Filthy (A Bad Boy Romance)(38)

Sure enough, he’s at the table shoveling down spaghetti like there’s no tomorrow. The dog sits at his feet, watching hopefully, hoping Sal will drop something or pass him a noodle or something. I’d think he developed a taste for the sauce after I gave him that sample, but the truth is that dog will beg for anything. If you’re eating it, he wants to be eating it.

He’s a good dog. He deserves better than Sal. So do I.

“Sarah,” Sal says when I walk into the dining room. “About time you got home. Join me for dinner?”

I hold back the sneer I’d like to show him. No. You eat your dog-spit-infused spaghetti sauce all on your own. I’ll be fine. “No, thanks,” I say out loud. “I’m not really hungry.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Probably for the best, anyway.”

I grind my teeth. I know better than to ask him what he means by that. He’ll tell me I’ve been eating too many of my own pastries, or that my muffin-top is getting out of hand. I don’t want to hear it. So I say nothing and watch him take another big forkful of his spaghetti. The dog has started to drool.

“So how was business today?” he finally says. I figure he gave up on waiting for me to rise to his bait about my not eating.

At least I have good news to tell him on that front. “Not bad.” I show him the envelope I’ve brought in with me, and then lay it down on the table next to him. He gives me a brief look in response to the thickness of it, and then opens it.

Sal gives a low whistle. “This is more than you usually take in on a weekday.” He lays the envelope back down. “You get some special orders or something?”

I open my mouth to tell him about Nick buying the pastries for the nursing home, but suddenly I don’t want to share that with Sal. Instead I say, “Some schoolteachers came in. Wanted some bread and pastries and stuff for the teachers’ lounge, and a meeting they were having or something. They bought quite a bit of stuff.”

“Well, good. Maybe I can still squeak a few bucks out of the place before we shut it down.”

Cold crawls along my stomach. “Shut it down?” I thought he’d dropped this angle. Apparently not.

“Of course.” He gives me a level look. “Sarah, you have to understand how business works.” His tone has gone soft and almost cloying, like I’m a five-year-old and he’s explaining to me why I can’t hit my little sister over the head and take her candy. “If there’s no profit, then there’s no business. At some point, I’m going to have to cut my losses. You’re just not selling enough doughnuts or whatever.” He waves it off, as if it’s of no importance at all.

I know I shouldn’t say anything. Arguing with him never gets me anywhere but back up in my bedroom nursing bruises. “It’s my business, not yours.”

His eyes narrow. “Not unless you can pay me back for the little business loan we arranged. You know that. And you’re pretty deep into back payments at the moment.” He swirls more spaghetti around his fork. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter in the long run. When we get married, it’ll be half mine anyway in the eyes of the law.”

“Married—” I start, almost choking on the word, but he’s still talking.

“Even though technically it’s mine already. I paid for it.”

He’s right. Sort of. His money paid for it; my money hasn’t been sufficient yet to pay back the loan. Otherwise I wouldn’t be putting up with him on a daily basis. Otherwise I wouldn’t be living in his house and allowing him free access to my body. He had be over a barrel. Between a rock and a hard place. Whatever cliché you prefer, but none of them quite match the level of anger, hatred, and despair that’s become the everyday normal for my life over the last several months. The backs of my eyes start to burn, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to break down in front of Sal.

“So, we’ll get married,” Sal continues, and my stomach lurches, “and then I’ll take care of the bakery. I’ll figure out some way to turn a profit, even if it means collecting on the insurance money.”

I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Well,” I spit, and I know, again, that I’d be better off if I just kept my big, stupid mouth shut, “I guess you know best.”

I turn on my heel and head upstairs. At least I have my own room—I can lock the door and not have to worry about Sal busting in and demanding sex, or just busting in and hitting me. I flop ungracefully onto the bed and sob, because there’s not one damn thing else I can do.

#

Sal doesn’t bother me that night—thank God—and the next morning he seems pretty even-keeled. Which is a nice change. I go about my business, trying to pretend my business is really mine, trying to believe I can really accomplish something with my life. It’s a nice delusion, I guess.

Things stay quiet for a couple of days, which is a welcome relief. Then, one morning when I’m on my way out the door to go to the bakery, Sal says, “We’ve got dinner tonight. Try to be home a little early so you can be sure to be presentable.”

Great, I think. What the hell has he got going on now? But when I get home, early as requested, he’s all smiles.

“Did you forget it’s your birthday, Sarah? Go get changed—I’ve got a big surprise for you at dinner.”

My brain is just stupid enough to jump a little in anticipation. Maybe he’s actually going to do something nice for me. After all, it’s my birthday. I hadn’t forgotten, of course, but I hadn’t been thinking about it much, either.

I change into a lacy black dress and heels and drape a string of pearls around my neck. I look good. Damn good, if I do say so myself. Sal makes an approving noise as I come down the stairs, and as we head for the car, he actually takes my hand. It’s almost affectionate.

What the hell is he up to?

The restaurant he takes me to is pretty upscale, so I’m glad I erred on the site of fancier clothes. I see several familiar cars in the parking lot—dark sedans, which are thoroughly stereotypical but still practical for the mob types Sal hangs with. I can’t imagine he’s invited a bunch of his colleagues for my birthday party. He doesn’t like me enough for that.

When we go inside, the maître d’ greets Sal with a wide grin. “Everything’s ready, Mr. de Luca.” He turns to me. “And you must be the birthday girl.”

“Um, yeah, I guess I am.” I’m starting to get nervous now, and even more so when the maître d’ loops his arm through my elbow.

“This way, then,” he says, and leads us both toward the back part of the restaurant.

The whole back section is a separate room, and as Sal and I enter the door, everyone at the tables stands and starts to applaud. “Oh, my God,” I whisper. He really has invited all his colleagues for a birthday party. I recognize several faces from the party, and of course I recognize Phil Spada, Sal’s boss.

And there’s Nick Angelino. His gaze catches mine and he gives me a smile that’s just a shade too warm for plain courtesy, but I don’t think anybody sees it but me. Sal certainly doesn’t; he’s too busy shaking people’s hands as he moves after the maître d’ to our seats near the middle of the big table.

Once we’re seated, I try to focus on what’s going on around me. I’m getting birthday greetings left and right, from people I know and even more people I don’t. It’s overwhelming, especially since I’m still nervous about what Sal’s ulterior motives might be.

Maybe it’s just a birthday party. My conscience nags me with this, but I know better. There’s never a “just” anything with Sal. Or with any of these men, for that matter. It would behoove me to remember that.

I forget it again, though, when I catch sight of Nick again. He’s sitting next to a pretty girl in a dark blue dress with an incredibly low neckline. He seems to be chatting her up, but I don’t get the sense from their body language that they’re a couple. Certainly not a long-term couple, by any means. There’s a certain distance between them that tells me they were probably thrown together specifically for this party. That’s fine. He might be expected to take her home after dinner, but that doesn’t mean he will.

He meets my gaze again, as if he senses I’m looking at him. I look quickly away, but then I can’t keep from glancing back not even a second later. Nick grins, and my whole body goes hot. I’m so happy to see him I can barely contain it, but at the same time I’m so acutely aware of Sal next to me and what his reaction would be if he knew what I was thinking. If he knew what Nick and I did the other day in the back rooms of the bakery.

I can feel the warmth of Nick’s mouth on mine, the shape of his hand burned onto my breast. My nipples go hard and start to tingle as if he’s actually touching them. I have to make myself switch my attention or surely someone will realize I’m paying way too much attention to Nick and not enough to Sal.

The food arrives along with wine, and it’s enough of a distraction that I’m able to keep my eyes to myself for a few minutes. It’s wonderful food—fork-tender steak, pasta cooked perfectly al dente, fresh vegetables grilled and seasoned so they taste like summer. My stomach’s twisting around itself, not sure if it’s terrified or elated, but I still manage to eat because the food’s just that good. And from time to time I feel Nick’s eyes on me, and sometimes I shift just a little so I can meet his gaze.