Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (40)

“You never answered the question,” I say, diverting the conversation. “Why’d you agree to marry Maxim? He’s not your type.”

“Oh and you know what my type is, do you?”

“I don’t think my answer is going to satisfy you.”

She groans in frustration, and pulls her head back for a moment, exposing her neck to me. Goddammit, what is it with this woman? I’ve never found so many random parts of a woman’s body so damn attractive.

“He was charming, okay?” she huffs eventually. “He was nice, generous, confident and… and…”

“Are you describing a fiancé or your mailman?”

She bristles again. “What do you want me to say?”

“Something that is personal.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry my answers aren’t satisfying enough for you, but—”

“Do you love him?” I interrupt bluntly.

She stops short as though I’ve just asked her an incredibly invasive question. I suppose I have.

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“It’s extremely personal.”

“And extremely straightforward. Do you love the man you promised to marry, or don’t you?”

“Why do you even care?” she demands. “What’s the point of the Twenty Questions bullshit?”

“I’m just curious, like I said.”

“How I feel about Alex—”

“Maxim.”

“—is not your concern.”

“Did you tell him that you were in the Witness Protection Program?”

“According to you, he already knew.”

“But you didn’t know he knew. Did you trust him with your secret?”

“Yes… eventually.”

I’m disappointed in that, and I don’t fucking know why. “So you did trust him.”

“He deserved to know. At least, I thought he did at the same. So yes, I trusted him with that part of my life.”

“And did he trust you with his life?”

“He was busy a lot. Meetings and business trips… It wasn’t like I sat in on—” She cuts off abruptly, her eyes going wide with realization. “Oh my God.” She slams her hand down on the table. “Oh my God, that’s what this is about. You want information from me. I am so fucking stupid. You just—”

She’s forced to stop when the waiters return right then with our next course. We stare at each other silently while they clear away our half-eaten bisques and replace them with braised lamb shank atop roast potatoes and caramelized onions.

The moment they back away, she picks up right where she left off.

“I should have known. I should have freaking known! He wanted to marry me to stick it to you. And you married me to stick it to him. Of course this dinner wasn’t a peace offering. It was a fucking manipulation.”

I’m not going to insult her intelligence by pretending it wasn’t. But I can admit to myself at least that that’s not all it was.

Not that she’ll ever believe me—which is why I stay silent.

She’s not done. “First of all, if Alex is really who you say he is, then I never really knew him at all, did I? He was putting on a show. He was playing a character. So even if I am willing to give you information on him, how can you be certain any of it is legitimate?”

“I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

“Right, of course,” she says, throwing her hands up. “I forgot. You’re a god amongst mortals. You have no weaknesses. You’re the man with a plan.”

“It pays to be prepared,” I tell her. “I was caught off guard once six years ago, and I promised myself I’d never be taken unaware again. But,” I add, leaning in close, “I needed Maxim to feel what I felt the night he took you. I wanted him to hurt.”

She shakes her head. “You’re assuming he loves me.”

“You don’t believe he does?”

“How can I anymore?” she counters. “He was just using me. And who’s to say I don’t deserve it?”

I frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Her cheeks flush and she shakes her head immediately. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”

But that’s the thing: I’ve never been able to forget a single thing she’s told me.

Six years later and I still remember every word.

She picks up her fork absentmindedly and starts stabbing her tender lamb shank. It falls apart easily, and she takes a disinterested bite.

“I know the last six years can’t have been easy on you,” I say.

She looks at me from beneath her eyelashes as she chews thoughtfully. I don’t think I’d be able to take my eyes off her breasts if her face wasn’t so fucking beautiful. She’s not wearing a stitch of makeup, and she looks all the more flawless for it.

“No,” she says softly. “They haven’t.”

“I didn’t want that for you. It was never my intention when I approached you that night.”

“What was your intention?” she asks.

“I told you already: I couldn’t walk away.”