“You can’t keep chasing?—”
“Sit down.”
She sits.
Up close, the transformation is even more striking. The baggy clothes from the estate hid her figure, but this dress shows me exactly what I remember from that hotel room.
“How did you find me?” Her voice is steady, but I can see the pulse hammering at her throat.
“Now, why would I tell you that?”
She lifts her chin, and there’s the defiance I was expecting. “I suppose you think you’re very clever.”
“Clever enough to find you when you thought you were so smart.” I lean back in the booth, letting my eyes drift over her appearance. The dress is modest by most standards, but on her, it looks like an invitation. “You clean up nice.”
“I’m not going back with you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Just transfer the assets to someone else.” Her voice rises slightly, and I see an older man, a few tables away, glance our way. “Give them to charity, to a great cause, to anyone. Let me disappear and I’ll never bother your family again.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not? You hate this arrangement as much as I do.”
She’s not wrong about that. The thought of marrying my dead son’s woman, of being legally bound to someone I’ve alreadybeen intimate with under completely different circumstances, makes my skin crawl.
But that’s not the point.
“Because you’ll be dead within a week if you’re not under family protection,” I tell her. “Dante made enemies. Serious ones. They think you know where he hid their money.”
“I don’t know anything about his money.”
“Doesn’t matter what you know. Matters what they think you know.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to find another angle, another argument.
“I’d rather take my chances.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” I signal the waitress for coffee, keeping my movements casual. “You’re smarter than that. You survived two years with my son, which means you know how to calculate odds.”
The waitress brings my coffee, and I wait until she’s gone before continuing.
“The odds of you staying alive without protection are zero. The odds of you staying alive as my wife are considerably better.”
“Your wife.” She says it like the words taste bitter. “Do you have any idea how fucked-up this is?”
“Language, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
I take a sip of coffee, studying her over the rim. The dress has thin straps that keep sliding off her shoulders, and she keeps pushing them back up. A nervous habit that draws my attention to the smooth line of her collarbone, where I remember placing my mouth that night.
“Time to go.”
She stares at me for a stretched pause, then slowly reaches for her purse. “I should have known I couldn’t outrun you forever.”
“You lasted longer than most.”
