Page 37 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

I nod. “We’ll make it happen.”

Relief flickers across her face, but she masks it quickly, taking a sip of her wine. “You can handle everything.” Then she sets her chin like she had last night when she thought she could keep us out of her apartment. “Since I don’t have a say in my future, why should I have a say in this?”

I feel the tic in my temple.

Caleb clears his throat. “We all have an appointment tomorrow at two at our offices. The wedding planner will be there.”

She turns her flashing eyes on him. Brave girl.

“I’m swamped at work. Clients don’t stop needing me just because you think you have some say-so over my schedule.”

“You can return to your practice afterward.”

She waves a hand, as if walking down the aisle means nothing to her. Her reaction infuriates me, and I call on all my self-control to keep my temper in check. “You don’t need input from me regarding a wedding I don’t want.”

“We have certain expectations of you.” I lean forward slightly, letting her feel the weight of my attention. “And we’ll need your guest list, for starters.”

She blinks, genuine surprise crossing her features. “I thought this was going to be a private affair.”

“There are certain people I consider essential.”

“Other criminals and thugs?” The words come sharp, testing. “Mafiosos? The don of the Moretti crime family? Or just the underboss?”

Someone’s been doing her homework. I keep my voice even. “Our associates.”

“As I said.”

“You may not want to double down on that.” My warning slips out low, dangerous, the tone I use when negotiations edge toward consequences the other party won’t enjoy.

Even though she shivers, she holds my gaze. “I don’t double down. Unlike you and my father, I’m not a gambler.”

“No?” I steeple my hands in front of me, studying her. “Not ever?”

She looks away, color deepening, and something soft and vulnerable flickers across her face before she forces it away.

After our dishes are cleared, I rise, capturing her elbow with gentle but unyielding pressure.

Instead of guiding her toward the exit, I turn us toward the back of the restaurant where heavy burgundy curtains frame a discreet alcove used for overflow or private moments.

Caleb follows us through, pulling the curtain behind us.

The space is small and intimate with dim sconces on the walls and a narrow settee against one side. The murmur of the dining room is now a distant hum.

“Don’t make a scene.”

She rounds on Caleb. “Is that the only statement you know? Or just the only thing he lets you say?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. This brat enchants us both.

Defiance sparkles in her eyes. “I’m going back to the table.”

Caleb captures her shoulders.

“After we show you how much we enjoy seeing you obey our orders.”

“You can’t do this!”

“Shh.” Caleb holds her waist, broad hands splaying across her abdomen. He comes in closer, pressing the solid wall of his chest against her back.