no crushes or messy emotions.

Marco holds his arm out again for me to take, guiding us to a tall, round table where we can stand and set our food and drinks down. There’s a ridiculous mountain of snacks in front of me, ranging from mini crab cakes to chocolate-covered strawberries. I’m about to shamelessly dig in when we’re interrupted by another man, presumably a business partner.

“Marco,” he greets as he steps closer. “Oh, and who is this?”

“I’m Imogine,” I reply, taking the initiative this time. If the point of this whole evening is to mingle and show everyone we’re a couple, I should probably play a more active role.

“Imogine,” he repeats. “I-mo-gine,” the man says more slowly, annunciating every syllable. His eyes fall to my chest, and he literally licks his lips. I try not to physically recoil when he holds out his hand for me to shake.

Before I can take his outstretched hand, Marco cuts in, taking the man’s hand instead. “Mr. Sanchez,” he says, gripping the man’s hand tightly. “How is yourwife?”

Mr. Sanchez clears his throat, finally peeling his eyes from my chest. “She’s good. Fine. She’s, uh… She’s around here somewhere.”

“Better go find her then,” Marco says. His tone is more of a warning than a suggestion. The man takes the hint and excuses himself.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “Did I do something wrong? I’m not used to this kind of thing.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Marco answers, though he’s not looking at me. His gaze is pinned on Mr. Sanchez, who’s chatting up another young woman.

The evening is filled with similar encounters—men introducing themselves, looking at me, and then being sent away by Marco. This wasn’t what I had in mind when I read his note about tonight’sengagement,where we’d be making our “relationship” public. Then again, maybe it’s a mafia thing. He’s staking his claim on me and letting the other men know not to mess with the girlfriend of a Caparelli Captain.

I won’t lie; the thought of Marco being jealous over me has me blushing and wiggling my bare toes against the floor, but I know it’s just a show.

“Are you ready to–”

“Marco, there you are,” a short, stout older man says, cutting him off from whatever he was about to ask me. “I’ve been dying to meet the little snack you brought with you.”

“Oh, the snacks are actually over there,” I say, pointing to the banquet table. As soon as the words leave my lips, I want to snatch them back. He’s obviously referring tome, not the food. God, I’m so tired. I haven’t done anything except stand next to Marco and shake hands, but I’m exhausted. Clearly.

“Cute,” the older man says, his eyes flitting up and down my body. “Not who I would have pictured you with, but it’s good to mix things up every once in a while, right?”

My face is already flushed from my embarrassing comment, and now this man is picking at the one weak spot in our cover: me. I don’t belong here. I definitely don’t belong with someone like Marco.

“We were just leaving,” Marco says, tugging me along behind him. He sounds angry. He’s probably realizing this isn’t going to work and has wasted an entire evening for nothing.

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