“Don’t be nuts, Mateo.” She fills the flutes and heads back to me, handing me one of them. “I can’t stay locked up in this place forever.”
“Yes, you can,” I grumble. Though she makes it hard to sound serious when she straddles my lap yet again. She tilts her glass, fills her mouth with bubbling liquid and then trails an icy stream over my lips. “Cut it out. I’m serious!” At least I’m trying to be.
“So am I.” She pulls back and looks down at me. “I’m not a prisoner. You can’t keep me locked up here like some kind of sex monkey.”
In spite of the tension in me, I snort out a laugh. “Why not? I kinda like the idea of having my very own sex monkey.”
“No!” She’s not laughing with me. “You’re taking this too far, Mateo. You don’t own me. I know that we’re putting on this whole ‘engagement’ act to keep Whitlock off my back, but that’s as far as it goes.”
Something cold and jagged unfurls in my gut, but I shove it back down.
It’s not an act…
I want to say it out loud. It’s not like I haven’t already told this woman how I feel about her. But the more time I spend with Andy Carter, the more I know she’ll bolt if I put pressure on her. That doesn’t mean I’ll let her go traipsing around town when there’s a target on her back, though.
“Let’s compromise,” I say.
Chapter 10
Andy Carter
“Will your friends be joining us for lunch, darling?” my mother asks, reaching for her water glass and taking a prissy little sip. I slant a look at the two goons at the table nearby and shrug. Mateo had refused to allow me to leave the apartment without a pair of muscleheads in tow. There’s a dark SUV parked outside with a similar looking guy behind the wheel…my driver, if I plan to go anywhere in town.
“I think they’ll be fine right where they are, Mother.” I reach for my own glass, inhaling the buttery aroma of the chardonnay. This lunch was her idea, which means she has something to discuss with me. Alcohol is going to be essential.
“They’re just so…awkward.” She makes a tiny expression of distaste. Of course, she’s hating this. The Palm Court at the Plaza Hotel is iconic for its soaring ceilings, palm fronds and rich lunching ladies. Though they may have expensive haircuts and tailormade suits, my bodyguards stick out like a pair of sore thumbs.
“I imagine this is your new ‘friend’s’ idea.” Her expression sours. “How is he, anyway? Your…Matt Richards?”
“He’s good. Better than good, actually. And so am I…in case you were wondering.” She’s not wondering. She couldn’t care less how I’m doing – unless it impacts her somehow.
“Can’t youdosomething with them, Andrea?” She’s scowling at the men again. “They’re just…sittingthere. It’s unsettling.”
“Fine, Mother,” I huff, and I raise a hand to get the attention of a waiter nearby, quickly muttering an order. Then I sit and listen to my mother prattling on about my father’s golf score and her charity luncheons and other things that mean a lot to her but nothing at all to me. Several minutes later, my goons blink in surprise as a three-tiered wheel-shaped cake stand of little pastries is set on their table. I stifle a giggle as the waiter pours tea into a pair of bone-china teacups. Neither of those guys is going to be able to get a stubby finger through the fine handles.
“Are you listening to me, Andrea?” My mother’s tone is strident.
“Of course, Mother.” I flick a curl over my shoulder. “Daddy’s golf handicap is improving?”
“That’s not what I was saying!” Her eyes zone in on where my fingers are moving. “You have something on your…” she waves her hand in my general direction, “on your shoulder.”
I trace my fingertips over my collarbone, feeling the sensitive flesh there. My crisp, white tailored dress is the perfect little number for high tea at the Plaza…but the scooped neckline isn’t doing much to hide the hickey Mateo left this morning. I adjust my double strand of pearls to cover it and smile vaguely at my mother.
“So just what were you saying, Mother?”
“That I really wish you would reconsider this whole…situation of yours, Andrea.”
“Situation?” I set my fork down beside the salmon I’ve barely touched and curl my fingers around the stem of my wineglass.
“You know…” she glances at the men who are fumbling with their tiny sandwiches and blinis, “this nonsense with thatMattperson you brought to our home.”
“You mean my fiancé, Mother?” I take a deep gulp of wine. I knew we’d get here eventually. Maybe I should have asked for tequila. My mother gives an exasperated sigh.
“Are you sure you should be drinking? Considering your…condition?”
I feel my cheeks burn. Shit. I’d completely forgotten about telling her I was pregnant.
“My doctor says it’s fine. In moderation.” Yeah, right.
