Rafael met his gaze. “Always.”
Papa squeezed his shoulder. Then he kissed her forehead and, eyes watery, let her go.
Bea felt hollow for one second. Then felt Rafael’s warm hand close around hers. She looked up and saw the satisfaction and possession burning in his green gaze. The familiar scent of him, clean with a hint of spice, grounded her.
“Hello, Bea,” he murmured, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
Her heartbeat kicked at the way he’d said that. She was transported to the St. Ives Welcome Gala, where she’d met him for the first time by candlelight.
Peace unfurled in her chest. For years he’d looked at her like she was both choice and destiny. Now she was choosing him with her whole life in her hands.
“Hi,” she breathed, smiling back. “Mr. Shark.”
RAFAEL
The marquee was ten thousand feet of pure spectacle. A canopy of lights arched overhead like a private sky, glass walls opening the entire room to the dark ocean beyond. Trees had been planted inside the structure itself, branches rising through clouds of flowers and candlelight. An entire world built for a single night.
Across the room, Leon Griffin and Pepe Cruz were departing the carving table, plates piled high with meat from the roast pigs they’d successfully lobbied for, like two boys who had raided the kitchen.
Rafael’s gaze moved past them and landed on the only thing in the room capable of dazzling him: his wife.
Bea hadn’t let him see her wedding dress in advance. It fit close over her ribs, the sweetheart neckline low enough that from his vantage point he could see what awaited his touch. Hershoulders and upper back were bare, and the sleeves fell in soft waves down to her wrists. From halfway down her spine, buttons trailed like a long, deliberate taunt to the limitations of man. His palms actually itched.
“Stop staring,” she whispered.
“Impossible.”
He checked his watch. Minutes, and then the torment would end.
The host called them up, inviting him to the moment where he could hold her, just not the way he needed. Tradition for the crowd, torture for him.
Rafael took her hand and led her to the floor. She moved into him eagerly, no hesitation, smelling like vanilla and everything he meant to savor for a lifetime.
The first note?—
No. Not a note. It was bass.
Filthy, unmistakable bass that belonged in a club, not as a first dance.
Pony.
For one suspended heartbeat, the marquee froze collectively, as if nobody could quite believe what they were hearing.
Then decorum snapped.
Her bridesmaids screamed in unison. The groomsmen howled.
Claire fell into Lillian shrieking, “THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”
Hunter choked on whisky. Georgina yelled, “SOMEONE HOLD MY FLOWERS.”
From the front table, Halmoni thumped her cane once in moral outrage. Rafael doubted she understood the lyrics, but she clearly understood the sentiment.
Auntie Linda was already on her feet, martini raised, hips swaying as she yelled, “NOW THIS IS A WEDDING.”
Bea grabbed his lapel, face in his chest, laughing so hard she shook.
His gaze cut to the DJ booth. Laurent stood there with a drink in hand, raising it in a lazy salute, entirely too entertained for a bastard with a death wish.
