"You're very perceptive."
Gia nods, her expression still calm and flat, giving away nothing. "I'm practical. And I think we could be good for each other, Elio. I understand the requirements of this life, and I have no romantic illusions about marriage. I want security, status, and children. You need a wife who won't complicate your business relationships or create unnecessary drama. We both get what we need." She smiles. “And if I might be fulfilling a bit of a teenage fantasy with the possibility of getting you, there’s nothing wrong with that, right? It would make it all more pleasurable for everyone if I’m… happy with the situation.”
Christ.There she goes again, talking about sex in those carefully euphemistic terms that still make it plain that she’s thinking about what happens on the wedding night, and is eager for it. There’d be no tears, no frigidity, no reluctance. I’d get a perfect wife, and one happy to be in my bed.
It's a reasonable proposal. A smart proposal. Everything about Gia Marcelli makes sense for a man in my position.
So why does the thought of marrying her feel like a betrayal?
"I think we should continue getting to know each other," I say finally. "See how things develop."
Gia nods. “Of course. Although you’re not the only man whom my father is considering as a prospect. You should know that, Elio.”
I’m sure it’s a bluff—there’s no one more powerful in Boston besides Ronan, who is already married, and Ilya Sokolov, the Bratvapakhan. Her father might have inroads with Ilya, but I doubt Gia would be so casual about that possibility unless she has a hell of a poker face. I’d be impressed if that’s the case.
I do like that she knows her worth. She’d never beg a man to choose her, even though I know from the way she’s discussed all of this, her honesty, and the way she looks at me that she wants me to be the one to ask for her hand. She wants a strong husband, a protector and a provider, but she’s no doormat or blushing damsel, either.
She’s a good woman, even if I see a bit of cattiness in her when it comes to the way she speaks about Annie. But, of course, Annie is competition, to her way of thinking. And she’d be a good wife.
She’s just not the wife I want. Not the woman I dream of. My chest feels tight, thinking of sliding a ring onto her finger, making unbreakable vows. I feel cold, thinking about taking her to my bed.
I managed just fine in Chicago. I was no monk, that’s for sure. But since I’ve come back to Boston, since IsawAnnie again, I can’t bring myself to desire anyone else. I can’t fathom taking a woman home, even though I know eventually I’m going to have to get past this. With her so close, with herrealagain… she’s all I want.
And I can’t have her. I never can.
“Of course,” I say carefully. The waiter is approaching again to get our entree orders, and I feel a little as if I’m being rescued. “I’ll keep that in mind, of course, Gia.”’
The rest of the dinner passes pleasantly enough. We share dessert, a pumpkin creme brulee, and I walk Gia out to where her driver is waiting. I know better than to try for a kiss, even if I wanted one, but she leans in to kiss my cheek, and I’m surrounded by a cloud of that warm vanilla scent again.
“I’m looking forward to the next date, Elio,” she says with a smile, and then she’s slipping into the leather interior, disappearing from view as her car starts down the street.
I stand there for a moment with my hands shoved in my pockets, watching the car drive away. I’m tempted to go somewhere and get a drink, and I glance down the street, where there’s a piano and martini bar that I’ve passed by a few times recently. It’s not the type of place I would have frequented in the past, but why the hell not? I’m a different kind of man these days, or at least, I’m meant to be becoming one.
Starting down the street, I stop at the light for the crosswalk. And as I do, I see a couple step out of the bar.
For a moment, I don’t think to really look at them. But something about the woman catches my eye, even from this distance—something about the curve of her shoulders, the way she tilts her head.
Then she turns slightly, and copper hair catches the streetlight. I see the shape of her face, the way her mouth tilts up as she laughs, and I know.
Annie.
My heart slams against my ribs as I recognize her profile, the delicate line of her jaw, the way she gestures with her hands when she talks. She's wearing a green dress that hugs her slender curves, and her hair is loose around her shoulders.
She looks beautiful. She looks happy.
She looks like she's on a date.
I realize with a clench of hot, furious jealousy that it’s Desmond, the man who interrupted us at the bar. He’s wearing jeans and a blazer, his red hair styled back away from his face, his profile sharply handsome in the same light illuminating Annie. He's leaning close to her, one hand resting possessively on her lower back, and when she laughs at something he says, the sound carries across the distance between us, hitting me like a physical blow.
I know I should keep walking. I know I should get in my car and drive away, pretend I never saw them. But my feet have other ideas, carrying me closer despite every rational thought screaming at me to stop.
Desmond Connelly.That’s how he was introduced to me at the bar. The name has been nagging in the back of my mind, reminding me that I should know him somehow—or knowofhim, at least. But I haven’t been able to place why.
As I pause on the other side of the crosswalk, it hits me.Desmond Connelly. Siobhan Connelly.
Desmond was Ronan’s brother-in-law. Until Siobhan died.
Annie is out on a date with Ronan's dead wife's brother.
