Dr. Bartholomew Shaw’s office
“Marry you?” Bartholomew watches me from behind his desk. Eyes narrowed. Flipping his favorite pen in his hand. “I’m sorry, but I can’t really see sense behind your reasoning.”
“I wanted her close to me at all times.” I shrug.
“You could have hired her as your personal assistant. Or a maid in your home. Both options would keep her close, meeting your goal, wouldn’t they? Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I see it, your main reason for wanting this girl is because you’re convinced your migraines will permanently disappear with her constant proximity. Yes?”
“I know you’d like to believe there’s more to this, doc, but I’m sorry to disappoint. I have no ulterior motives. No hidden feelings that are the cause of my decision. Whatever is swirling in that brain of yours, you’re wrong.” I reach for my glass of wine. “She’s simply…the living embodiment of a painkiller to me.”
“So, the investigation into Filippa’s death has nothing to do with this decision?”
“The investigation is still ongoing, but I’m not a suspect. I merely told Iris that the detective had follow-up questions for me, and she jumped to her own conclusions. If she believes Iwant her to marry me to prevent her from being compelled to testify against me, it plays well into my plan.”
“I see.” Barty pauses, tapping the end of the pen on his lips. “So, a marriage in name only, since you’ve made it clear you’re in no way attracted to this woman. What about sex?”
“That’s not a part of the deal.”
Bartholomew’s bushy eyebrows shoot up, nearly hitting his hairline. “Really? What if she’s willing? You wouldn’t want to accept the benefits, fulfill each other’s needs, so to speak?”
“I’m not interested in sleeping with her, Barty.”
The old man keeps watching me; his eyes bulging out of his head like a damn fish. He fiddles with his pen, clicks a single click.
“Are you seeing— I mean, are you sleeping with someone else, then?”
My jaw might break from how hard I clench it. I’ve never been short on lovers, and I have access to plenty of uncomplicated women whenever I need a fuck. I haven’t sought out any of them in months, though. Not since a certain delicate flower entered my life.
“No.”
“Mm-hmm.” A couple more clicks.
“Cut that out,” I snap.
“Then why? Why wouldn’t you want to sleep with your wife?”Click.“Are you worried about forming an emotional attachment to her? About caring for her?”Click. Click. “Are you afraid that might diminish your constructed belief of how the world works?”Click. Click. Click. “Have you already developedfeelings for her?”Click. Click. Click. Click.“Are you in love with her, Adriano?”
“Jesus fucking Christ! Will you stop abusing that damn pen!” I slam my palm on the coffee table. “Of course I am not in love with her! Love is an illusion crafted by the poor, useless bastards who’d rather live in a make-believe world than reality. Like everything else, the cheap imitation of love can be bought and sold. I would never fall for that delusional concept, so stop making your asinine shrink assumptions. If I need to fuck, I’ll find my release elsewhere. It’s as simple as that.”
Half of my drink splashed on the table during my outburst. Some of the Sangiovese is still dripping off the edge. Fucking great. Damn Bartholomew and his stupid mumbo jumbo. I grab the glass, wanting to down the rest.
“You won’t object if she seeks companionship in the arms of another man, then? Discreetly, of course?” he adds.
The stemware cracks in my hand; wine drips onto the hardwood floor.
“Oh, dear. It must have been a defective glass. My sincere apologies.” A crooked smirk tugs on his lips, though he tries to hide it. “So, where were we… Oh yes, your wedding. When is the happy day?”
I grab a few tissues out of the box on the side table to wipe my hand. “In three months. Once her mother recovers.”
“You sound quite convinced that your lovely betrothed will go through with it. Allowing her this period of time to get used to the idea of marriage…to you…doesn’t seem like your usual style. Hmm… I wonder what would happen if the girl changed her mind?”
My body stills while something deep inside me twists.
That thought never occurred to me.
“I’ll just have to show her how reasonable I really am,” I growl.
Chapter 21
“Go right in,” an older nurse says, nodding down the hallway. “Your mother’s suite is the last door on the left.”
