by R. K. Lilley
Becoming Mrs. Castelo had shifted all of that in a subtle way. I received more attention now in general, both good and bad. Opportunism battled with jealousy for what I ran into more often. There was a different winner from one day to the next.
Jealousy was definitely going to win this day, I saw as my eyes swept over the crowd on my way out of the large, crowded room.
Calder had me pulled close against him, his arm around my waist possessively.
I smiled in as friendly a way as I could muster at every single pair of eyes that met mine.
Who could guess how long this sham of a marriage would last? I didn’t know any of the other women well, but I didn’t want to be a social pariah when all was said and done.
I was ushered swiftly from the backstage to a car. It was my usual Benz, Vincent driving, Chester working security.
Silence reigned on the way to dinner. It wasn’t a comfortable silence. It was awkward with the knowledge that I didn’t know the first thing about so much as attempting to interact even casually with my husband.
And he didn’t touch me once we were closed inside of the vehicle. In fact he sat as far away from me as the backseat would allow.
Why did I feel a sharp pang of disappointment about that? The feeling was followed swiftly by irritation with myself. Foolish girl.
“When did you arrive in New York?” I asked him, my tone polite and impersonal.
He didn’t spare me a glance, his gaze trained out the window.
“Not important,” he said, his tone steeped in finality.
Chester glanced back briefly from the passenger seat to give me a sympathetic frown.
That was my first and last attempt at conversation in the car.
We arrived at Beautique in Midtown. I’d never been there, but I’d heard of it. It was a notorious hotspot for celeb sightings. I wasn’t surprised. Our entire evening together was obviously for publicity.
Calder dismissed my driver and bodyguard casually as we exited the vehicle. “We no longer need your services for the evening, gentlemen.”
“But what about security for . . .” Chester said, caught off guard. Keeping me safe had been his sole purpose for the past month. “Should we at least wait to take you home?”
Calder eyed him. It wasn’t friendly. “I think we’ll muddle through. You’re dismissed.”
Chester got back in the car, his reluctance unmistakable in every line of his body.
“He likes you,” my husband remarked dispassionately as we made our way inside. He was leading with a hand on my arm. We walked side by side with me stealing glances at his face.
I shrugged, self-conscious of his eyes studying me closely. “We spend every second together, and he’s good at his job, so of course we’re friendly.”
His mouth twisted into an ugly smile. I looked away and didn’t look back even when he spoke, his voice harsh.
“I suppose it’s second nature to you, wrapping poor schmucks around your little finger. I hope you know I’m impervious to that. To you.”
That stung enough that I couldn’t hide one gasping shocked breath. God, he was mean. “I’m aware,” I managed to volley back at him in a smooth tone.
“Good.”
We were seen to a booth the instant we walked in the door. It was early so the restaurant was quiet enough that we could speak quietly to each other and still be heard.
We sat side by side, hip to hip.
A glass of white wine was immediately placed in front of me.
I thanked the waiter, taking a deep swallow of the cold, refreshing liquid.
I’d gotten somewhat better at drinking since our wedding night. Not great, but much improved.
“Used to wine now?” my husband asked me.
I didn’t look at him, but he sounded amused. “Yes. At least, I think so. I try to have exactly two glasses at galas, no more, no less. It seems to work well.”
“Sounds wise.”
I watched his large hand as he lifted his own glass of bourbon on the rocks to his lips.
“How was London? Are you finished with your business there?” I asked him, trying to keep the conversation going. Trying to create a conversation in the first place. Also, I was curious.
“Forget about me,” he said coldly. “Tell me about you. How are you settling in? Do you like the apartment?”
“Of course,” I said automatically. “It’s very nice, thank you for asking.”
What else could I even say?
It’s perfect but also too extravagant. A lot for one person. It has the biggest, loneliest bed I’ve ever slept in.
Nope. I wouldn’t be saying any of that.
“And you have everything you need?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I replied.
“If that changes, please don’t hesitate to inform Asha. She’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”
I almost laughed. I almost rolled my eyes.
Of course he didn’t tell me to inform him directly. God forbid I’d be able to communicate with my own husband.
Keep it together, I told myself. This is what you signed up for. This is what a marriage of convenience means.
It couldn’t have worked out better, I reminded myself. You don’t want to spend time with him either. Just smile, take it, and count the money.
Honestly, when I’d decided to put myself into the infamous Bride Catalogue, a husband who ignored me had been the best-case scenario. I needed to remember that.
It was such a simple plan, so why did it become so much harder to execute cleanly as soon as my husband came anywhere near me?
My mother used to say that it was good to have conflict inside you. I’d never fully understood what she meant, but apparently I’d taken those words deep into my heart. Even when I got exactly what I’d wished for, I still wasn’t content.
“Will you be in New York for long?” I asked him.
“I’m not sure. It depends on work. How’s the modeling going?”
“It’s going well. The work is steady. It keeps me busy. It’s fun. I’m getting so many offers that I’m turning down jobs. That’s a refreshing change.”
Was I rambling? I didn’t know what to say to him. Nothing seemed right. I didn’t want to offend him, and I certainly didn’t want to bore him, but he was set so firmly against me that I felt like I was destined to do one or the other.
“Well, that’s good,” he said, sounding disinterested enough to fall asleep. He knocked back the rest of his bourbon, and the waiter reappeared, taking his old glass and setting down a fresh one.
He downed that one in under thirty seconds. Our waiter had another one ready before Calder could set his glass down.
“I don’t have a two drink rule,” he remarked sardonically when he was brought a fourth drink some short time later.
I’d gathered as much. I sent him a sideways smile, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking down at his glass as though contemplating whether he should finish off another round.
It couldn’t have been clearer that he’d rather be anywhere else. Unsurprisingly, our first ‘date’ was not going well.
I hoped that it was too late for him to send me back with a full refund.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
“Have you received an invitation from Millie Bancroft?” he asked.
Our first course had arrived, and I was stirring my roasted carrot salad around, pretending to eat it. He’d already cleared his plate.
I wasn’t expecting the question, so I had to think about it for a moment before I could answer. “Um, yes. She invited me to a girls’ night a few weeks from now. She and some friends are going out dancing at a club.” I looked at him as I spoke, assuming he’d tell me not to go. The nightclub scene was hardly a good look for his wife.
He shrugged, still staring at his drink. “You should accept. She’s the wife of one of my closest friends. She was your maid-of-honor. It would be nice if you two could at least pretend to play nice with each
other.”
I hadn’t expected that. The more time I spent with his circle of friends, the more apparent it would become to them that our marriage was a sham. I’d assumed he’d want to avoid that.
“How would I even get into the club?” I asked him. “I did look it up when I received the invitation. It’s twenty-one and over.”
“God, I keep forgetting about that.” He said it like he found it somewhat horrifying. “How old are you, anyway?”
“You don’t know how old I am?” I wasn’t offended. I was surprised. Eighteen on the dot cost extra in the Bride Catalogue.
“I know that of course you’re legal, but I don’t remember the details. To be frank, I don’t know anything about you and I don’t want to.”
I stared. “You don’t know anything about me?” I repeated back, trying to unwrap his words.
“That’s what I said,” he enunciated slowly. “I picked you out of that catalogue because your face made my dick hard. Aside from that, I didn’t really care enough to learn more.”
I hadn’t known that he’d been the one to pick me out. I’d more than half suspected that his father had done it.
Why, out of all of the awful things he’d just spouted at me, did my mind only focus on that little detail?
And moreover, why did I feel a keen little unwanted thrill at the knowledge?
I realized after a time that he wasn’t going to speak again.
“So all of the rest . . .” I began haltingly. Genuine confusion warred inside me. “The IQ tests. The psych evals. The background checks. The compatibility tests. The medical exams. Your people researched me down to who I sat next to in third grade.”
He shrugged, his eyes raking over me in a cursory manner then darting away. “I didn’t care about any of that. That was my father. The whole thing was my father’s doing. I didn’t want to be married. I still don’t. I was lucky I even had a say in what you looked like. It was nearly a deal breaker.”
That added up, I supposed. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a little jarring to hear it come directly out of his mouth. And with such contempt.
“Back to your question,” I said slowly after it was clear he was done speaking. “I’m eighteen.”
He flinched, looked away, then back. His eyes caught on my drink. He picked it up and set it decisively away from me. “You’re too young for that,” he muttered.
“So about Millie and the over twenty-one club,” I said. “I’ll tell her no.”
He didn’t roll his eyes at me, but I could tell it was close. “If you think you’re going to get carded, you haven’t been paying attention,” he bit out, obviously annoyed. “Let your security handle those kinds of details, and tell Millie yes.”
I almost answered with a sarcastic, Yes, sir, but restrained myself. Barely. “Alright,” I managed to get out instead.
Our main course arrived, and silence reigned again for a time.
I took a few bites of my branzino while he devoured his grass-fed beef.
“You don’t like it?” he asked me when the waiter took our plates away.
“It was great, but I filled up on salad.”
“No, you didn’t,” he contradicted. “You had two bites of that salad then pushed it around your plate for ten minutes.”
“I don’t want to go over my calorie count,” I leveled with him. It was the truth. I had a photo shoot in the morning that involved skin-tight clothing.
He’d been lifting his fifth bourbon to his mouth, but he stopped mid-motion at that, setting his glass back down. “You hardly ate anything.”
I turned my head to meet his eyes and tried to keep my expression perfectly blank. “I’m on a strict diet. For the job.” He may as well get used to my eating habits.
“What you ordered wasn’t enough food to feed a rabbit, and you barely touched it,” he sounded angry, and a little drunk. “Define strict.”
“I’m restricted to eleven hundred calories a day,” I admitted.
“Eleven hundred calories?” he asked incredulously. He didn’t understand what models had to do to stay coat-hanger sized. He knew how to fuck them, but clearly had no clue how to feed them. Eleven hundred actually wasn’t even bad. It was generous. That was the maintenance number. When I was actively trying to lose weight, it could vary from nine to as low as five hundred.
Eventually I nodded, studying his face.
He looked more pissed than usual for some reason. His lip curled up in distaste and he tossed his napkin on the table. “Well, that nonsense is coming to an end. I’ll speak to your chef.”
I stiffened. If you messed with a model’s diet, you messed with her career. If he hated our arrangement enough that it might make him want to sabotage me that would be a good way to do it. I almost stood up to him, but I forced myself to back down. Whatever he tried to do about my diet, it wouldn’t matter. I’d act amenable, pretend to eat whatever was put in front of me, move the food around my plate, etc., but if it went over my calorie count I just wouldn’t consume it. I was used to denying myself. Rigid self-control was an old friend of mine.
He called the waiter over. “My wife,” he stressed the word in a certain way, like he found it so distasteful and oppressive that he wanted even strangers to know it, “would like dessert. A praline mousse roulade, I think. And I’ll have another round. Thank you.”
I waited until the man left before I said quietly, “I can’t eat that.”
He sent me a less than friendly look. “Indulge me. My father forced me to fly all the way here from London just to take you on a romantic date, so I think you can go over your calories for one night.”
Dessert arrived, and with a sigh I did indulge him, all the while calculating how much more time I’d need on the treadmill to compensate for the extra calories.
We didn’t speak for a time, and the quiet between us felt less awkward/hostile and more charged. Charged with something interesting.
Yes, he hated me. But he’d also kind of admitted that he was attracted to me. In spite of myself, I was kind of attracted to him too. It was hard not to be. He was as beautiful as he was mean.
What’s he thinking? I wondered, studying him as I took a very tiny bite of my decadent dessert, stirring the rest of it around on the plate to make it look smaller.
God, he’s gorgeous, my fuzzy buzzed mind told me.
I wanted to touch him, to lean into him. Mostly I wanted to read his mind.
That last one was out of the question, but what would he do if I tried out the first one? If I just reached over and brushed that oh so touchable lock of silky dark hair back from his temple?
That was the problem with him. He seemed touchable no matter how untouchable he may actually be. Well that was one of the problems, another being the fact that I was married to him and he couldn’t stand me.
He turned his head, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity I couldn’t place. He grabbed the spoon, scooping up a small bite of mousse. “Do you want a taste?” he asked, the words succinct.
My mind wasn’t on the dessert as I exhaled a breathless, “Yes.”
He put it to my lips. Our eyes stayed locked as I sucked it clean.
When I was finished, he drew the spoon away. He set it down beside the dish, watching me closely. I couldn’t look away. His eyes had a way of holding me captive. I resented it, but it made me feel alive.
“Look at that. We barely know each other and here I am feeding you.”
I drew in an unsteady breath, then another.
He’d had his elbow on the table between us, keeping up a clear barrier. As I watched, he moved his arm, placing it along the cushioned seat behind me.
“Come closer,” he told me softly.
I leaned toward him, bringing my face near to his.
“Closer,” he said, voice softer still. His eyes were on my mouth.
The arm along my seat back wrapped around my shoulders, tugging me closer still until our lips were a breath away from touching.
�
�Do I need to spell it out for you?” he breathed the words right into my lungs and yet somehow the words were remarkably dispassionate. “You’re supposed to kiss me now.”
I couldn’t refuse, but moreover, I didn’t want to. Closing my eyes, I pressed my mouth to his. I thought it would be brief and neat. Quick and clean.
It was not. It was pure filth.
His mouth on mine was not fit for public. At first it was just that brief soft press, our lips rubbing together, back and forth, back and forth. The briefest teasing contact. It didn’t matter. It was enough. It was too much. I took in a deep shuddering breath for a beat.
I wasn’t even sure how a kiss could be so indecent when he was barely touching me.
His delectable lips locked on mine and it was an R rated attack on my senses. R made slow progress into X as his soft lips slid over mine, his tongue licking deeply into my mouth, drawing my tongue out to play with his.
I was inexperienced at kissing, to say the least, and I’d certainly never expected a kiss like that. I had no defense against it. I went a little limp against him, breathing him in, letting his presence overwhelm me.
He tasted like alcohol, but sweeter, the flavor of him mixed with hard liquor. He stroked his tongue against mine in a rhythm that brought to mind another, less pleasant act.
He hooked one of my legs over his knee beneath the table. It was hidden under the long white tablecloth, but I was still aware of the fact that this brought my already short skirt up high on my thighs, exposing my panties.
He pulled away slightly.
I watched his face, trying to read his intent.
His palm was on my thigh, rubbing and moving up at an alarming rate.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
“I’m curious,” he said, his hand never stopping its distracting movement. “Tell me something. I was told that you were trained,” he stressed the word, “for the marriage bed. What does that even mean?”
