Page 46

I looked up. The warmth in his eyes undid me. He was not looking at the diamond. He was looking at me, with a softness he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

Even though the marriage was fake, the flutter in my stomach was real.

I took the larger ring and held it to his finger, and he went very still as I pushed it into place. The gold looked like it belonged against his dark skin. He flexed his hand once, as if testing the weight of a new life, and closed it gently around mine.

Chapter 22

Tau

Our hands were linked together as we strolled through Central Park. Sunlight poured through the leaves in broken gold, warming her shoulders and lighting her curls, and the air smelled of cut grass and damp earth and the sweetness of fallen leaves. Somewhere nearby, a vendor was roasting nuts. She took in the beauty while I continued to scan all four sides for danger.

My inability to say no to this woman was a problem. A delicious problem that would find her trussed up tonight until she begged for mercy.

I had never used red before. The 6mm soft cotton rope that lay hidden in the hotel room would look stunning on her, bright against her dark skin.

I flexed my hand and felt the ring. I dragged my thumb along the warm metal. The ring that showed the world I belonged to one woman.

“Oh,” she gasped as we approached Bow Bridge.

She tugged on my arm and hauled us forward. I picked up my pace, scanning the people on the bridge.

Tourist. Phone raised, both hands occupied.

Tourist. Elderly, a camera strap around his neck.

Jogger. Earbuds, no bag, nowhere to hide anything.

A man on a bench with a newspaper he was not reading. I held his face a second longer than I held the rest. He turned a page and yawned. A dog walker. A woman pushing a pram. A van parked at the edge of the path, and a gap in the trees beyond it.

Exits. Two behind us. Three ahead. I counted them without meaning to, the way other men breathe.

I looked further ahead to check for anyone unsavoury. A photographer on the far bank, long lens aimed at the water. I tracked it until I was certain it did not move toward us.

Zuri skipped ahead, her hand still in mine, completely oblivious. The sun struck the diamond on her finger and threw a tiny rainbow across my wrist. She laughed at nothing. She laughed at everything.

“Look, boats.”

Shit. I forgot to check the water.

Two rowing boats drifted below the iron arch, a couple in one, a man with his sleeves rolled in the other. Nothing under the surface but sunlight. I let out a breath.

But even as I catalogued the rowing boats, my eyes kept returning to Zuri’s dimples and the joy in her eyes. I was missing the best part of her. The worst part of me wanted to haul her back to the hotel and keep her to myself.

Instead, I ushered her to the other side of the bridge, beneath the canopy of the trees. The air cooled and smelled of leaf mould and green water. Her hand stayed in mine.

❦ ❦ ❦

The bathroom door opened and she stepped out with a towel knotted over her chest and nerves written across her face.

I had laid it all out before she came. The bed turned back. The rope coiled in neat loops across the white sheet, red cotton, soft, the colour of ripe cherries. Beside it, a pair of blunt-nosed shears, placed where I could reach them without looking. I did not speak. I did not trust my voice.

She looked at the rope, then at me, and her breath caught.

“If you need to stop,” I said, and my voice came out lower than I intended, “say lioness. I will stop.”

“Lioness,” she repeated. Her mouth curved. “Got it.”

I held out my hand. She took it. I turned her slowly, slid the towel from her body, and let it fall. The air left my lungs in one long, steady stream. I touched my lips to her shoulder, brief and warm, and began.