Page 62 of Bad Blood
RJ lowers his gaze, chuckling as he scans the text. “Are you asking for Marco or for yourself?”
“Fuck off.” Swiping the phone off the table, I flip him my middle finger as I rise to my feet to head back upstairs. “I don’t touch Colombian pussy... I marry it, and then I ignore it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Santi
There’sa rock sitting in the pit of my stomach as I prowl the black hallways of my penthouse apartment.
Craving a glass ofGran Patrón Burdeos Añejotequila, I’m irritated as hell when I discover my office bar empty. Striding into the kitchen, thinking dark thoughts about my housekeeper, I’m greeted by the sight of a perfectly rounded ass in a pair of denim cutoffs, with the seams stretching in all the right places.
¡A la verga!I’m going to need something stronger than tequila.
“Can I help you?”
Thalia’s head quickly re-emerges from the refrigerator. She straightens and turns with a jerk, her cheeks flushing. “What are you doing here? I thought you were out for the evening.” She glances at the door. “Do you want me to stay in my room? It wasn’t locked so I figured—”
“We’re married. Do whatever the fuck you want. You know the rules.” Leaning over the kitchen island, I crush my elbows into the cool surface, pretending to ignore the hurt look on her face. This woman is a goddamn guilt machine. It’s all I seem to be feeling today.
I’m not telling her I have the tape, though. Bardi is my one bargaining chip—I control him, I control her—and I can do a lot of damage to the Santiago Cartel in a week with Thalia in my corner.
Hell, I already have.
“Does this mean the hunger strike is officially over?” I watch her stirring a saucepan, the fragrant aroma of garlic and tomatoes sweetening the tension between us. “Or will I be sliding into bed later, courtesy of another crème brûlée floor wax?”
The stirring stops. “I thought you said we had separate bedrooms?”
“Relax. It’s a joke,” I say, watching her shoulders deflate in relief. “What the hell are you eating anyway? I’m sure there’s something more refined that my Paris-trained chef has made in the—”
“I like spaghetti and tomato sauce,” she says flatly, spinning around to switch the gas off.
“Suit yourself.” I flick through the messages on my phone, overlooking another two from my father, all the while stealing more glances at her. She’s wearing a loose white Tee tucked into the front of her dick-tease shorts. It’s molding her small breasts into something far more appetizing than dinner.
She’s also looking every minute of nineteen and vulnerable as hell.
“Do you have anything in particular against French cuisine?” I ask her.
“I’m in need of comfort food tonight.”
“Autodefensa mental,”I mutter.
She cocks her head, her eyebrows drawn tight. “Huh?”
“Defense mechanism,” I repeat in English. Holding up the empty box of processed pasta, I give it a shake. “This isn’t comfort food,mi esposa; it’s a heart attack in a bowl.” Leaning into the refrigerator myself, I remove a plate of foie gras pâte.
“At least it’s not pureed animal livers,” she says, frowning at me.
“This is a French luxury. Here, try it.” Digging out a fork, I attempt to lift a portion up to her lips, but she backs away with a disgusted look on her face.
“Ugh. No thanks, I’m a vegetarian. And do you know how cruel that stuff is? They force feed the ducks and geese until their liver explodes. Not to mention that they keep them in tiny cages.”
“Cruel food for a cruel man,” I say dryly, adding it to a piece of brioche and popping the entire thing in my mouth.
Shooting me a withering look, she turns back to the stove, rewarding me with another view of those shorts as my dessert.Comfort food, indeed…
“The best meals don’t always have to come from animals, you know.”
“Okay, Miss PETA. Educate me.”
