She looks up at me and frowns. “You can stop with the barbs anytime.”
“Why? If I have to live with this, so do you.”
“Live with what, Luka?” She tosses the remainder of her food in the trash, as if she’s lost her appetite.
“This prison of a marriage. I thought we at least respected and cared about each other. But you killed it, Brooklyn—any hope there was of making this marriage accommodating and tolerable for the next two years. So if I have to be fucking miserable, so the fuck do you.”
Her eyelids flutter and I feel a flicker of guilt, but it doesn’t last. I head in the direction of the Place Charles de Gaulle, and she catches up until we’re arm in arm again. When we finally reach the Arc de Triomphe, she gasps and pulls out her phone for another perfect Parisian snap.
“Can you take my picture?” she asks. I frown. “I need to look like I’m having a good time here,” she reminds me. “You don’t have to be in it.”
I know she’s right, so I oblige, opening the camera app and then centering her with the arch curving majestically just over her shoulder. She walks over to a nearby plaque and reads, “Commissioned by the Emperor Napoleon in 1806…”
“You know, Napoleon was betrayed by his own troops,” I say, walking up behind her. “I can only imagine how that felt. You want to climb the stairs to the top of the arch, honey?”
She looks up at me with a frown. “Let’s just go,” she says.
We get on the Metro at Etoile and take the line two subway to Montmartre, since I love the hike up to the Sacré-Coeur.
But as we approach the round white domes of the Sacred Heart basilica, we find a huge crowd of tourists taking pictures. We don’t even make it to the steps before three young women shyly approach us. They’re all tall, thin model types. Just the kind to know exactly who Brooklyn and I are.
“Oh my God, can we get a picture of you guys?” the tallest asks in perfect American English. She probably follows Brooklyn and Danica Rose Management’s social media accounts.
“Of course!” Brooklyn says, suddenly full of sunshine. She moves closer to me and I angle us with the cathedral to our backs.
“That’s great! How about a kiss? It’s your honeymoon!” The singsong way the girl says it makes me nauseous. Like we’re supposed to be head over heels every waking moment.
I work my jaw, then turn to look down at my new bride. I smile, keeping my venom to myself. Brooklyn knows it’s there, though—and by hell, she’s going to taste it.
Cupping the back of her head in my hand, I pull her hair and position her the way I want. I claim her mouth, hard and possessive. Let them think I’m in love with my wife, that I can’t wait to get her back to the hotel.
In reality, it takes everything inside me not to devour her in my anger. To drown her with the furious frenzy of lust and heartbreak and disappointment inside me.
I kiss her until she’s fucking breathless, and then I snap back, barely supporting her so she thinks I’m going to let her fall. But I don’t. I gather her up like a loving husband and swipe my thumb over her lips. Her stunned expression is laced with raw want.
I wink as I steady her and give a wave to the photographers. Taking Brooklyn’s arm, I steer her away, whispering low in her ear.
“See, sweetheart? I can fake it, too.”
Luka
Chapter 3
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I smooth my collar and run a hand through my hair, then mess with a couple stray locks at my temple that don’t want to stay in place.
Wearing all black, my outfit matches my mood. My slim-cut pants aren’t bespoke, but they look it. My dress shirt has a mid-high collar, and I’ve left the top few buttons undone to show some skin. Women love my exotic skin tone, and they can’t resist me in monochrome.
A gold Rolex, black Italian leather belt, and wedding band are my accessories. It’s hot outside and I’m not in the mood for fuss. I spray my cologne and slip a few condoms into my pocket, locked and loaded and ready for a good time.
I need to get rid of this tension between Brooklyn and me, and there’s only one guaranteed way I know how to do that. I’m going to get drunk, and I’m going to fuck. I don’t care which order they happen in. All I do care about is that by the end of this Parisian evening, I won’t remember my wife’s name.
As I meet my gaze in the glass again, I can’t deny that I’m being a complete and total bastard. This is low, even for me.
But right now, I couldn’t care less.
Satisfied with my appearance, I grab my wallet and cell and open the bedroom door. Brooklyn is curled up in the chair by the window, reading. Her legs are pulled lazily to the side, and she’s twirling a strand of that dark, lush hair around her dainty finger.
I soften my gaze, feigning disinterest. She looks over at me, then looks again. An immediate flash of hunger crosses her face. She shifts on the chair and sets down her e-reader.
