Catalina’s forehead wrinkled into a frown, but she kept her eyes trained on my husband, not her son. Brock jerked Sam to his side, stroking his head as he fought an angry twist in his lips. Sam was too focused on his little truck to care what the grownups were discussing.
I realized I was gaping at them when Troy nonchalantly used his pointer finger to press on my chin and close my lips with a snap.
“Careful,” he mocked, taking a step closer and whispering into the crook of my neck, “don’t want a fly to wander into that pretty mouth of yours.”
When we got into the limo taking us to the historic manor where nearly four hundred strangers would celebrate our fake wedding, rain knocked on the tinted windows. I swallowed a sarcastic remark. I might be a June Bride, but of course it was going to rain on our wedding day. Some people claimed rain meant good luck, but I knew better.
A handful of guests went through the usual motions, gathering on the sidewalk and throwing birdseed at our vehicle. Birdseed. At least my new husband wasn’t as predictable as to try and make a joke about my name. Instead, as we merged into the busy Boston traffic, he handed me a wide, deep white box tied with a pink satin bow.
“From me, to you,” he said, his expression emotionless.
I took the box carefully from his hand and untied the bow with shaky fingers. Pausing, I glanced up at him, suspicious. Dammit, would I ever stop acting like a sheep led to slaughter around this man?
“Sorry I didn’t get you anything,” I said, ignoring his predator eyes. “As you’re aware, this wedding was pretty rushed and unexpected.”
“I’ll live,” he said tonelessly.
Yup, unfortunately. I bit my lip to suppress the nasty comeback.
He waved his hand impatiently. “For fuck’s sake, Red. Unwrap the damn thing.”
I ignored the fact he called me Red again. Yes, I was a redhead, but he was an asshole, and you didn’t see me walking around calling him that without making sure he liked his new pet name first.
I poked aside the tissue paper in the mysterious white box. When the contents registered, bile shot up my throat and my blood froze. Almost screeching, I threw the box in his lap like it was a nest of snakes.
My gift was very revealing and degrading lingerie items. I’m talking leather, fishnets and all that crap.
Tears stung my eyes. I fought them, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. A traitorous tear managed to sneak out, rolling down my right cheek. I swiped it away and clenched my jaw to stop my chin from quivering. If this asshole was hungry for my pain, I planned to keep him starving.
Brennan’s stony face broke into a taunting smirk. “What’s that, Red? Not even a thank you?” His low voice crawled deep under my skin.
I shook my head no. I assumed sex was going to be a part of the package, but in the ten days he’d caged me in his penthouse, alone and afraid, he hadn’t visited more than once, let alone tried to touch me.
This was a reminder that just because he hadn’t yet, didn’t mean that he wouldn’t.
“So you need a leatherette bra and a vinyl teddy to be turned on? I didn’t peg you for a cliché, Brennan.”
His eyes lit with something devilish. “And I didn’t peg you for someone who answers back. Don’t worry, little birdie. We’ll have plenty of time to explore one another.”
I stared straight ahead, focusing on the back of our driver’s head and biting my tongue. I hated that he called me Birdie. Only people I loved called me that.
“Chill out, Red. I have no interest in tapping your ass unless you’re willing and begging.”
“That’s interesting, because you sure seem to have a healthy interest in lingerie shopping. Too much spare time?” I deadpanned.
His smirk widened. “I didn’t pick those items.” He tilted his chin to the gift nestled in layers of tissue paper.
“No?” I blinked slowly.
“No…” He leaned forward, bringing his mouth closer to mine. “My mistress chose your gift.”
Sirens wailed in the distance, a truck beeped as it reversed and the angry hum of my blood buzzed in my ears. Still, somehow, time completely stopped despite the busy streets of Boston flashing by outside. Our driver kept swallowing hard and looking straight ahead robotically, but I knew he was listening. Saying I wasn’t comfortable having this conversation in front of a complete stranger was the understatement of the century.
I pressed my lips between my teeth, trying not to launch at my husband like a cornered animal. This man promised me his faithfulness in front of a priest less than an hour ago. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe he’d ever take this marriage seriously, but he didn’t have to rub his affairs in my face.
“She really doesn’t like you if she goes around buying lingerie for your wife.” My voice barely trembled.
“She just knows what’s best for her. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from her.”
I tucked my hands under my thighs to keep from trying to strangle him. “Tell her to send me the syllabus. I’m especially interested in How to Tame the ManWhore 101.” I offered him a sweet smile, folding my arms over my laced-covered chest.
Just then, the limo came to a halt and the driver rushed to help us out of the back and onto the steps of the eighteenth-century landmark where the wedding reception was taking place. Troy got out first, offering me his hand. I didn’t move, ignoring his gesture.
“Remember, play nice.” He kept his palm open, yet uninviting.
“Whatever. Fine,” I muttered slapping my hand into his. We walked and waved, smiling to our guests through plastic grins.
“But I like your fight,” he said softly through our make-believe joy as we made our way, arms linked, like the two happy lovers that we weren’t. “Can’t wait for you to show me some of it in my bed.”
SPARROW
I SHOULD HAVe known he was a man of his word.
But he should have known that on top of hating his guts, I was also a virgin.
A virgin, despite my best efforts.
Contrary to what anyone might think, I wasn’t especially keen on saving my virginity for that special someone. I’d grown up in a rough neighborhood, among people who didn’t buy into fairytales. Prince Charming was about as feasible as Santa Claus to me, if not less. There was not one romantic bone in my scrawny body.
No, my cliché virginity was due to the fact that I just hadn’t met anyone who wanted to share more than a few kisses and the occasional grope with me. I was notorious for my bad luck with the opposite sex. True, I wasn’t particularly striking or sexy, but I wasn’t a hag either. Yet somehow, guys always kept their distance from me.
At school.
At work.
And especially in and around South Boston.
So I’d quietly carried the burden of my virginity, hoping I’d find a man who’d be sweet enough to guide me through the dos and don’ts of lovemaking.
I had a feeling Troy Brennan, with his physical size, strength and brutal way of living, was not the best tour guide for a beginner like me. If there was one ray of light in my grim situation, it would have been my hope that Troy was too busy messing around with half of Boston to notice I had a pair of boobs and an ass, too.
But he did. He noticed.
Right after we got back from our wedding celebration, to be exact.
We arrived back at his glitzy penthouse in Back Bay, thoroughly drunk and understandably flushed.
Brennan walked into his lavish bedroom and started taking off his clothes silently, folding them in a neat pile on a sleek black bureau near the huge king-size bed. He stripped down to his briefs, giving me a full view of his muscled body. All male, not an Abercrombie & Fitch-ad type of guy, but a real, hairy, big, demanding one.
Furious and frightened, I walked swiftly into the master bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a loud bang and locking it for good measure.
“Don’t be long,” he instructed from the bedroom.
I ignored him, took a seat on the edge of his giant Jacuzzi and, regulating my breathing, plucked out the hairpins that dug into my skull one by one. I threw them into the sink with a blissful plink. Then I tackled the impossible dress, struggling to reach the laces in the back and shimmying until I finally managed to crawl out of the corset more fitting for a Barbie doll.
I opened drawers and cabinets. Stalling, stalling, stalling. After all, he was drunk. Maybe he’d fall asleep, pass out…or throw up and choke on his puke. Maybe I had nothing to worry about.
After forty minutes, I tiptoed back to the bedroom wearing a pair of socks and my old PJ’s—gray sleep shorts and a white cotton tee—and crawled onto the far edge of the immense bed. I wanted to curl into myself and disappear between his sheets as far away from Brennan as I could manage.
Not breathing, barely moving, I peeked sideways to check to see if he was safely asleep.
His eyelashes fluttered up and down against the red and blue city lights spilling into the darkness. He was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, the covers thrown back on his side.
“Scared of sex, huh?” His menacing voice cut through blackness with an amused bite. “Well, no surprises there.”
I didn’t fail to notice that he was shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of Calvin Kleins. They were white, tight and emphasized his erection.