I spear the tempeh—whatever in God’s name that is—with my fork and nibble on it.
It tastes like what a filthy piece of driftwood from an old shipwreck might taste like: salty, soggy, fishy, disgusting.
“Mmm. Yummy.”
Watching me from across the table, Declan pulls his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing.
Sloane beams. “Right? I just love tempeh. It’s so versatile. Do you cook, Reyna?”
“Like a bloody Michelin chef,” says Quinn, warily eying a poisonous-looking fleshy gray lump on his own plate that could be a mushroom of some sort. Or possibly a boiled toad.
“Really?” says Sloane, intrigued. “What’s your specialty?”
“Sicilian cuisine in particular, but Italian food in general. My mother was born in Sicily, so many of my favorite recipes are handed down from her.”
With a hint of pride in his voice Quinn says, “She makes everything from scratch.”
Declan says forcefully, “Don’t tell me you make homemade pasta!”
When I nod, he groans. “Spider, you lucky bastard!”
With arched brows, Sloane turns to Declan. “Why, exactly, is he so lucky?”
Avoiding her searing gaze and an answer that might cost him a testicle, he takes a long drink from his wineglass.
Tactfully hiding my smile, I intervene. “I’ve always loved to cook, even when I was little. Then, when I got older, food became even more important. It’s really the only pleasure I have in my life.”
Reaching for my wineglass, I send a warm look in Quinn’s direction. “Had, I mean.”
When I set my glass down after sipping from it, I realize everyone is staring at me.
But only Quinn’s eyes are blazing.
Declan saves me from what could be a rogue attack from Mr. Handsy sitting next to me by asking, “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
I laugh. “Oh God. That’s like asking a mother which is her favorite child. Five-cheese lasagna with spicy sausage, truffle risotto, saltimbocca, Sicilian stuffed flatbread, the list goes on.”
With wide eyes, Declan says faintly, “Bread.”
“You should taste her carbonara,” brags Quinn.
Even fainter, Declan says, “Bacon.”
Sloane gives him a smack on the shoulder.
We make it through the rest of the meal with small talk as I try to move things around on my plate so it looks as if I’ve eaten them. For dessert, Sloane serves vegan ice cream made without cream, eggs, or sugar, or anything else resembling actual food.
But at least it’s bland and tasteless, so there’s that.
Then the men excuse themselves to speak in Declan’s office while Sloane and I sit on the sofa in the living room with our wine.
Thank God she likes wine, or I’d already have jumped into the pond.
“So. Reyna. How are you?”
With her bare long legs stretched out and propped up on the coffee table, Sloane gazes at me with the intensity of a professional interrogator.
I smile. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
After a beat of silence in which she examines every minute expression on my face, she says bluntly, “Bullshit.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve got many years’ experience compartmentalizing my feelings.”
“Swallowing them, you mean.”
I tilt my head in a gesture that’s neither a yes nor a no. “An unexpected arranged marriage isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to me. I’ll survive.”
“I bet you will.” She spends a while in thought, then says, “So it doesn’t bother you, the arranged marriage thing?”
“Bother is one of those words that can have many different meanings.”
After a moment watching me over the rim of her wineglass as she takes a swallow, she pronounces, “You would’ve made an excellent politician.”
That makes me laugh. “I’m the ranking female of one of the Five Families of New York. I am an excellent politician.”
She pulls her legs off the table and leans over to peer more closely at me, propping her elbows on her thighs. “You like him, don’t you?”
I have to pause to decide how to answer. Then I go with the truth. I say softly, “For the most part, yes.”
When she grins, pleased, I add, “His mood changes are pretty rough, though.”
She waves a hand in the air. “He’s been through a lot lately.”
I can tell she regrets that instantly.
Sitting back against the sofa, she crosses her legs and drinks her wine, gazing up at an abstract painting on the wall that suddenly seems to fascinate her.
From someone so forthright and self-confident, this avoidant behavior tells me that whatever it is Quinn has been through lately, she doesn’t want to tell me about it.
Which, of course, makes me desperate to know.
I say, “I understand you’re his friend. I won’t ask you to put yourself in a position where you feel you’d be being disloyal by betraying his confidence. But if there’s anything you can tell me that might help me understand him, I would appreciate it.”
She slides her gaze in my direction. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. Then she says, “It’s his story to tell, but I can tell you this: he’s been hurt.”
I nod. “He told me that himself. It’s the reason he wanted an arranged marriage.”
Looking encouraged that I already know that, she uncrosses her legs and turns her body toward me.
“So he told you about my sister, Riley?”
I have a split second to decide how to answer.
I remember what Gianni told me the night of the home invasion about the sister of the wife of the Mob boss getting impregnated by her Russian kidnapper, and decide to walk the gray line between truth and lies.
Looking down at my hands, I say, “I know she’s pregnant by the boss of the Moscow Bratva.”
“Yes. Which Spider blames himself for.”
Startled by that, I look up. “Why does he blame himself?”
“He was her bodyguard when she got kidnapped. Plus, you know, he had feelings for her…”
She trails off, then makes a face. “You didn’t know about that part.”
I keep my expression completely impassive when I say, “How long ago was this?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I feel like maybe I’ve already said too much.”
Ignoring that, I think it through. If her sister is still pregnant, that means whatever happened, it was within the last nine months.
So this year, Quinn was so devastated by the woman under his protection being kidnapped and impregnated by the Russian that he took the drastic and life-altering measure of agreeing to an arranged marriage with a stranger in response.
He was in love with her.
He’s still in love with her.
That’s what this morning was about. His mood change, his silence, his inexplicable scowls.
He married me and made love to me and woke up with me, a stand-in for the woman he actually wants.
I feel sick. Foolish, ashamed, and sick to my stomach.
A week ago, this wouldn’t have hurt. I wouldn’t have felt a thing. But last night seemed so real to me. All the passion and emotion we shared felt so damn real.
It felt good.
For the first time in my life, I felt wanted.