11. Rowan
11
ROWAN
I f I thought it was impossible to concentrate on the things I’m supposed to be focusing on before, I had no idea how much harder it would be while I wait to find out if Genevieve will accept my proposal.
Letting her leave my penthouse felt like a punishment. I watched her go, cautioning Rory that if anything happened to her I’d have his fucking head, and then went back up to my penthouse to pace and try not to think about how badly I wanted her to stay. How the way I feel, as if a hand is squeezing my chest until I can’t breathe, desire thrumming through me until I feel hot and agitated with it, is in direct opposition to the clinical business arrangement of a marriage that I proposed to her.
It’s temporary. It has to be. There’s never been a woman who could hold my attention for more than a few nights. Genevieve has captivated me like no other woman ever has, but still—it won’t last forever. The marriage I’ve proposed will give us both what we want and need—I’ll get to have her until she’s well and truly out of my system, and she’ll get the support she needs while she’s figuring out what to do next with her life.
And, best of all, the marriage will be temporary. Any of the women that I might meet at a gala or party or other function, or some other boss’s daughter—like, god forbid, Estella Gallo—would expect forever . Just thinking the word makes me feel itchy, jittery, as if I’m being caged just by the thought of it.
Permanence has never been for me. The commitment of taking over the mantle of boss for the Irish mafia here in New York has been difficult enough to accept—the fact that my life will never quite have the freedom that it used to. The thought of a real marriage makes me feel like I’m fucking drowning.
Even marriage to Genevieve. Because surely, surely once I’ve had her, I won’t feel the way I do now.
Like it’s taking everything in me not to go after her and drag her back to my penthouse until she tells me yes or no .
That feeling persists through the next day, as I sit through meetings with my father and try to go over business reports without checking my phone every few minutes. He tells me fifteen minutes into the morning meeting that he needs me to meet a new potential business partner for dinner tonight, and it’s all I can do to nod and say yes. He can’t go—of course he can’t. He’s in no physical shape, at this point, to go wine and dine a future business interest. I can see in his eyes how frustrated he is that he can’t go, that he’s been reduced to handing these duties over to his son, but I can’t quite drum up the sympathy that I know I probably should.
I’m here. I came back when I was ordered to. I’m doing as I’m told, asking ‘how high’ every time my father says ‘jump’ since the moment I stepped off the private jet. I’m doing my duty, even if I wonder sometimes if it will suffocate me. So I can’t feel overly sorry that my father can no longer carry out the duties that he summoned me back to handle.
The dinner is hard to focus on, though. The man I’m meeting with is the owner of a string of dance clubs that my father wants to invest in—a legal venue for our more illegal ventures. Plenty of things can be moved through a club if the owner is on board—drugs, weapons. I have experience handling the latter, back when I handled our businesses in Ireland. The former, I have very little experience with, but all that really matters is that I make a deal with the man sitting across from me at the table, cutting into his bloody steak as I resist the urge to pull out my phone and check to see if Genevieve has texted me.
“—we can use the services of one of the local motorcycle gangs, move additional product that way,” the man across from me is saying, just as I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I know I should ignore it, but instead I surreptitiously slide it loose, glancing at the screen.
My chest tightens when I see Genevieve’s name.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, standing so abruptly that I almost knock into the table. “I need to take this. I’ll be right back.”
A look of startled irritation crosses my dinner partner’s face, but he doesn’t say anything to the contrary. One of the perks of my job , I think, as I quickly answer the phone, striding toward the door of the restaurant.
“Hello there, taibhseach ,” I murmur as I step outside into the warm summer night. “I’ve been hoping I’d hear from you.”
Genevieve snorts lightly on the other end. “I’m sure. I thought you’d want my answer, once I made up my mind.”
My heart trips in my chest. I almost tell her to wait, because if her answer is no , I’m not sure I want to hear it. I can’t fathom how I’m going to exorcise her from the spot she’s taken up in my thoughts, a constant presence—if she refuses me.
“Of course,” I manage to say coolly, as if it doesn’t matter to me at all. As if this is, like I told her, just a business matter. “I’m glad you called.”
“Yes, Rowan.”
It takes me a moment to realize what she’s just said. I was braced for a no , readying myself for the moment when I’d have to accept that I need to well and truly get over this woman who has become an obsession to a near-worrying degree. But instead?—
“Yes?” I repeat it, unsure if I heard her correctly, and I hear Genevieve laugh softly on the other end. It’s a sound that I want to hear again. I want to be the reason she makes it.
“Yes. I’m saying yes to your proposal, Rowan. We’ll need to work out the details, make sure that we agree on the terms—and we haven’t agreed on much so far,” she adds drily. “But my answer is yes.”
Desire floods through me, until everything else is forgotten. I’ve forgotten about my dinner, about the business deal waiting for me inside, about everything except the sound of Genevieve’s voice saying yes , and everything that means.
A feeling of victory trickles through my veins, mingled with anticipation, and I swallow hard, my mind spinning with possibilities. Genevieve is speaking on the other end of the phone—something about contracts and witnesses and timing, but all I hear is that one word, again and again.
Yes.
—
Our engagement party is a week later. The moment I told my father that I’d met someone I was willing to marry, he insisted that we move forward with it all as quickly as possible. He played it off as just good business, to make sure that everything is settled, but I saw a flicker of fear on his face for the first time. It humanized him in a way that I’ve never seen before—that moment where I saw him thinking about just how short his time might be. I argued that it could wait, maybe until Genevieve’s foot was healed and she could dance at least a little at her own engagement party, but he insisted that the party should happen as soon as possible, and that the contract should be signed sooner than that—within twenty-four hours of her agreeing.
That resulted in me meeting with her in a public place at her insistence, the contract between us as if we were discussing a merger over coffee and not our future—if temporary—marriage. She made notes on every piece of it that she disagreed with—everything from the final amount she would be paid out to the length of time that our marriage would encompass the physical aspect of it—and added a clause to the end:
Neither party shall engage in any form of romantic or sexual contact with another person while the marriage is in effect.
I look at the sentence, written in her elegant, looping script, and chuckle. “So you’ll come to my bed for a week and no more, but you expect me to be celibate after?” The truth is that I can’t imagine wanting any woman but Genevieve right now—but that’s now , with her sitting across from me, the sun glinting off her dark hair and her eyes glinting with mischief at me. Once I’ve had my fill of her, or at least as much as she’ll allow—I’ll want my freedom. I can’t imagine that I won’t; it’s how I’ve been my whole life. This one woman isn’t going to change that.
“A week is enough for a honeymoon,” she says delicately. “After that, my obligations are ended.”
“Ah, lass.” I draw in a breath through my teeth. “Nothing gets me harder than you referring to our marriage bed as an obligation .”
Genevieve rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. We’re discussing a contract right now, Rowan. Not a seduction.”
“Could have fooled me.” My gaze drifts over her, taking in the V-neck white T-shirt she’s wearing, tucked into a black pencil skirt that made me dizzy when she walked in, seeing the way it hugged her hips and ass. She catches my gaze, and I look for some sign of heat in it, but if she feels anything for me like I do for her, she’s hiding it well. It bothers me a little, to see her so composed when I feel as if I’m on the verge of combusting, but it also feels like a challenge—to see if I can undo all that composure, all that elegance, once I finally have her in my bed.
And the piece of paper between us means that sooner rather than later, I will .
When the contract is finished, all that’s left is to sign it in front of witnesses. That involves a trip to St. Patrick’s and a meeting with myself, Genevieve, my father, and the priest, as well as my father’s two most trusted men to witness. I watch as Genevieve signs her name, noticing only the smallest tremor in her hand when she signs it. I take her hand as she sets down the pen, and she flinches ever so slightly, looking up at me as if my touch was the last thing she expected.
I draw a velvet box out of my jacket, opening it so that she can see what lies inside. Genevieve’s lips part in shock, and I speak before she can, so that there’s no chance of her surprise cluing my father in to the temporary nature of the private agreement between Genevieve and me.
“An engagement needs a ring, taibhseach ,” I murmur, stepping closer to her as I slip the ring out of the box. Since the night I met her, Genevieve’s style has always been simple and elegant, and I chose a ring that I thought would match that—a five-carat, flawless emerald-cut diamond on a thin gold band.
Her eyes widen as I slip it onto her finger. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers, and I smile, drawing her closer with my hand still wrapped around hers.
“Not as beautiful as you, milseán .” I have the sudden urge to lean in and kiss her, but I can feel both my father’s and the priest’s eyes on us, and it’s hardly the setting I want for our first kiss. As it is, I’ve been having trouble keeping my cock under control throughout this entire ordeal, since the moment Genevieve showed up in a body-hugging dark blue sheath dress that gave me a number of indecent thoughts. Rather than get an erection in church, I managed to spend most of my time looking anywhere but at her, but now she’s so close to me that I can smell the herbal, salty scent of her perfume. The sight of my ring on her finger, a tangible promise that soon she’ll be mine to do with as I like—if only for a brief time—is enough to almost undo all my hard-won control.
She leans in, the scent of her skin mingling with her perfume, making my head spin for the second time tonight. Her lips nearly brush my ear as she whispers in it, low enough for no one else to hear.
“That’s a really bad line, Rowan. But it sounds better in that accent of yours.”
She pulls back, and I want to grab her and kiss her, to find out for the first time what her mouth tastes like, what those plush lips feel like under mine. But instead, I take a step back, clearing my throat.
“Our engagement party is going to be Saturday night. Give me a list of who you want to invite, and I’ll see that it’s sent out.”
The four days until then feel like they drag infinitesimally, days filled with the minutiae of the family business that my father expects me to focus on now more than ever. It’s not until I’m in the grand ballroom of our family estate, watching with a drink in my hand as guests filter in, that I feel like I can breathe again when I see Rory approaching me.
“Her car pulled around out back,” he says when he reaches me. “I told her to wait, just like you said boss.”
I nod, setting my drink down on the bar and straightening my suit jacket. The last thing I want is Genevieve hobbling into the estate ballroom on her crutches in full view of everyone. I’m well aware of how her injury makes her feel, and regardless of how real our relationship is or isn’t, I’m not about to let her feel humiliated at her own engagement party.
I stride toward the back door, and see the waiting town car just outside. I see Alek Yashkov step out, dressed in dark gray suit pants and a dark red button-down with the sleeves rolled up. I have a feeling this is the most formal I’ll ever see him, based on what I’ve heard about the man—other than maybe his own wedding to Dahlia, who follows him out of the car. I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his knuckles as he touches the small of her back, her name inked into his skin in dark letters that stand out against the rose-pink silk of his wife’s evening gown.
The other passenger door opens, and I feel as if all the air has been sucked out of my lungs when I catch a glimpse of Genevieve.
She’s wearing a white evening gown, made of paper-thin silk that seems to float over and cling to every inch of her willowy body. The skirt is long, hiding most of her cast, with a slit up one side, showing off her uninjured leg. The dress itself is strapless, showing off her toned upper body and sharp bone structure, and the bodice has delicate cutouts winding across it—from beneath one breast to the side of her other hip—with soft white feathers fluttering across the illusion lace.
It’s a dress fit for a ballerina. Even I, with my limited knowledge of it, know that swanlike in its elegant beauty. I quickly step forward to offer her my arm, helping her up out of the car as she braces one crutch under her other arm and lets out a slow breath.
“I hate this,” she whispers softly, and the admission startles me. It’s the most vulnerable she’s ever been. She looks up at me, her dark eyes for a brief moment showing how tired she is, how sad. And then the look is gone in a fleeting moment, and her expression smooths into that carefully practiced expression that I’ve come to recognize.
“We’ll go straight to the table,” I murmur as we walk toward the back door. I see Alek and Dahlia curving around the other side of the house, following Rory back to the front entrance. “That way, fewer people will see you on crutches.”
Genevieve shoots me a grateful look. I see a hint of surprise there as well, as if she’s startled that I thought of it. A flash of anger burns through my gut at the thought of why she’s surprised, that the piece of shit she was with before didn’t bother to think of her comfort or happiness at all.
Our table is at the back, facing the others spread throughout the room, and I help her to her chair, not letting go of her arm until she sinks down into it as gracefully as she can manage. “I’ll bring you a drink,” I tell her, taking the crutch from her and slipping it under the table out of sight.
When I come back a few minutes later with a glass of champagne for her—and a whiskey and ginger for me—I see two other women standing at the table, talking to Genevieve. I think I recognize one of them from the party, one of the other ballerinas, and the other one looks like she is, too—she has the same tall, willowy, elegant build.
“—it all happened so fast,” I hear Genevieve say, in a light, almost breathy voice that I’ve never heard her use before. “After we met at the party, it was just a whirlwind. I know it’s a fast engagement, but once you know—” She lifts one shoulder elegantly. “I’ve never been a romantic, but Rowan changed all that. I’ve never been so in love.”
The women beam at her, smiling and laughing, and I stand there for a moment, looking at her and unsure how to feel. I know what she’s doing, of course—she can’t exactly tell the truth, that we’ve agreed to a marriage of convenience that will end as soon as my father passes and I’m no longer obliged to be married. But hearing her say it aloud, with such conviction in her voice, as if it were actually true, sends a stinging pain through me that I didn’t know I could feel—and that I can’t make sense of.
Why do I care if she spins stories about our supposed romance to her friends? I should be pleased. It’s smart, and it proves I made the right choice in picking her to be my temporary bride. She might not know all the ins and outs of this life she’s about to marry into, but she clearly knows enough to be aware that it wouldn’t be good for it to get out that our marriage is a ploy. That should be a relief.
Instead, I feel oddly hurt, listening to her wax romantic about something that doesn’t really exist.
I rejoin her a moment later, when her friends have walked away, and hand her the glass of champagne. She gives me a grateful look, her lips pressing together as if she wants to say something and isn’t.
“What is it?” I drop down into the chair next to her, taking a sip of my whiskey and ginger and relishing the burn in my throat.
“I think I made the right choice.”
She takes a sip of champagne, looking out over the large room clustered with guests—her friends and family friends and business associates—and for a moment I think she’s not going to elaborate. My gut tells me that it might be better if she didn’t. I don’t need anything to encourage the strange swirl of emotion running through me right now. But instead, like the fool that I’m beginning to believe she makes me, I ask anyway.
“What does that mean, taibhseach? ”
Genevieve looks at me, raising her glass to her lips, and I expect a flippant remark, or some other manner of deflection. But she seems more subdued tonight, more willing to be vulnerable with me. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s our engagement party, or the fact that I can tell her mood is tempered by her injury and lack of mobility, but she doesn’t have the usual fire that I’ve come to expect in our conversations.
“Just that I’ve gotten more consideration from you as your bride of convenience than I ever got from Chris as his actual girlfriend. More than I’ve gotten from any guy I’ve ever dated, actually.” She takes another sip of champagne. “Aren’t mafia guys supposed to be assholes? Broody and brutal and violent?”
I chuckle. “Is that your experience?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve spent time around Dimitri and Alek, since they’ve been married to Evelyn and Dahlia. Dimitri is—uptight. Cold. Focused. I suppose that’s the side of him I see, and not the one Evelyn sees, since I’ve heard plenty of gossip from her.” She lets out a small laugh, rolling her eyes. “And Alek is—he’s brutal. I know that. Dangerous. Dahlia loves it. I was there the night they met.”
“Really?” I look at her with interest. I know very little about the Yashkov brothers, since I’ve only just come back. Dimitri is more of my concern than Alek, since he’s the pakhan . But I’m fascinated simply by the fact that Genevieve is talking to me more than she has since we met.
Genevieve nods. “At Hush. It’s this super exclusive club. Chris has a membership there, and he let me use it, so I took Dahlia. Alek was there that night, and the moment they saw each other—” Her mouth tilts in a rueful half-smile. “I was never surprised that things went the way they did between them. The moment they met was magnetic. Explosive. I could see it, even if Dahlia couldn’t. She’s always liked those types of men, though. The dangerous, ill-advised kind.”
“And what kind of man do you like, taibhseach ?” I let a hint of flirtation into my voice, and Genevieve smirks at me.
“Ones that don’t get in my way. That doesn’t interfere with my plans for my life.”
I frown at her. “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”
She frowns right back. “My career was exciting. My life was exciting. I was fulfilled every day when I went to rehearsal, when I hit another goal, another success on the path that I planned for myself. Reckless, passionate love wasn’t what I was ever looking for.”
“And now?” The question comes out before I can stop it, even as I realize that it’s senseless to ask. It’s not what I’m looking for, either, so why would I even say it? Reckless passion, yes—I’ve always sought that out. But love ?
I’m not interested in that.
Genevieve opens her mouth as if to answer, but we’re interrupted before she can. At the table next to ours, my father pushes himself to his feet just long enough to lift a glass, tapping a spoon against it to silence the room. The guests all pause and turn toward our tables, and I look over at him, reaching for my glass in expectation of a toast.
“Thank you all for coming here tonight,” my father begins, his voice more raspy than it used to be, a bit weaker. He clears his throat and continues. “While I’m surprised at my son’s choice of bride—” A low hum of laughter passes through the room, and I press my lips together in annoyance. He didn’t push back against the idea of my marrying a ballerina without any connection to the families as much as I had thought, but I suspect that was only because of the timeline that we’re on. If he wasn’t staring down the dark path of his own mortality, I don’t think my engagement to Genevieve would have gone nearly as smoothly. As it is, I think he’s just pleased I’m marrying at all without argument.
“—I’m pleased to welcome Ms. Fournier into our family,” he continues. “I’m sure that they will both carry this family into a new generation and a new era, and I hope you all will be present to celebrate their marriage in just a few short weeks. Time is of the essence for me, unfortunately, and I’m pleased that my son has agreed to not only give me both a daughter-in-law but also ensure that there will be future children to carry on the Gallagher name, so that I can rest easy.” He raises his glass, his gaze drifting to me with a pointed look. “To my son, to his new bride, and to the grandson to come! After all,” he adds jovially, though his gaze never leaves mine, “his inheritance depends on it, aye?”
A happy murmur passes through the room, glasses clinking, but I can feel that Genevieve has gone very still next to me. I can feel a chill worming its way down my spine as my father smiles at me, tilting his glass in my direction as he sinks back into his chair.
Slowly, Genevieve turns toward me, her face as smooth and expressionless as a sheet of ice.
“What the fuck was he talking about?”