Page 3 of Arranged with Twins
Leo’s tone remains perfectly pleasant, while something underneath it makes the hair on my arms stand up. “Conversations tend to go more smoothly when all parties are equally interested in participating. Don’t you agree?”
Hamilton’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Absolutely. Absolutely. I should go find my wife. Congratulations again on the engagement.”
He practically scurries away, leaving Leo and me alone at the bar. The bartender, a distinguished man in his fifties, doesn’t even need to be asked. He simply slides a glass of what looks like very expensive whiskey across the polished surface.
Leo lifts the glass with a nod of thanks. The bartender glances at me questioningly.
I order my drink while processing what just happened. “Gin and tonic.”
Leo adds, which earns him a sharp look from me, “Make it a double.”
“I can order my own drinks.”
He shrugs, turning his glass in slow circles on the bar top. “I’m sure you can. You look like you could use something stronger than champagne to get through the rest of this evening.”
He’s not wrong. The gin burns pleasantly as I sip it, and some of the tension in my shoulders starts to ease. “That was well-handled, by the way. With Hamilton, I mean.”
He looks mildly irritated for a moment, but I realize it’s still with the handsy man, not me. “Men like him think wealth buys them license to take whatever they want. It’s important to correct that misconception when it arises.”
I sip my drink again before asking, “Is that what you did? Corrected a misconception?”
He looks at me over the rim of his glass. “I reminded him some things aren’t for sale, and some people aren’t for taking.”
The words hang between us, making me consider he might not be as bad as I anticipated if he’s willing to intercede on behalf of a woman most of the people in this room would consider either invisible or disposable.
Ironically, though, he’s decided that he’s entitled to take me.
Before I can respond, the sound system crackles to life, and Father’s voice fills the ballroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for just a moment? Katherine andI are delighted to share some wonderful news with all of you tonight. It gives us tremendous joy to announce the engagement of our daughter, Sienna, to Leonid Denisov.”
I let out a sigh.
The crowd begins to gather, conversations dying as people turn toward the small stage at the far end of the room. Mother stands beside Father, her smile radiant and perfectly calculated for the cameras that have multiplied during our conversation at the bar.
Applause erupts across the room, punctuated by camera flashes and the excited murmur of voices already crafting the story they’ll tell at tomorrow’s brunches. The sound washes over me like a wave. I drain the rest of my gin and tonic in one swallow. The alcohol provides false courage for what’s coming next, which is the performance that will seal my fate and bind me to a man I barely know.
Leo murmurs, offering me his arm, “Showtime.”
I take it because refusing would create a scene that would send Mother into hysterics and provide fodder for gossip columnists for months. His arm is solid under my hand, with firm muscles and bone beneath the fine wool of his jacket.
I take comfort in this handsome devil. Everyone else here seems worse, somehow.
We make our way through the crowd, which parts before us. People reach out to touch my shoulder to offer congratulations and position themselves within the circle of this new alliance. Their faces blur together, smiling but in a greedy and soulless way. I’m glad I can’t remember them, because it would just make me think less of them, if such a thing were possible.
Father announces as Leo helps me up the single step onto the platform, “There they are. The happy couple.”
Happy.
I paste a smile across my face and wonder if anyone in this room besides myself can see how brittle it is. Surely, they’ve noticed a lack of courtship between us? Our first appearance in public together is for our engagement party. Yeah, there’s nothing fishy about that.
Leo’s hand settles at the small of my back, warm and possessive, distracting me from my bitter thoughts. Questions fly from the small cluster of reporters Mother specifically invited, including society columnists and lifestyle journalists who can be trusted to write the story she wants told.
A reporter calls out, “When’s the wedding?”
Another voice joins in, “How long have you two been dating?”
A third reporter focuses on me specifically, “Sienna, what attracted you to Mr. Denisov?”
I open my mouth to attempt an answer to that last question, while Leo’s hand presses slightly against my back in either a warning or a signal.
