The Kiss Thief(12)
Now I was fully awake, my back pressing against the headboard.
“You want me to apologize to you?”
He smoothed the soft fabric of the pressed linen, taking his time to answer me.
“Shame your parents are set in their wish to keep you an obedient little housewife. You have a natural, fast grip on things.”
“You’re a fool if you think I’m just going to accept you as a husband.” I folded my arms over my chest.
Wolfe considered my words gravely, his fingers traveling near my ankle but not quite touching it. I’d kick him if I didn’t think he’d enjoy my anger even more.
“The notion that you can touch me or what’s mine in any way, other than sucking my cock whenever I’m generous enough to allow it, amuses me. Why don’t we get to know each other over dinner tonight before you make any more declarations you can’t back up? There are some house rules you need to obey.”
Lord, I wanted to hurt him so badly it burned at my fingertips.
“Why? Because I’d rather eat rotten fruit and drink sewer water than have a meal with you,” I snarled.
“Very well.” He produced something from behind his back. A simple white calendar. He reached over and placed it on the nightstand next to me. It was a nice touch, after giving me the watch that felt more like a shackle than a gift.
When he spoke, he looked at the calendar, not me.
“It takes twenty-one days to form a habit. I recommend you make me a pattern of sorts. Because come August twenty-second,” he announced, rising up from the bed, “you will be standing at the altar, promising me the rest of your days. A promise I intend to take seriously. You’re a collected debt, a retaliation, and, quite frankly, pretty decent arm candy. Good night, Miss Rossi.” He turned around and sauntered toward the door, kicking aside the curtain on his way out.
A short hour later, Ms. Sterling arrived with a silver tray containing squashed, rotten-looking fruit, and a glass of water that was freakishly gray. She stared at me with crushing misery that made her already wrinkled face appear even older.
There was an apology in those eyes.
I didn’t accept it or the food.
FUCK.
Shit.
Cocksucker.
Asshole.
Clusterfuck.
Nutsackdouchebagbuttfuck.
Those were just some of the words I could no longer allow myself to utter, in public or otherwise, as a senator representing the state of Illinois. Serving my state—my country—was my only real passion. The problem was, my real upbringing was quite different from the one portrayed in the media. In my mind, I cussed. A lot.
And I especially wanted to swear right now when my bride had exasperated me to no end.
Eyes the color of crushed wildflowers and glossy, chestnut tresses so soft they were practically begging for a fist to wrap around them and pull.
Chicago’s elite fell to their knees at Francesca Rossi’s beauty from the moment she set foot in Chicago a year ago, and for once in their miserable lives, the hype they created wasn’t completely unwarranted.
Unfortunately for me, my bride-to-be was also a spoiled, na?ve, overpampered kid with an ego the size of Connecticut and zero desire to do anything that did not include horseback riding, sulking, and—this one’s a wild, albeit educated, guess—popping out fair-eyed, just-as-entitled kids.
Fortunately for her, my bride-to-be was going to get exactly the kind of cushioned life she’d been designed to lead by her parents. Right after the wedding, I intended to shove her into a glitzy mansion on the other side of town, pad her wallet with credit cards and cash, and check in on her only when I’d need her to attend a public function with me or when I needed to tug on her father’s leash. Offspring were out of the question, although, depending on her level of cooperation, which, right now, could use much improvement, she was welcome to have some through a sperm donor.
Not me.
Sterling reported back that Francesca hadn’t touched her dirty water and crushed fruit and made no move to eat the breakfast that had been ushered to her room this morning. I wasn’t worried. The teenybopper would eat when her discomfort turned into pain.
I leaned against the Theodore Alexander executive desk in my study, hands shoved deep inside my pockets, and watched as Governor Bishop and the police commissioner of Chicago’s Police Department, Felix White, verbally sparred for twenty mind-numbing minutes.
The weekend I’d found myself engaged to Francesca Rossi on a whim also marked the bloodiest weekend on the streets of Chicago since the mid-eighties. Another reason my marriage was essential for the survival of this city. Bishop and veteran cop White both circled around the fact that Arthur Rossi was to blame, directly and indirectly, for each of the twenty-three murders between Friday and Sunday. Though neither of them said his name.
“A penny for your thoughts, Senator.” White sat back in his leather chair, tossing a penny between his thumb and index toward me. I let it drop on the floor, my gaze fixed on him.
“Funny you should mention money. That’s exactly what you need to fight the rising crime rate.”
“Meaning?”
“Arthur Rossi.”
Bishop and White swapped uneasy expressions, their faces turning a nice shade of gray. I released a chuckle. I’d take care of Arthur myself, but I needed to do it gradually. I’d just taken his most prized possession. Easing him into the new situation was essential in order to crush him in the long run.