“Yes, I’ve always liked to read. My father used to say books were the sign of an impressionable man. He loathed them.”
“So, obviously, you got your hands on as many books as you could,” I conclude and he smirks.
“Exactly.”
“When do you find time to read?”
“Probably the same way you find time to play games with your niece and nephew.”
We smile at each other. Anyone watching might believe there’s real tenderness between us. I don’t know that I would gothatfar after three months of this charade, but I do have respect for him, and a general contentment of his presence.
As he orders every appetizer on the menu for me, I’m sure that my choice in spouse was a good one. Not the most romantic of stories, not like my father might have wanted for me, but life married to Maxim will be comfortable. And the added protection of my family will alleviate some stress I carry.
The waiter offers to pour wine into the glass in front of me, but I cover it with my hand and shake my head. “No, thank you. Water is great.”
“Apologies,” the waiter says, and retreats with a bow.
I avoid alcohol as much as possible, because you really never know when you’ll need to be in control of all of your faculties. Only one of Maxim’s guards came on the trip with us, and has kept his distance, out of sight and out of mind. By all accounts, I’m probably safe, but I try not to risk it.
“Maxim Orlov?” A deep voice says, interrupting our comfortable quiet.
We both turn in their direction, and a sun-kissed man I am almost confident I’ve never seen approaches with a much-younger woman on his arm. She’s way, way hotter than him, but he’s got the rich as sin thing going on, so good for her.
“Maxim Orlov at an Orlov resort, I’ll be damned. And I hear congratulations are in order.” He’s got a southern accent, though not a thick one. He turns to me and whistles. “You’re the new Mrs. Orlov? How’d he manage to pull you?”
I scrunch my nose in distaste at the remark, and all geniality is gone from Maxim’s eyes.
“This is my wife, Mary. Mary, this is Colton Tenneson.”
Mariannafor himself,Maryto those he dislikes. Noted.
The man’s name is familiar and surprises me; Colton Tenneson owns a lot of property in Boston, a couple even built by Morelli Construction. I’ve never met him, but Willa has had to work with him and his team; says he’s insufferable and the perfect example of just how far nepotism can take an unqualified person.
“A pleasure, Mary,” Colton says, not bothering to introducehisdate. I nod at him and smile at her. “I was surprised to hear you were getting married. When was the big day?”
“Yesterday,” I say. “We’re celebrating.”
The woman next to him startles, and Colton lets out a belly laugh.
“Your honeymoon! Incredible. Well, then I better not try to talk business with you, eh?”
“No,” Maxim says simply. Colton taps Maxim’s shoulder as if they’re friends, and the action makes me want to commit bodily harm to the man.
“We’ll meet up when you’re back in the city. Nice seeing you both,” Colton says before, thankfully, making his exit. These days, a mob boss can’t just be a mob boss, they have to be respectable businesspeople and have annoying, perfunctory business conversations. It’s not all crime and cleanups.
Plates of food are brought out to us, and I really was starving because I’m distracted from asking any prying questions about the disturbance in our evening. I’m about to dish up one of everything when I remember Leo’s request to take photos, so I snap and send a photo off to him.
“So you work with that guy?” I ask between bites of the most delicious stuffed mushrooms I have ever eaten.
“No, but not for lack of trying on his part.”
“So what, everyone wants a piece of you?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Maxim has worked hard over the last decade to make Orlov Enterprises into a worldwide juggernaut of a company and to make his crime family respected and feared. Of course they want a piece of it. “Speaking of, got any angry exes I should be on the lookout for? I should have asked last night. If they were at the wedding, you could have pointed them out to me.”
“None of note. None that you’d need to worry about if there were.”
I raise a brow, unsure of his meaning.
“None of them can fight,” he explains, and it’s a concerted effort to keep from smiling at the hint of praise. I know manymen who hate to acknowledge that I can fight because, usually it means they know I could beat them. Maxim has no such concern for his perceived strength or masculinity, as he’s made clear on multiple occasions.
