Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (39)

“You’re selling yourself short.”

She stiffens, blushes, and turns her gaze towards the Thames. The waiters choose that moment to appear with the first course. It’s a seafood bisque with a fat lobster tail taking center stage.

The smell itself is enough to drive a man insane with need. But it does nothing for me right now.

Because my only interest at the moment is her.

“Thank you, darling,” Cami says politely to the waiter. She gives him a smile, which he returns with unnecessary enthusiasm.

My fist tightens under the table. If it weren’t for that fucking smirk of his, I wouldn’t have cared to even notice the little bastard. But as it is, I take note of his light brown hair and his dark brown eyes.

“Leave us,” I snap when he lingers longer than he needs to. “Now.”

He nods and scurries off. Cami watches him go. Then her gaze snaps to me immediately. “You don’t have to be so damn rude.”

“Was I being rude?” I ask, feigning innocence. “I didn’t notice.”

“Hmph.” She picks up her spoon without invitation and ladles it into her mouth.

Watching her eat continues to be a strangely sensual experience. The way her mouth moves, the way her tongue washes over her lips just after swallowing…

My cock stiffens more. It’s damn near painful at this point.

“You’re not hungry?” she asks, breaking the little fantasy that’s starting to take shape in my head.

“I could eat,” I reply coolly. But I don’t divulge the details about what exactly I’d like to eat right now.

Focus, Isaak, I counsel myself. I have a motive for the evening. I can’t let the little kiska tempt me off-track.

“So what did you tell your sister?” I ask.

“That the man who landed me in the Witness Protection Program six years ago was back in my life and determined to ruin the rest of it.”

I laugh. “I bet that was comforting for her to hear.”

“Does nothing faze you?” she demands, abandoning her spoon in her bowl of bisque.

“No,” I answer. “Not anymore.”

“You know,” she remarks, “I actually believe that.” Her voice is soft, mystified. She’s trying to figure me out.

Good fucking luck with that.

“I didn’t tell her that you forced me into getting married,” she adds suddenly.

I raise my eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Honestly? Because I don’t think it’s important enough to mention, considering we’re not going to be married for much longer.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Don’t do that,” she snaps, leaning in. “You promised me.”

I take another sip of wine. “What exactly did I promise?”

“That you would let me have my freedom if I compromised with you,” she says. “I assume that meant you would annul this farce of a marriage and give me my life back.”

“Give you your life back?” I say sharply. “How much of a life could it have been if you thought marrying my fucking cousin was the answer to your problems?”

The words have more of an impact than I anticipated. She recoils as though I’ve pushed her against her chair. Her eyes widen and her body seems to quiver for a moment. It takes her several more seconds to regain mastery of her expression.

“You don’t know anything about my life,” she hisses. “Or about why I agreed to marry Maxim.”

We’re exactly where I want to be. This is the road I wanted to walk down with her.

But now that we’re here, I’m not fucking happy.

“So tell me then,” I challenge. “Why did agree to marry him?”

She stares at me, breathing heavily. Her chest rises and falls heatedly. It’s very fucking distracting. And it makes me speak without thinking.

“Was it just because he asked?”

Her eyes flash with heat, and just like that, we’re transported back six years ago. To another restaurant an ocean away, when I asked her why she let some appalling douchebag take her on a date and she said, Because he asked.

I shouldn’t have used that confession against her. She’d shared it with me in good faith.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Camila—”

“Stop saying my name like you know me!”

She turns her face back towards the Thames. I realize she’s trying desperately to maintain her sense of composure, when in reality, she just wants to scream.

When a long beat has passed, I tap her bowl with my spoon. “You should eat. It’s getting cold.”

Her eyes snap back to my face. “Do you never apologize?” she demands.

“Not as a general rule, no.”

“Apologizing doesn’t make you less of a man, you know. I know that was probably one of the ‘lessons’ your father taught you, but it was the wrong one to teach.”

I almost laugh out loud. Her eyes are blazing, her hair is an untamed waterfall cascading over her shoulders, and the snarl on her face is enough to pressure a weaker man into silence.

She’s something else entirely. Something I’ve never quite encountered before.

“Why the hell are you smiling right now?” she presses. “Is something funny?”