“Move,” I said, shooing him away from the counter as I unpacked. “Let me work.”
He leaned against the island, arms crossed, watching me with that steady gaze that made my skin prickle. “I like watching you.”
I nudge him lightly with my hip. “You hovering over me is distracting.”
I focused on chopping onions, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my belly. Stay focused. You’re doing this for answers, not to get distracted.
“So,” I said, keeping my voice light, “tell me about your day.”
“Standard. Meetings. Calls.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“It’s not interesting. Tell me about yours, instead.”
“Humor me.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I glanced up, caught him studying me with an unreadable expression.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked.
The question hung in the air, heavy and charged.
I set down the knife and turned to face him fully. “Because you’re my husband. Because I live in your house, sleep in your bed, and wear your ring. And I still don’t actually know anything about you.”
“You know enough.”
A humorless laugh slipped out of me. “Do I?”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I know you’re obsessive and possessive and rich as hell. I know your family owns half the city.” I wiped my hands on a dish towel and leaned back against the counter. “And before you ask—yes, I looked you up.”
“Zara—”
“I was curious.” I shrugged. “There are articles about your father. Your uncles. The clubs, the businesses.” I tilted my head. “Some very interesting rumors.”
His expression hardened instantly. “What rumors?”
“You know.” I gave him a teasing smile that didn’t quite hide the challenge underneath it. “Bar fights, organized crime, bachelor mafia prince. That sort of thing.”
He was moving before I realized it.
One second, he was across the kitchen island. The next thing he was in front of me, crowding into my space until my lower back pressed against the marble counter.
“Is that what you think?” he asked quietly.
Too quietly.
God, he was intimidating like this—dark eyes locked on mine, broad shoulders tense beneath his black shirt, heat pouring off him in waves.
I swallowed, but forced myself not to look away.
“You tell me.”
His hand flattened against the counter beside my hip. Trapping me there without touching me.
“Do I look like a criminal to you?”
