Page 135 of Brutal Vows
“I’m on my honeymoon.”
And because the man has a highly developed sense of the absurd, our last stop is at Cartier.
When we pull up in front of the building, I frown. “What’s this?”
He chuckles. “Did you think a ring would be the only piece of jewelry I’d ever buy you?”
“It’s not as if I’ve had oodles of time to think about it.”
“I’ll spare you the effort. I want you covered in pretty sparkling things. The more, the merrier. You’ll look like a bloody Christmas tree by the time I’m done with you.”
Just to be subversive, he carries me across the threshold of the store in his arms.
We spend more than an hour in there. When we emerge, I’m the new owner of a few million dollars’ worth of luxury baubles and am more than a little dazed.
Dazed and dismayed, because this feels much too one-sided.
“What’s that sour puss for?” he asks the moment we’re back in the car.
“It’s just that you’ve bought me all these wonderful gifts, and I haven’t given you anything. You even had to buy your own wedding ring.”
He gathers me into his arms, smiles at me, and plants a kiss on my lips. His voice soft, he says, “You’ve given me everything, you bloody daft woman.”
“Really? Because it seems like all I’ve given you are headaches and a constant barrage of death threats.”
“Aye. Those, too. Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure you make it up to me later tonight.”
His sensual smile leaves no doubt as to what kind of “making up” I’ll be doing.
By the time we drop everything off at the hotel and head to dinner, we’re half an hour late. The house is on the outskirts of Boston in the wealthy suburb of Westwood.
And when I say “house,” I’m being ironic.
Declan and Sloane live on a forty-acre parcel with its own stream-fed pond, infinity pool, pool house, boat dock, and guesthouse. The estate is a masterpiece of contemporary design, with twenty-foot ceilings, entire walls of glass, and ten thousand square feet of understated opulence.
Its sleek elegance makes Gianni’s house look like a bad dream.
When we’re inside and I tell Sloane how much I love it, she smiles.
“Hopefully, this one’s a keeper.”
“What do you mean?”
She says vaguely, “We’ve moved around a lot. By the way, Ilovethat dress.”
Standing beside me in the living room, Quinn puffs out his chest. “I picked it out.”
Smiling, I say, “You made a phone call. A hotel employee picked it out.”
“It still counts!”
Sloane grins. “Yes, it does, Spider.”
She seems fond of him, which I like. I like her, too. She’s smart, sophisticated, and the center of a room without trying. She also has a gorgeous husband who obviously worships her. Declan’s blue eyes track her every move with unconcealed adoration.
We have cocktails on the patio overlooking the pool and miles of manicured lawn. Though we only met once at the wedding rehearsal, Sloane and I settle into an immediate easy familiarity, chatting about topics as varied as shoes to current events.
There’s no bullshit with her. She says exactly what she thinks. She doesn’t give a damn about trying to impress.
