Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“You don’t believe me?” I ask for no other reason than the joy it brings when she looks at me. Joy that she looks. Joy that she can’t help herself.
“I know nothing about meditation, but I start my day with a strong, black coffee. Courtesy of Sandy’s Italian machine, if I can help it. And I make it a policy only to run if being chased.”
“You might regret telling me that.” A grin leaks through my words while she bites back the beginnings of hers.
“By something scary,” she qualifies.
“You don’t think I can be scary?” I ask, pitching my voice low.
“I—” Her eyes dart away, her denials flustered. “I don’t know why you’d want to.”
“Can’t you?” My eyes skate over her as she shakes her head. “For the pleasure of seeing you run. For the pleasure of catching you.” For having my wicked way with you, I think but don’t add.
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t try to find out.” She sniffs and turns her head, but it’s hard to be dignified when you’ve already been spotted curled in a chair like a street urchin. “We’re not children.”
“No, when I pull your pigtails, it’s with a darker intention.”
“Stop.” Her whisper is contradicted by the way she shifts in her seat. She’s not uncomfortable. She’s turned on.
“Wear the red bikini again.”
“Van.”
“Without the sarong.” The sight of her in it yesterday… Fuck, sit her on a rocky outcrop and those curves would be the siren of many a wrecked a yacht. She’s no less delectable this morning in old-fashioned cotton pajamas; dark blue with white piping and tiny buttons. “Pretty pajamas, Peanut. Those tiny buttons are just begging to be undone.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Then maybe you should be nice to me.”
“Nice how?” Ice fills her tone, one brow arching like a question mark.
“Tell me you like your ring.”
Tension drops from her shoulders, and she holds out her hand to examine it again. “Like it?” She gives a tiny disbelieving shake of her head. “I can’t even begin to tell you how utterly shocked I was. How perfect it is.” She’s talking about the ring, perhaps the proposal, probably not the circumstances. Not that it matters as her words hit me viscerally. “Better than perfect. More than I could ever have imagined.”
Her quiet pleasure feeds mine as she continues to stare at it. The twin diamonds on the fourth finger of her left hand glint in the sunshine, the facets of the old European cut shining as only brilliants can.
“It’s just as I remember it. Only the hand is different, void of wrinkles and age.” Her smile is bittersweet, and her eyes are full of memories. “How did you even know?” When she eventually lifts her head, her eyes glisten with unshed tears.
“That the ring was destined for your finger? You told me how you were supposed to inherit your grandmother’s jewels and how sad it made you that you hadn’t.”
“You remember?”
I tap my finger against my temple. “There’s very little I don’t remember.” The nights we spent together. The conversations we had. Things she said in passing that she’ll never remember yet I treasure.
“But you couldn’t have known this was hers.”
“It was an auction. The name Dalforth was mentioned and there aren’t many of those around.”
“Auctioned?” Her eyes fall briefly to the ring again, but for me, she is the only sight worth staring at. “But the provenance? It was stolen, almost from my grandmother’s deathbed.”
“This wasn’t auctioned at Christies.” My reply is heavy with of meaning.
“Oh. I suppose not. I suppose criminals have their own channels.”
The jibe is well aimed but it doesn’t land, my smile almost cutting into my cheek at the irony. I have it on good authority that the ring and other items were stolen to order. That it was an inside job, as they say. Alexander suspected their father claimed on the insurance as well as making money from his share of the deal. The fact that Isla wasn’t offered at least the insurance pay out, given the jewels were part of her inheritance, says exactly what kind of father the duke was.
“I suppose it will come in handy having a criminal in the family.”
“Alexander might think so.” I wonder how long this will last. Her insistence on denying she wants me, that the idea of marrying me is abhorrent when we both know this is nothing but a lie she tells herself.
“It’s as well Granny didn’t recover from the stroke to hear the news because she would’ve been devastated.”
“Imagine how happy she’d be to see you wearing her ring now.” I steal myself for another jibe. Not married to you she wouldn’t.
“Yes.” She absently readjusts the diamonds. “It was her mother’s engagement ring. Toi et moi styling.”
“You and me,” I murmur.
“Such a romantic sentiment for two people thrust together for anything but love.”