Page 124 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

It isn’t much of an answer. But I doubt I’ll get anything more from him. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

His gaze returns to mine. “You’re welcome.”

No joke or provocative comment follows, and something about the simple sincerity of the words settles warmly inside me.

Then Lucian reaches across the table and steals the final bite of my fish taco.

I glare at him. “You did not just do that.”

He eats it.

“You have your own.”

“I wanted yours.”

Without the slightest hint of remorse, he picks up another fish taco and deposits it in my basket. “Restitution.”

I’m beyond stuffed when Rosa clears the baskets and tells us to come back soon.

“I’d enjoy that,” I tell her. “This was amazing.”

Caleb’s gaze is focused on me, as if he sees something he wasn’t expecting.

I look back. Nothing about this honeymoon has been anything I expected either.

Both men stand, and Lucian slides his sunglasses back into place. “Ready to go?”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sophie

The Royal Sterling rises from the Strip in gleaming tiers of gold glass, every surface designed to capture sunlight and turn it into something richer.

After the heat and chaotic charm of Rosa’s, the lobby feels almost unreal. Cool, perfumed air flows over my skin, and the polished marble beneath my sandals reflects enormous floral arrangements, crystal chandeliers, and people dressed as if no one has ever spilled taco juice down their wrists.

With his jacket on, Lucian is once again the flawlessly controlled man who could negotiate the collapse of a government without wrinkling his cuffs.

Caleb still looks dangerous enough to be denied admission, but every employee we pass greets him respectfully.

No one asks where we are going.

A man in a dark suit meets us near a bank of private elevators and indicates we should board.

When we exit, I feel as if we’re in a wonderland.

There are no flashing machines or crowds. Instead, a quiet corridor leads to a room paneled in pale wood, with thick carpet, discreet lighting, and a single oval baccarat table occupying the center.

A woman waits behind it.

She appears to be in her fifties, poised and elegant in a black suit, with silver bracelets stacked on one wrist. Several decks of cards are arranged in front of her, along with three neat columns of ivory chips.

“Good afternoon.” She smiles at me. “I’m Nina.”

“Sophie.”

“I understand this is your first time playing baccarat.”

“I’m not playing.”