ARRANGED

by R. K. Lilley

  His words had the opposite effect he’d intended. I’d already known that. Banks had admitted as much, and while he’d said he never lied to me, some part of me had wondered if it had gone on any longer than that. That first month we’d had only one awkward, mandatory night between us . . . That first month we’d been virtual strangers . . . It was almost forgivable.

  Almost.

  All of that came out before we’d even ordered. The meal passed pleasantly. Clearing the air between us so quickly seemed to set the mood, which was comfortable and easy.

  It wasn’t until we were saying our goodbyes that we ran into a snag.

  “I’d like to see you again,” he said intently after he’d kissed both of my cheeks. His eyes were burning into mine, our faces arrested close together.

  I blinked at him. “Why?” I asked.

  He laughed, pulling back and shattering the awkward moment. “Can you possibly doubt that I’m attracted to you? You’re gorgeous, sweet, and come with the added benefit of effortless revenge. More than effortless, enjoyable. I’d be a fool not to at least ask.”

  “I’d enjoy seeing you again, but I’m not in the market to date,” I told him candidly. “I could, however, use a friend.”

  He was not put off at all. “I think we have a deal, my dear.”

  “You went on a date,” Banks’ voice was a wretched attempt at blandness that landed in an arrow straight bullseye onto accusatory.

  We were just sitting down for tea on our weekly meet-up. He said it straight off, before we’d even gone through the usual pleasantries.

  “It’s none of your business,” I said calmly. “Even if it was, you have no room to talk. You were dating when you were married to me.”

  Of course he knew I was absolutely right and he was completely wrong, but he couldn’t seem to make himself react appropriately.

  “Those weren’t dates, and you and I were strangers,” he pointed out infuriatingly. “I didn’t know it was a real marriage, that I wanted it to be a real marriage until I’d fucked up too bad to fix it. You know I regret everything.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. What did his regret matter? Was it real? Questionable. Did it mean anything even if it was? Also questionable.

  I let the silence stretch out. It was easier for me than usual. My fake date had somehow given me an edge, though just thinking it made me realize I was enjoying that edge too much, which was a problem in itself. Any pleasure I got from our relationship was counterproductive against my objective, which was supposed to be moving on.

  “Please,” he said suddenly. He was as wild as I was calm. “Please just tell me. I have no right but I need to know. Did you fuck him?”

  That surprised a laugh out of me. “I don’t have to answer that.” I paused. “It’s insulting.”

  Strangely that seemed to soothe him. “So you didn’t.”

  I glared. “Of course I didn’t. I’m not you.”

  “I get it, okay? The thought of another man so much as laying a pinky on you makes me ill. I wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone. I can’t take back what I’ve done, but I wish that I could. Why’d you go out with him?”

  “He asked.”

  “Just to mess with me, then.”

  “Maybe that was an added bonus.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “None of your business. Drop it, okay?”

  He stewed after that. Went into full-on sullen brat mode until it was time to go. And then he went a little crazy again. “Will you see him again?”

  I shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  He swallowed hard, his eyes wide and fierce. “Don’t fuck him.”

  I glared at him. “You have no right—”

  “I have every right,” he said, voice low and ringing with sincerity. “I can be patient. I’ll wait for you however long it takes. I deserve to wait. But make no mistake—signing some papers doesn’t mean I’m not still yours, and you’re not still mine.”

  BANKS

  The weekly dates were always sweet torture.

  I called them dates, she called them meetings.

  I memorized them all. One hour once a week. Memorized.

  Carved in bloody letters on my heart.

  First, to look at her, to see her, my eyes taking her in, in person—no photo lens between us. It made my teeth clench so hard they ached.

  So many rules—don’t touch, don’t kiss, don’t drag her somewhere private. Don’t hold on and refuse to let her go after my hour was up.

  So much longing. So much deprivation.

  I took it all. I deserved it all.

  Her beauty is world class and world renowned, but the most devastating thing about her is her smile, and it stung more than a little that she used it more often now than she ever did when she was with me.

  I hated myself for stating my case to her again. I had no fucking right, but seeing her with someone else made me too desperate to try to retain even an ounce of my pride, let alone to respect anything as intangible as fucking fairness.

  No, I didn’t have the right, but I was going there anyway.

  I got myself under control. Sort of. Barely. Temporarily.

  When it was time to say goodbye, I completely lost my mind. I grabbed her, pulling her to me until our faces were close.

  Oh God, to smell her, to feel her.

  “I need you,” I rasped into her ear.

  She looked away, one lone tear running down her face. “You’re so cruel, Banks. Why are you like this?”

  I kissed her cheek, licking the tear away. “I haven’t been with anyone else,” I whispered. “I haven’t so much as looked at another woman. I’m still waiting for you. I’ll wait forever. I haven’t given up, and I won’t.”

  We were both panting.

  Chester got between us.

  I grabbed his shirt. I wanted to hit him, but I was trying really hard not to. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I snarled at him.

  He gave me a look that was hard to decipher, but I could see that his eyes were more sympathetic than anything else.

  That sobered me up a bit.

  “I’m doing my job, and your stunt back there is going to end up as a headline. How about we quit now before you embarrass her even more?”

  I looked at Noura. “Let’s go somewhere to talk. Somewhere, anywhere with privacy. Please, Noura.”

  She wasn’t looking at me, she seemed completely withdrawn, so it shocked me when she answered with, “Just to talk?”

  “Whatever you want,” I told her, because I couldn’t figure out what her question meant.

  Chester craned his head around to give her a look. “Duchess?” The word was chock-full of disbelief.

  She wouldn’t look at him either, and her voice was paper thin when she told us both, “We’ll take my car.”

  We went to her apartment. She didn’t speak to me on the drive. She stayed plastered against her side of the car, face turned away.

  I opened my mouth to speak several times, but made myself stay silent. This was the most I’d gotten from her since the divorce, and I was trying hard not to blow it. Besides that, I preferred not to have an audience even if we were just going to talk.

  I was dead wrong. She wasn’t interested in talking at all.

  We didn’t make it to her bed; we didn’t make it beyond her entryway. The moment the door closed, she gripped me to her, her hands buried in my hair, lips crushed to mine.

  I pressed her to the door, taking handfuls of her everywhere. I couldn’t touch her enough, couldn’t taste her enough. I was deprived of sex in general, but worse I’d been deprived of her. The ache was so complete and familiar by now that it had its own pulse, and its own stark place in my soul. I bit her lower lip. She sucked on my tongue.

  I shoved her skirt out of the way, ripped her panties, and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around me. I didn’t undress myself, just braced her with one arm and pulled my dick out. I grabbed her ass with both hands
and shoved hard and deep with one desperate, harrowing thrust.

  When I was seated balls deep I paused, but only long enough to jerk her top off her shoulders, baring her tits. I moaned at the sight. I wanted to bury my face there while I fucked her, but it was impossible. I was too far gone, needed to fuck her too hard. I took her there, a hell-bent, stand-up fuck powered by unrequited longing and unprecedented abstinence.

  I used to turn her away, to avoid the intimacy of eye contact when I took her. It was the opposite now. I made her look at me. Every time she tried to look away I forced her eyes back, bouncing her on my cock with ruthless precision while our gazes drank each other’s souls with desperate adulation. “I miss you,” I panted at her.

  She flinched, dragging my mouth to hers.

  So this was not forgiveness. I’d take it anyway. Drink every drop of attention she deigned to toss my way.

  In spite of my efforts, she kicked me out of her apartment exactly thirty seconds after I pulled my dick out of her.

  I’d always been stubborn, so I still saw it as progress.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  NOURA

  I worked on myself. I took a few days off a week, my attempt at having a life outside of modeling. I was sought after enough that I could afford to be more selective. I took some online college courses. I thought I would’ve been good at school if I wasn’t so busy trying to conquer the world.

  I even went on a weekend vacation to Mexico with Jovie that had nothing to do with work.

  I started eating solid meals, putting my health and nutrition before the next days’ photo shoot.

  I gained ten pounds and that was hard, but I gradually allowed myself to accept that it was good weight. Most of it went to my boobs and hips, which photographed better than I was expecting. The designers who complained or put me down for it went solidly on my blacklist for the future.

  And there were more slip-ups. Of course there were. I’m only human.

  I gathered my clothes hastily. I needed to get out of there. It was week twenty-one post-divorce, and I’d impulsively let Banks take me home after drinks at The Plaza.

  “This can’t happen again,” I said without looking at him.

  “Why not, Duchess? Quit doing that. Drop your clothes and come back to bed. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  I shot him a look. “No. We’re not doing this. This was a mistake. I can’t get over you like this.”

  “Good,” he said, standing up. “I don’t want you to get over me.”

  “Then what do you want exactly?”

  “You know. I want you to give us another chance.”

  I went completely still. I thought I was over the bitterness of his betrayal, but there it was, rising in me again. “Do you think you deserve another chance? If the roles were reversed, would you give me one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Easy to say when you’ll never be in my position.”

  He grinned. “Never?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I hope you did. I hope you’re never with anyone else but me for the rest of your life. And you’ll never be in that position again either. That’s a promise.”

  I dressed hastily and got the hell out of dodge. I was in the elevator before I burst into tears.

  On week twenty-nine post-divorce, I let him see me up to my apartment. A silent Jovie watched us wide-eyed from the living as we walked by. I made a face at her that meant I’d explain in the morning in best friend language.

  She gave me two grinning thumbs up, the incorrigible girl.

  Roughly two minutes later he was shirtless, on his knees eating me out in my bedroom when I felt something strange on his shoulder. Like gauze. I worried at it with my fingers for a minute before (reluctantly) pushing him away from his extremely distracting activities.

  “What happened to your shoulder?” I asked him.

  His eyes were a bit glazed over, his hands flying to undo his belt. He licked his lips. “Hmm?”

  “Your shoulder. Is that a bandage?”

  He glanced back like he had no notion what was on his own body. “Oh that.” His hands dropped from his belt and a he grinned. “Take it off. See for yourself.”

  Reluctantly I rose, walking around him. Tentatively I touched it. It was definitely a bandage. “What did you do?” I asked him.

  “Look,” he said.

  With more than a little hesitation, I pulled the corner back. Raised angry pink flesh met my eyes. “You removed it,” I said, feeling a little lightheaded.

  “I decided that I’m not a big fan of tattoos anymore, especially that one. It was about damn time.”

  “You’ll have this scar forever.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  On week thirty-eight post-divorce, I stayed the whole night at his place. We fucked like it was the end of the world. Again and again in every way imaginable. I was his putty and every thrust remade me into his pattern. We were a tapestry, and somewhere along the way, we’d been woven together.

  I felt more tender and vulnerable than ever the next morning when he struck.

  “You know I’m in love with you, right?” He told my back as I was dressing. He said it with utter rawness, like it hurt him but he wanted the pain.

  I turned and faced him head on. He approached me, holding my face in both hands. “I love you,” he repeated.

  Was his love real? I did not know. I needed to test it, taste it, touch it, see it.

  Lay my face in his neck to breathe him in. Love? Still not sure.

  Lay my ear against his chest, hear his heart beat. Love?

  “I promised myself I’d never let myself fall again.” His voice was low and rough and raw. “But I didn’t know what that meant. In love there’s no free will. That’s how I know it’s real. I couldn’t stop it and I can’t deny it. This is it for me.”

  I couldn’t choke a word out. My heart is an organ of excess. It is excessive and unrestrained.

  It doesn’t give a little. It is an overachiever. When it gives, it gives absolutely everything. Somewhere along the way, I’d given it to him, and no matter how I resisted, I wasn’t going to get it back.

  I acknowledged for the first time then and there that I wouldn’t be moving on. At least, not how I’d thought, because I knew in my bones that the regret would be worse if I couldn’t forgive him.

  “I can’t settle again,” I told him, lips trembling, heart wide open. “I can’t settle for less than everything from you. From both of us.”

  “Good.” His voice was harsh. His hands were firm on my face. His eyes were a wild storm and they were promising me the world. “I don’t want you to. I want to give you everything. I’m ready now. And you better fucking give me everything back.”

  EPILOGUE

  Fatima’s father’s organization went down two years later. He was assassinated by his number two guy, his place raided in a bloody coup in the middle of the night. After that everything folded, and people within started talking, and Fatima, now glaringly lacking in protection, was an easier target.

  They could never pin the attempt on my life on Fatima, but she had gotten some eyes turned her way during the process. Those eyes started watching her, thanks to some Castelo influence, and two years after she tried to have me drowned, she was arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit fraud and a slew of other charges that stuck.

  The tabloids caught a much sought after picture of her in a prison yard, looking sullen.

  Orange was not her color.

  I didn’t make an honest man out of Banks again for quite some time, though I did take pity on him and let him get rid of his own sterile apartment and move in with me. I wanted to try the boyfriend/girlfriend thing out for a while.

  No contracts and no paperwork.

  We were married on my twenty-fifth birthday. Possibly happier about it than us were his parents and his brothers, who’d been pressing us to get rem
arried since the day they found out he’d moved in with me.

  The ceremony couldn’t have been more opposite than the first time. We went to Bora Bora with a tiny group of family and friends. We said our vows wearing shades and barefoot on the beach. He wore white linen trousers and a matching shirt that was open at the neck. No jacket, no tie.

  I wore a barely there slip of a dress the color of the pale aquamarine waves lapping at our feet.

  We’d rented out the entire resort and island for two weeks, which wasn’t quite so drastic as it sounded, as the whole place only held fourteen small bungalows. By Castelo standards, it was downright humble.

  There was no prenup this time, no payoffs, no contracts at all, just a wedding license and a full heart.

  My lips didn’t tremble. My hands were steady in his. We pledged our love and commitment for the right reasons for round number two.

  This time I said I do with my head and my heart.

  He buried both his hands in my hair and tapped his forehead gently against mine. His eyes were snapped with intensity. “’Bout damn time.”

  The reception was beautiful, informal, and lasted for days. We danced, we toasted, we argued light-heartedly with his parents about how soon we were going to start making babies. I’d long established that twenty-seven was the right age, but his dad would have preferred five years ago at least. Banks held strong that it was my decision, and he was prepared to do his part whenever I was. Diana good-naturedly complained that she couldn’t believe none of her sons had made her a grandma yet. All in good time.

  Banks and his father were getting along better these days though there sometimes rose a budding tension between them, as though their natures dictated that they butt heads. They would always be too much alike, I thought, but it was much better now.

  We fed each other cake, Jovie caught the bouquet, I danced with every Castelo at least three times, and Banks for all the rest. I wasn’t numb for the celebrations this time. I filed every little detail away and treasured it appropriately.