The Unwanted Wife (Unwanted #1)(16)

“Would you have been interested if I’d told you?” He was honest enough to avert his eyes at the question and remained silent in response to it.

“How many of these have you sold?” He changed the subject, indicating her portfolio.

“None.” She shrugged. “The only jewelry in that portfolio that I don’t still have is the set I made for Rick, and even those were just a favor.”

“But why keep them hidden?”

“They’re not good enough. Just a silly hobby, a complete waste of my time, really. I couldn’t compete with the real designers out there anyway.”

“It’s uncanny, I hear your voice, but it’s like listening to your father speak. He told you that you weren’t good enough, didn’t he? And you believed him?” He seemed uncharacteristically furious about that.

“No…yes…no. Look, I know that I’m not good enough. I have received no formal training. I printed stuff off the Internet, did a bit of reading, and started experimenting. I’m the only one who ever wears these, and then only around the house!”

“I think that you should have Rick’s brother, Bryce, or his partner Pierre de Coursey have a look at these.” She fidgeted slightly, not entirely sure what to make of his sudden interest and praise.

“I wouldn’t want to waste their time; they’re busy men.” Palmer and de Coursey co-owned one of the most exclusive jewelry companies in the world.

“I hardly think you’d be wasting their—”

“Look, Sandro, just drop it, please,” she interrupted harshly, and his eyes snapped up to her strained face. His own expression remained impassive, and he shrugged before slowly closing the portfolio and placing it back on her desk.

“Suit yourself,” he muttered before continuing his amble around the room. She watched as he picked things up, inspected, and replaced them. She remained seated, swiveling her desk chair ever so often to keep him within sight. He eventually stopped his restless pacing to come to a standstill directly in front of her. She lowered her eyes to his expensive size 11 Italian loafers and fidgeted with the pencil that she had picked up again.

She nearly leaped out of her skin and dropped the pencil with a muffled yelp when he captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger to gently tilt her face up until she raised her vulnerable gaze to his unfathomable chocolate brown eyes. He let go of her chin to stroke the back of his hand down her soft cheek, and she tried her best not to cringe from his touch. She wasn’t quite successful in masking her reaction, because his eyes iced over and his hand dropped heavily back to his side.


“What other secrets are you keeping from me, I wonder?” he mused beneath his breath.

“I have no secrets,” she responded.

“What would you call this?” He indicated the room with a sweeping gesture, and she laughed but there was absolutely no humor in the harsh and abrasive sound.

“This was hardly a secret.” She shook her head bitterly. “If you’d come up here at any time over the past year and a half, you would have known about this. I never lock the door, so you were free to enter at any time.”

“Why would I have had any reason to come up here?” he asked in his most maddeningly pragmatic voice. “It’s hardly the most logical place for a workshop.”

“It’s also the one place I spend most of my time, so of course you’ve never bothered to come up here,” she responded sarcastically. “You’ve never willingly sought me out before, Sandro, and I believe that the only reason you’re doing so now is because things aren’t going according to whatever master plan you have devised for this so-called marriage of ours. Pretending an interest in me is your latest way of trying to keep me compliant, isn’t it?”

“Stop trying to second-guess me, cara,” he reproved gently. “You have no idea what makes me tick or what’s going on in my head.”

“Oh, I think I could definitely say the same about you. In fact I think I know you a lot better than you do me!”

“I doubt that,” he dismissed, dropping his hands into the trouser pockets of his expensive tailor-made suit and half reclining against her work table. He crossed one long leg over the other in a pose of sartorial, casual elegance.

“Fine.” She tilted her head as she ran a contemptuous look over him. “How do I take my coffee?” He frowned at the question before shrugging.

“Black,” he stated with the utmost authority.

“No, you take yours black, I don’t drink coffee.”

“This is pointless,” he dismissed. “And juvenile.”

“Everything about me, or to do with me, is pointless to you,” she observed bitterly.

“That’s hardly—” he began, but she interrupted him again, barely able to credit her own daring. She had never once stood up to him this way, but she was done being a doormat. Just because she was temporarily trapped in this marriage did not mean that she would to allow him to walk all over her anymore.

“Everything except my womb of course.” She laughed half-hysterically. “You have a lot of use for that! That’s all I am to you, a womb on legs!”

“You’re being ridiculous and completely melodramatic,” he derided.

“What about my birthday?” she asked suddenly, still ignoring him. “When’s my birthday?” His jaw clenched and he remained mute, keeping his eyes glued to hers.