Chapter 20
DANI
The officiant says the vows in Portuguese first, then English, for Dexter’s benefit.
His voice is steady, reverent, the words floating through the warm evening air but I barely hear them. My hands tremble slightly as I take Dexter’s hand and instinctively give a gentle squeeze, but he doesn’t squeeze back. Doesn’t offer comfort.
I convince myself that it’s fine as I recite my vows. But they feel real. Like I believe them. Like I mean every word. When it’s Dexter’s turn, he delivers his lines effortlessly.
Like a man closing a business deal.
“I do.” The words mean nothing to him.
But when he slides the ring onto my finger, something feels different. I see it on his face. A glimmer of uncertainty. Or maybe a realization, confirmation, even, that he doesn’t want to do this.
Something about the sight of my hand wearing his ring unsettles him. It’s so clear to me, but thankfully, no one will notice.
What are we doing?
I press my lips together, trying to compose myself. Trying to forget the lies and deceit of this moment that binds us together as husband and wife. A few seconds later, just as my thoughts run rampant, the officiant announces us husband and wife. Dexter takes both my hands in his, and we stare at one another.
Smile, I tell myself, because this still feels strange. I’m about to turn around to face our guests and get ready to walk back down the aisle, but Dexter doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward, his hand cupping my jaw, his fingers firm but measured. Then he tilts my face up to his and kisses me.
It’s controlled. Precise. A kiss designed to convince the audience. More than a press of the lips, but otherwise emotionless.
Nothing like the other kiss.
The one filled with heat, and passion.
The one that seared my soul and imprinted his lips on my mouth, his hands on my face.
This is a plain and emotionless kiss to solidify the farce. I feel somehow … cheated . And disappointed. As if the suppressed longing in my heart has been kicked back. He pulls away quickly and takes my hand as we turn to face our guests. Then we walk back down the aisle as husband and wife.
It’s my fault, for expecting something when there is nothing. For foolishly believing we could be the couple we were at the bar.
Dexter has shown me who he is and I have to forget that other man—the one who opened up to me and kissed me like I’ve never been kissed before. That evening he was simply playing a part for Raquel, and I should never forget that.
As we walk down the aisle, my fingers grip his arm lightly, as if I dare not encroach his personal space. I glance at him but he’s looking at his family. A heaviness settles over me as I imagine what they must be thinking.
Playing the part of Dexter Knight’s wife isn’t going to be easy.
***
Our wedding reception is about to start in the large tent that has been set up in the grounds.
It’s draped in soft white and gold fabrics and chandeliers are strung across the ceiling, their warm twinkling lights glistening in mid-air. The night sky is a deep indigo, dusted with stars and streaked with the brushstrokes of sunset-lavender and gold.
Earlier, immediately after the wedding, as the champagne was being poured, and canapés were passed on silver trays, Dexter and I quietly slipped away to a private room for the civil signing. A registrar was waiting to handle the paperwork. We gave our signatures, but the ceremony was cold, emotionless, brief. In that moment, the transactional nature of our marriage became so clear to me.
I felt sad and alone, as we walked back to join the guests. I noticed a couple of photographers snapping photos of us, no doubt for leaking to the press.
We were hand in hand, but I quickly realized this was just for show. We mingled with our guests, drifting through the garden, sipping and laughing beneath the late-afternoon sun, the sound of clinking glasses and soft Brazilian jazz floating through the air, but I couldn’t shake my melancholy.
Now the air is thick with the scent of jasmine and night-blooming flowers, and the rich aroma of Brazilian cuisine served on silver platters.
Dexter and I take our seats at the high table adorned with flowers and candles, our chairs larger and more elaborately dressed than the guests’ chair, resembling thrones. To everyone watching, this is a stunning, extravagant wedding. The merging of two powerful families. A cause for celebration.
In reality this couldn’t be further from the truth. This wedding, and our marriage, is like a landmine. Everything looks normal and calm, until one day I’ll step on something that blows up in my face.
The live band begins to play a soft, romantic samba, the melody floating through the air as our first dance is announced. My stomach twists at the sound of our names. I glance at my husband. How strange that word feels on my tongue. Dexter downs the rest of his scotch, setting the glass down with slow, practiced ease before turning to me.
Then, he extends his hand and the moment I place my palm in his, a shiver runs through me.
Not from nerves.
From him.
“Shall we dance?” he asks, his eyes suddenly soft and caring. The aloofness from earlier has vanished. It seems like he’s embracing this role with renewed vigor.
“Must we?” I whisper.
He leans towards me. “We need to convince our guests, Daniela.”
I’m tired, and my guard is down. This has been a long day and it has sapped all my energy. But his voice, low and close, and like a whisper to my heart, makes my spine tingle. It’s not a command, or a suggestion. It’s something darker, protective, and for me, it’s dangerous.
“Okay. Maybe we should.” I give in. We stand up and his hand glides around my waist, broad, warm, ridiculously steady. He guides me onto the open space beneath the chandeliers. The music swells. It’s Brazilian, and universal at the same time. Romantic and intimate with soft sultry vibes. Perfect for small steps and bodies flushed close together.
His grip is light but firm, his movements smooth, practiced. Dexter doesn’t strike me as a man who dances, so I am apprehensive at how we will be on our first dance together. Showing our duped audience that we are husband and wife so madly in love.
But when his arm tightens around me and he pulls me close against his chest, it reminds me of how real things feel between us sometimes. How dangerous that is, for my sanity.
“Relax,” he murmurs, almost against my temple. “Just follow my lead.”
He changes character so quickly and easily, it’s frightening. “You’re leading?”
“Yes, wife.” Smoldering dark eyes meet mine, glittering with promise. What will the night bring? My parents have given us a private suite nearby for our wedding night. I’ve tried not to think about it but the night will draw to a close, in not too many hours from now.
Dexter moves slowly, but deliberately. His steps aren’t polished but his confidence carries him. We sway to the music, slowly, eyes locked, bodies pressed. Heat building between us.
I’m acutely aware of everything. His hand resting on the small of my back. His jaw brushing mine when he turns his head. I feel dazed and dizzy. Drunk on the idea of love. Because Dexter is a very good actor. For someone who was so against this, this man has mastered the art of playing a loving husband.
We’re meant to be playing a role but this feels so real.
I’m not supposed to feel anything, and yet, I do. I let myself sink into the moment, loving the way Dexter’s hand moves along the curve of my back. The way his breath ghosts against my cheek as he leans closer, causing shivers to skitter along my skin.
To our watching guests, we look perfect. It even feels real to me, despite what this is—an alliance. Not for love, but for business.
How well we deceive everyone.
I look up at him, searching for something, needing to find something real. Confirmation that he feels what I’m feeling. Electricity zapping along my skin, turning my insides light and giddy.
His hand tightens when I move my fingers to his shoulder. Not possessive, but aware. Like he’s noting every breath I take. Every tremor I’m trying to suppress.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.
“So are you,” I whisper back, averting my eyes. Trying to steady my heart, slow down my pulse. I can’t. I feel Dexter around me. Like he’s a part of me now. Potent and powerful.
The moment fills with silence, and everything we’re trying not to say.
“I didn’t expect this part to be hard,” he mutters.
“What part?” I glance up, my eyes catching his just long enough to lose my footing emotionally.
He holds my gaze. “The pretending.”
My breath catches. Just slightly. Hope rises from the base of my belly. He gently swipes his thumb across the fabric of my waist. It’s a subtle movement, and no one will notice. But I feel it like it burns. Like he’s branded me, just with this subtle, imperceptible movement.
“You’re quite good at this,” he murmurs, his voice low, just for me.
My fingers tighten slightly where they rest on his shoulder. “I could say the same for you,” I whisper back. “I didn’t have you down for a dancing type.”
“I’m not.” His mouth tilts, but his eyes stay serious. “You make this easy.”
My heart flips in my chest. I’m in danger of having feelings for my husband. But I can’t admit it.
Not here.
Maybe not ever.
He dips his head, his breath hot against my ear. When his lips brush my skin, shivers prickle across my neck. “I meant … you’re good at keeping up the pretense.”
My heart sinks. He pulls away and spins me out. The cold blade of disappointment sinks into me. Then he pulls me back in, closer this time. Too close, and our chests nearly touch.
“It’s easy to pretend.” I remain defiant, but say it with a smile, even though inside I’m hurting. I hope I have the strength to get through this night, and all the other nights. Three hundred and sixty-five of them.
“Our first dance, amor. The first of many things.” His fingers press lightly against the small of my back.
I let out a gasp. His touch makes my body react in ways that feel dangerous. Like I could give into anything he demanded, if he so wanted it. I look around, trying to focus anywhere but on my husband’s handsome face.
I see Paul Knight, sitting at the table, surrounded by his sons. He watches the dance like a king surveying his empire. I’m sure he sees this as a victory, and then I remind myself that this is a victory for my father. A way for him to be well again, to have hope again, to have the business regain its previous status.
Cari smiles at me, and I sense that she feels for me. Maybe, with her woman’s intuition, she sees through the way I look at Dexter, the way I’m trying not to look at him, but can’t help it.
She’s probably been where I am, with a man who seems unreachable, hoping for something real. I smile back. We’ve barely exchanged many words, but I make a note to seek her out when I move to New York. I’ll need my allies there, when I’m living with Dexter.
Damn that evening when we went out for drinks. If he’d been the same person I met at the soiree, I would handle this better. I wouldn’t have had a peek into who he can be when he allows himself to open up and be vulnerable.
I venture a glance at him, to find his eyes on me. My heart jumps with joy, and gratitude, at the look he gives me. I remember him telling me he wasn’t interested in this alliance, that he wanted no part of it, but this look? This look says otherwise.
“Don’t stare at them.” He leans in again, and this time he nips my earlobe gently. My eyes widen in shock. A line of shock touches my breast, reaches between my legs. Leaves me wanting him.
“You bit me.”
“Wife, you’re so tempting.”
What is it with the wife?
He’s obviously loving the label, but I wonder if he’s playing with me again? We’re supposed to convince our guests, but now he’s taking it too far.
“Look at me, meu amor,” he orders. “Look at me like you want to kiss me again.”
My heart jolts, because of his term of endearment, and the way he says it and the way he looks at me. I can’t help but stare at his lips, thick and plump, and perfect for kissing. Lips too beautiful for a man. Lips that fit over mine so perfectly. Like they were made for that sole reason.
“You want it again, don’t you, Gatinha?”
Gatinha. Little kitten.
I let out a gasp, impressed, and excited. On edge. “You’ve been reading your tourist phrase book. I am impressed.”
“For you, meu amor. Anything.”
I look at him in confusion. He’s talking way more intimately than he needs to be. He doesn’t need to remind me of that kiss, or say these things to me, when we could just dance and be silent, and play the game.
We continue dancing and swaying, and keeping up the pretense but with every passing second it becomes harder to remember that this is merely an alliance,
I’m not sure why he’s doing this, going overboard and playing with my emotions.
“Careful, Dexter.” I crane my neck up at him and whisper directly into his ear. “Try not to get swept up in the occasion. You need to walk away from this untouched.”
“What makes you think I won’t?” He holds my gaze for longer than he should, and I’m in danger of being the one who won’t be able to do what I’ve just told him.
When the song ends, our hands linger. Neither of us lets go first. But then he steps away first, his expression composed, like a blank canvas. The guests erupt into applause. We walk back to our table and take our seats, but when I lean back against my chair, needing to ground myself and take a breath, Dexter lifts my hand and kisses the back of it.
Cheers break out, and our guests look at us, expectantly.
They believe this.
Even though it’s only a kiss on my hand.
“We need to give them more, Gatinha.” Dexter twists towards me, and his eyes hold my gaze.
“Why am I your little kitten?” I ask, curious.
He leans closer, so that our faces almost touching. A charge of excitement skitters up my arms. “I like the way the word sounds on my tongue.”
“Not because I’m cute and fluffy?” I’m conscious of his hand still in mine, but now he’s stroking it with his thumb. Shockwaves of pleasure ripple out over my skin. I press my thighs together because I need to get control of my senses. Of the way my body reacts to him.
“Nothing cute and fluffy about you. You’re all curves but toned. Just the way I like.”
“Just the way you like,” I murmur seductively, because my fevered body is alive and wants more. More of him holding me, and touching me, and calling me Gatinha. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s the truth.”
I giggle, and he instinctively kisses the back of my hand again.
“I have claws, Dexter. Be careful,” I warn him, trying to maintain some distance because we seem to be hurtling towards one another at breakneck speed. If this continues, I’ll want more than just a sizzling kiss tonight.
“I am being careful, meu amor. I know exactly what this is.” He whispers the words close to my ear, so that no one will be able to lip read them. But his breath, and his nearness make me shiver. “Are you cold, or just naturally excited by my touch?” he asks, amused.
“Cold,” I lie.
“In this heat?” He glances at our guests, then turns to me again. “They want something more, Gatinha. We should give it to them.”
“Give them what, exactly?” I stare around in confusion, but he’s right. Our guests are looking at us.
“Lean in to me,” he orders, sending a charge of excitement through me.
What is this? Some sort of slow torture?
Naturally, I do as he says, and am about to ask another question when he cups the back of my neck and his fingers slide to my neck. My breath hitches at the touch of his palm. It both electrifies and grounds me. The air in my lungs empties. I feel like I’m on a ride at the carnival. Paused atop a tall rollercoaster. About to hurtle down at breakneck speed. Dexter leans in slowly, then pauses, his glittering dark eyes locked on mine, giving me a chance to pull away.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Then he kisses me.
It starts gentle at first. A mere press of his lips on mine. I prepare myself for the emotionally empty kiss earlier. But then his mouth claims mine, hot and firm, and his tongue meets me, dueling ferociously, like he can’t taste me fast enough.
I can’t get enough. He ravages me with a fire that surprises me. This time Dexter isn’t gentle or cautious. He’s like a man who’s been fighting the urge for too long. A man who is finally letting go.
My traitorous hand rises to his chest, fisting his shirt. Even if I wanted to resist, slow down, hold back my emotions, it’s impossible. I am irrevocably consumed by his lips, his tongue, his raw heat. His passion.
All that bottled up emotion pours out as we kiss hungrily. He angles his mouth, deepening the kiss while his other hand slides to my waist and he pulls me to him as if he can’t bear to have me apart.
The world around me blends into darkness, but I hear gasps. Cheers. The clink of glasses. It feels like everyone’s watching but I don’t care.
Nor does Dexter.
Suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a performance anymore. This is more than life imitating art.
I feel lost when Dexter moves away, breaking for air. His lips part slightly, and I feel his breath, hot and ragged, against my mouth. I only get a few seconds to recover, to breathe, before his tongue meets mine again in a slow, lazy stroke. My insides feel light and trippy. Liquid heat coils deep in my belly. My hands grip his shoulders, as I steady myself, anchoring to him, because my world is spinning out of control.
This kiss is a tell.
A confession.
It’s everything we don’t say but feel. The lust, the tension, the fear of wanting it all pours out of us in every moment our mouths remain melded together.
Dexter finally pulls back, a crack of light between us, his forehead pressing against mine. I feel his chest heaving, feel my lips hot, bruised, seared.
“Where are your claws now, Gatinha?”
“Still there,” I whisper, barely able to speak.
His eyes darken, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They feel like heaven.”
***
DEX
I don’t know why I suggested we kiss.
I do know.
I orchestrated that kiss, because I haven’t been able to stop thinking of her. I wanted her lips on mine, and that kiss at the altar wasn’t the time or place for reliving our first kiss.
But that kiss just now.
Un-fucking-believable.
Daniela blinks at me a few times. Our guests clap excitedly. But we don’t see them. Or look at them. We only have eyes for one another. I don’t even want to see what my brothers’ reactions are.
If she were a hookup, we’d have fun getting her out of that wedding dress tonight.
But she’s not a hookup.
She’s nothing of the sort.
And that type of relationship? That’s clearly not going to happen. But, at this rate, I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight, unless I take a cold shower or two. We can’t have the type of night that a kiss like this leads to.
We both lift our glasses and sip at the same time. Thankfully, dinner is served and I manage to distract myself. With the food slowly being served, the mood changes from celebratory to muted conversation. Daniela and I eat in silence as mindful servers tend to our every need.
After we’ve eaten, Daniela and I make small talk, commenting on how good the food is. We talk about the wedding, and the guests. She points out members of her extended family, her friends, and Raquel.
Family members and business moguls move between tables, discussing alliances, financial strategies, and what this marriage means for both families. The reception buzzes around us; champagne flutes clinking, conversations dipping between business deals and false pleasantries.
I should be paying attention to the spectacle, watching how my father networks and ingratiates himself with those he deems worthy. But I find myself watching Daniela as she talks to people who come up and congratulate us. Most of them are people she knows, as only the Knights came from our side, not our friends or business associates. I’m sure my father will have something planned for us when we return home, some PR stunt to celebrate the first Knight wedding.
When we return home.
My insides feel heavy when I think of what that will entail. Daniela will move into my apartment, my comfortable haven of security, my bachelor pad. I’ll have to share with her.
Only for seven months.
Maybe less.
The more time I spend with her, the more uncomfortable I get about continuing with this ruse. Watching her, I can’t help but admire her poise and her politeness, at her smiles and bubbly laughter as she converses easily with the guests, most of whom I don’t know.
I marvel at the way she takes my hand and introduces me to them, gushes about me, telling them how we met and how much she loves me and how she knew I was the one for her.
She’s an accomplished liar
And a beautiful one at that.
We’re sitting on our thrones again when her expression tightens. It’s so pronounced, that I sit up and take notice. A shadow falls over our table.
“Ah, Daniela.” The voice is rich, and practiced. Confident, but too familiar. I glance up, my fingers tightening around my champagne glass as a portly man and many years older invades our space like an insect that doesn’t belong.
He looks to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, silver hair slicked back, suit impeccable, posture dripping with entitlement. The kind of man who doesn’t hear ‘no’ very often.
I don’t know who the hell he is. But my wife does, and she stills beside me, her fingers curling into her lap.
Not a good sign.
“I was surprised to receive an invitation to your reception,” the man muses, not looking at me once, his gaze lingering on Daniela like he’s memorizing every inch of her. “I’m delighted to be here. I couldn’t miss it, of course. Such an important union.” He reaches for her hand and she gives it, reluctantly. I know her well enough to know this much. He lifts it toward his worm-like lips and kisses it. Too slow. Too long.
A beat passes. One second too many.
Daniela looks uncomfortable.
I don’t like it. I really don’t fucking like it. I lean towards her, possessively, taking her hand out of his, as if I own her. As if she’s mine. And she is. For now.
“That’s enough.” My eyes cut into the man’s face. My voice comes out sharper than I expect, cutting through the music and chatter.
He doesn’t react immediately, but looks at me, then, and just smiles, as if he’s enjoying himself, as if he knows something I don’t. “Oscar Ramos,” he says, giving me a sickly smile. “A pleasure, Mr. Knight. Congratulations are in order, I believe.”
I believe? I don’t shake his hand, or reply. Instead, I weave my fingers with Daniela’s, her hand secure in mine.
A flicker of amusement crosses his face as he stares at my wife again. “I see you’ve done well for yourself,” the man continues, his tone sweet as honey. “But then you were always full of surprises, Daniela.”
Her shoulders stiffen. There’s something in the way he says it. Something laced with meaning. A veiled threat, hidden beneath politeness. I lean forward slightly, keeping my voice measured, firm. “I don’t like the way you’re talking to my wife.”
The man’s lips curve, as if my words amuse him. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” His gaze flicks back to Daniela, slower than I like. “I only hope, my dear, that you got exactly what you wanted.”
Daniela’s jaw moves as she swallows. I feel her tension, and graze the fingers of my other hand lightly over her bare arms, a movement the slimy old snake observes pointedly.
“You’re cold, meu amor,” I say to her. She turns to me, her face flushed, but I feel her relief as her gaze melds with mine. She’s scared. Or nervous. Clearly, there’s more going on here than I know but I intend to find out.
The man steps back with a final nod, which I see from the periphery of my vision, even though my eyes are fixed firmly on Daniela. “A long and happy marriage to you both,” he says, but neither of us acknowledge him and he leaves as quickly as he arrived.
Daniela exhales. It’s quiet, barely noticeable. I watch the way her fingers press into her lap, the way she tries to wriggle her hand entwined with mine, the way her shoulders are still too tight, too tense.
“You know him.” It’s not a question. She nods, but doesn’t elaborate. I don’t like this. “Who is he?”
“No one important.” She clasps her hands in her lap.
Lie.
I tilt my head. “Try again.”
She hesitates, for a nano-second, before pasting on a bright, practiced smile.
“Let’s not do this now, Dexter.”
But she’s clearly rattled. I see it. I feel it. And I don’t fucking like it. I should let it go. Should remind myself that this isn’t real, that she’s just another piece of this game I’m playing against my father.
But something about the way she looked just now, nervous, guarded and vulnerable, burrows into my skin like an infestation. Something gnarly and unwanted that I need to root out.
And I realize something. I don’t want anyone making her feel like that.
Ever.
Not Oscar Ramos.
Not anyone.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. Her eyes moisten, and it hits me hard. Like a punch to my jaw. “Did he hurt you?” I hiss, under my breath. She gives a subtle nod, then looks down.
I reach for her face, my thumb stroking over her skin, and I feel something I haven’t in a long time; I feel possessive over a woman. A woman I care about. A woman I would die for and kill for.
A woman I barely know.