With a flourish, he loudly sipped the soup before him. First from his bowl, then hers.
His family laughed and hooted around them.
What was the joke? She was missing something. She tried not to care, although, she couldn’t stop arching her brows at her friends across the table. They both grinned at her, apparently in on the joke.
“What’s so funny?” The question came out before she could bite it off.
His grin grew wider as he flicked a wicked glance at her. “Oysters are aphrodisiacs. Weren’t you aware?”
“I’m sure your bride will be well satisfied, Vico.” His uncle winked. “After all, you’ve had some practice, haven’t you?”
The crowd surrounding them chuckled again.
A rush of heat swept across her skin. How coarse. How crude. How could his family laugh in the face of this man’s sordid reputation with women?
Her husband clearly saw nothing wrong with the jest. He had no shame for his past actions and he wouldn’t have any shame about his future activities, would he? Once she’d made clear there was no charming approach in the world that would seduce her, he’d move on with alacrity. This would suit her fine.
Would his family accept this as well? Was this the norm in his family?
She fought the blush, yet she wasn’t successful. Everyone laughed merrily. The stupid man laughed with them. At her.
Did he have the gall to expect—?
She met his gaze. Tawny gold sparkled with glee. With expectation? Lise pulled her pride around her, stiffened her spine, lifted her head at a proud angle.
“Obviously, I’m aware. How could I forget?” she said for their audience. She gave him a withering stare as she whispered to only him. “Your family is as vulgar as you are.”
“I will remind you again tonight.” He played to the crowd with a grin, still his eyes went dark, the green turning jade with hostility.
Staring back at him and his hate, she managed an icy glare of her own. She might have lost the other battles between them during this last month, hell ever since the first time she’d met him. But this was a battle she was going to win if it was the last thing she did. There was no way he’d find her in his bed. Ever.
The want curled inside her, laughing at her threat.
Nevertheless, she would win. She would win against him and against herself.
This win was the only thing she had left to salvage her pride.
The waiters poured more wine. The talk around the table encircled her in a joyful buzz. Her new husband chuckled at another joke, then leaned over to answer an acerbic question from her mother.
Her mother.
Who sat in the sea of happiness looking like the end of the world had arrived. She was the one person in this room who quite likely was as upset as Lise was. She’d been stupid when she’d confessed the true nature of the relationship between her new fiancé and herself to her mother in a fit of fury.
The trick he’d played to get her into bed.
The baby he’d planted in her belly.
The marriage he’d demanded.
Her mother had despised Vico Mattare for taking the company from her dear husband’s partners even before Lise’s confession. After the confession, spite had turned to a raw rage, which threatened at any moment to overflow into a torrid tirade. She had lost count of the migraines she’d suffered after spending hour after hour listening to her mother rant. Only the threat looming over her precious home had kept her mother from unleashing the torrent of hate onto her daughter’s filthy, thieving new fiancé.
Her mother had been adamant about one item dealing with Vico Mattare, however.
She nagged and complained and nudged until finally Lise had done what she wanted—asked for a prenuptial agreement. When she thought about it, it had surprised her, astonished her that he hadn’t asked for one first. After all, his pot of money must be as big as the Mediterranean Sea. But he hadn’t. Day after day. And her mother’s ferocious demands had become overwhelming.
The stock! she’d moaned. He wants the last of the stock.
So Lise had asked. Figured it would be an easy enough request and he would see the wisdom of it.
“I want nothing from you,” she’d said, trying to hold onto her patience in the face of his instant dismissal of the idea.
His arms folded in front of him, accenting the bulge of his biceps. The light coming from his office windows highlighted the stern thrust of his jaw, the vivid blackness of his hair.
“And you don’t need my stock,” she’d kept going, “to run this company the way you want.”
His face grew grim.
“When we divorce—”
The slash of his arm cut her off. “There will be no divorce.”