Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(117)

“Get out of the car,” he says, and I do.

Then, to my surprise, he goes to one knee right there on the sidewalk and holds up the small velvet box. He opens it.

It’s not a plain gold band, but it’s not a big diamond either. It’s a band embedded with tiny seed pearls, and it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

“Cain, it’s beautiful.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d like it.” He comes to his feet and takes my hand, slipping it over my finger. Then he takes another box from his pocket and hands it to me.

I open this one. There’s a matching band inside, wide to complement a man’s finger. It has a single pearl—not too big, but it flashes pink and blue and white in the bright sun. I take it out and slide it on to his finger.

He smiles at me, and it’s the gentlest smile I’ve ever seen on him. Then he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the ring on my finger.





CHAPTER SEVEN



Cain



We’re in Cancún for a week. It’s my first trip there, and I have to say it’s a good place. But I don’t think it would have been as good if I’d come by myself. Being there with Jess makes it…special isn’t a strong enough word. Perfect is the only word that comes close.

We spend time on the beach, in town, shopping, and of course having sex. We actually manage to fuck on a bed our third night there. I have to admit it’s a nice change. She feels good between me and the mattress. The next night I feel good between her and the mattress.

And every day, during meals or when we’re just walking, hand in hand, I see my pearl-encrusted ring on her finger and know she’s mine. I see her looking at my own ring, too, with a look in her eyes that reminds me of the way I feel. We’re in this together.

Finally, though, the honeymoon is over. Literally. It’s time to head for home.

Home doesn’t seem like the right word for it anymore. I wonder what Jess is going to do. Does she want to get her stuff from her dad’s place? Does she even want to risk seeing him? We talk about it a little on the plane, but like me, she doesn’t want to think about it too much.

Finally, as we’re collecting our luggage at LAX, she says, “Just take me to your place. We’ll figure it out from there.”

It was a late-morning flight back, so it’s still daylight when we stop at my place. Big problem, though—we’re both hungry, and there’s nothing in the fridge. My bachelor life never lent itself well to having a well-stocked refrigerator, and I don’t think Jess wants to cobble anything together from a jar of mayonnaise, three beers, and a bag of coffee beans.

“I’ll go pick up some things,” I tell her, giving her a kiss as I set my suitcase down. If I sit or, worse, fall into bed with her, we’ll never get out of here, and we’ll both starve. Somebody will find us eventually, tangled in each other in the bed, like mummies or something.

It’s a terrible image, but I find it hilarious, and I grin down at her. She’s in my home. She’s my wife. I can’t quite get my head around it.

“I can go with you,” she says, and yawns so wide I can see her tonsils.

“No, you take a nap.” I kiss her again. “Anything in particular you want?”

“Bacon,” she says. “And…maybe a big thing of frozen lasagna.”

It’s not what I expected, but… “I could murder a big thing of frozen lasagna.” One more kiss, and I force myself back out the door and to my car.

Even after a week in Cancún, everything seems so bright. It shouldn’t; the perpetual smog over Los Angeles should see to that. But I’m in such a good mood all I can see is the sun and the cloudless sky as I head down the freeway.

I’m not thinking about much of anything as I get out of the car and head into the supermarket.

Then a hand grabs me by the shoulder and turns me around, and I’m looking right into the face of Carmine Romano.

“Welcome home, asshole,” he says, and punches me in the face.

I stagger, mostly because he caught me by surprise. He takes advantage and follows up with a kick to my ribs. Before I can get my balance back, he’s grabbing me by the arm and dragging me across the parking lot.

There’s a dark car sitting out at the edge of the lot, away from the other cars, in the shadow of a batch of bushes and palm trees. I know without being told who’s there. And I’m right. As we approach, the driver’s side window rolls down, and I’m looking at Phil Spada’s face as he watches me be “escorted” into his presence.

He gets slowly out of the car as we get closer, shooting his shirt cuffs under his dark pinstripe suit jacket. His face is almost completely neutral, but his eyes are on fire. I know I’m in for a beating. Or maybe just a bullet between the eyes.