Page 134 of LA King

“No. I didn’t buy anything like that. Why would I?”

He takes a sip of his wine and then his tongue darts out to lick his lower lip. “So what did you buy?”

“If you must know, I bought some bubble bath, ketchup, and candy. Oh, and my favorite tea. A new pillow as I don’t like the ones on your bed. A couple of picture frames and some candles.”

“I gave you a card with no limit, and that’s what you bought?” He arches one eyebrow.

“Yes,” I say, feeling defensive.

“Why didn’t you just ask for the candy and such to be put on the grocery list?”

“Because there was nothing wrong with the brands you have in your house. But when I went shopping, I was thinking about my place back in New York and what things would make your house feel a little more like my home. Those are the things I thought of.”

I find myself fidgeting under the heat of his scrutiny. Why is he suddenly so interested in me? If only to stop him from looking at me like that, I offer an explanation. “That brand of ketchup is what my grandma used to use when I was a kid. It reminds me of her house, and that was always where I was happiest. I love English breakfast tea in the mornings. The tea you have doesn’t taste as tea-like.”

“Not as tea-like?” The corners of his mouth curl into a panty-melting smile.

I shake my head, frustrated at myself for being so distracted by him. “You heard me. And the bubble bath is the one my grandpa used to buy me every Christmas; it always makes me think of him. The candles are jasmine, and that’s my favorite smell in the world.”

He nods, and that smile grows a little wider. It’s doing all kinds of things to me, which are not unpleasant at all. In an attempt at self-preservation, I babble on. “I like a nice firm pillow, and the ones in your bed are too soft. The candy was just because I love candy and there is never any in your house. And the picture frames are to put a couple of pictures of my family in. Is that enough of an explanation for you?”

He continues watching me, that curious grin still on his face. He thinks I’m an idiot, doesn’t he?

“You surprise me, Alana,” he says eventually. “I assumed you’d spend a lot more. Buy something of more … worth.”

Is he being deliberately cruel? “If you had listened to anything I just said, then you’d know the things I bought are the things that are worth something to me. Would you rather I spent a fortune on pointless furniture we don’t need? Or maybe some new clothes and shoes so I could be your perfect trophy wife?”

“Like I said, you surprise me” is all he says.

“Well, that’s because you don’t know me at all, Alejandro.”

“Don’t I?” he asks, his eyes narrowed and a dangerous lilt to his voice that makes goosebumps break out on my skin.

I fold my arms over my chest and meet his stare with my own. “Tell me what you think you know then.”

He sits back and runs a hand across his dark stubble. “I was led to believe you were a spoiled little rich girl who’s never had to work for anything in her life.”

I blink at him, shocked and saddened. That is so far from the truth, but why do I even care what this monster thinks of me? In fact, the less he thinks of me, the better. Maybe he will think of me so little that he’ll want to let me go back to New York and forget about this ridiculous arrangement.

Leaning back in my seat again, I pick up my wine glass and tap my fingernail on the rim. “Well, in that case, you’ve got me completely nailed,” I say, giving him the biggest smile I can muster.

The rest of our dinner passes without incident. After the heated debate about candles and ketchup, we avoided anything contentious and stuck to making small talk. I enjoyed watching him eat though. Well, mostly watching his hands—large and powerful, with thick veins snaking up to his wrist and disappearing under his shirt sleeves. Even the way he cut his steak was hot. He does everything with such certainty and confidence. I also might have allowed myself a brief moment to imagine him pinning me against a wall and ripping my panties off with them.

I squeeze my thighs together as heat builds in my core. I should hate this man—I actually do hate him a lot of the time. So why does my body crave him like this?

Why do I have so many fantasies involving him and those beautiful hands running over every inch of my body? Of him holding himself over me and …

He catches me staring at him and flashes me a wicked grin that turns my insides to molten lava. I clear my throat, about to ask how his soufflé tastes, when I’m distracted by a flash of metal from the corner of my eye. Before I can register what’s happening, a gun is pointed at my face and Alejandro is launching himself over the table.

“Give my regards to your father.” The gunman’s words have hardly left his mouth when Alejandro wrestles him to the ground and quickly disarms him. All I can do is stare open-mouthed and try to remember to breathe.

“Pull the car around,” Alejandro barks to someone behind me, and two of his bodyguards rush to our side. They grab the man, who’s now bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose, while Alejandro rushes back to me. I’m frozen to the spot, my legs and hands trembling like autumn leaves in a storm.

Without another word, he scoops me into his arms and holds me close. I bury my head against his chest and close my eyes, not wanting to look at the faces of the diners who must be staring at us as we pass. I hear people muttering though, about him being Mafia and whether this was a professional hit.

Alejandro marches out of the restaurant, still pressing me tight to his chest and barking at people to get out of his way. We’re in the safety of his car by the time I open my eyes, and he’s sitting back against the leather seat with me still in his arms.

“Drive, Jacob,” he commands, and the car speeds away from the curb.