The Gamble

14. Raif

I glance up,the sky powder blue, not azure. The sun, not so unforgiving here.

“This way,” Lavender mutters. “Watch the gate,” she tacks on, slamming the wrought-iron frame back into the catch.

I open it without saying a word. Lavender is… not happy. That much is obvious. She says she’s hungover, but her bad mood didn’t occur until breakfast when I mentioned what had happened during the night. I’d woken in the dark to her body on top of mine, hard as a pole and panting as she’d rocked over me. A pleasant surprise until her heart-rending sob yanked me from my sleepy stupor.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she’d said when I’d pushed her on it.

“I woke up, and you were on top of me. We were about to fuck.”

“If I don’t remember, it mustn’t have been all that good.”

I didn’t say anything else. What was the point? She wasn’t going to explain. But the tremors that wracked her body kept me awake for some time afterward.

She’s not hungover, whatever she says. It could be that she’s embarrassed? For her dream, or what happened on the terrace last night?

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” she mutters.

“You mean Sunday lunch with the my new fam?” The opportunity was too good to miss. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Why are you being weird?”

“Why do you look like you’re going to a funeral?” She’s dressed for one, too.

She pivots and begins trudging along the crazy-paved garden path, bordered by colorful summer flowers. By stark contrast, Lavender is dressed from head to foot in black. Pants, T-shirt, sweater, jacket, boots. I happen to know even her panties are black.

We’d stopped by her flat on the way back from the airport so she could change. She didn’t ask me to leave the room, though she had turned from me as she’d stripped.

Maybe she decided I’d seen it all. Felt it, too. Even if she won’t speak about our late-night interlude.

Her face is pale as she swings her dark hair over her shoulder to consider me. “Says the man dressed like he’s on the way to watch his eight-year-old play soccer.”

But the sweep of her gaze contradicts her complaint.

“You’re such a ray of sunshine, wife.”

“No one is nice when they’re hungover,” she says with a glower. “And don’t call me that.”

“Sunshine?”

She growls.

“Oh, you mean wife? My wife?” I like the sound of that more than I should. “My hot as fuck wife,” I add, purely because she looks pissed.

“You suck.”

“But only if you ask nicely.” Before I know what I’m doing, I have my arm around her waist, and I’ve hauled her against an old sycamore tree. Our bodies are glued together, and her face is in my hands. “Tell me what happened in bed last night.”

“Nothing. I told you I don’t remember.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I dunno. Could it be because you’re the insecure, suspicious type?”

I say her name—say it like she’s driving me insane.

“Look, it was just a bad dream.”

My eyes on hers, I slide my thumbs over her cheeks. “Was it because of what happened on the terrace?” Are we moving too fast?

Her expression flickers, but she answers with an emphatic, “No. If you can go down on me, I can go down on you.”

“It’s not a competition, though you would probably win.” My hands slide away, and I straighten.

“A compliment?” She cocks a taunting brow.

“Only where they’re due.” I lightly touch her chin.

“Well, then you’re a good dancer.”

I smile—almost laugh. Such a prickly confessor, my wife.

“And I still think you were probably a lesbian in a former life.”

With a shake of my head, I give in to a deep chuckle.

“Come on, then,” she says, pushing from the tree. “We’d better get this over with.”

At the green-painted door with a large floral wreath, Lavender turns as she rests her foot on a Victorian-tiled step. “I hope you’re prepared for a shitstorm.”

“I thought it was every mother’s dream to see their daughter married well.”

“What century are you from?” She scoffs.

“You think she won’t like me?” That’s impossible once I turn on the charm.

“My mum has the detection skills of an MI5 operative. She’s never going to believe this is real.” Her gaze flicks down my body. “You’re just not my type.”

She turns back to the front door, and I snake my arm around her waist, pulling her ass against me. Her hair smells of coconut, and I could live off her tiny, involuntary gasp. “Out on the terrace yesterday, you convinced me otherwise.”

“Sex is—”

Ninety percent of my waking thoughts since Friday night. Tightening my grip, I scrape my teeth lightly down her neck. “Now convince them.”

I let go, step back, and watch her shoulders rise, then fall with her intake of breath.

“I suppose you’d better come in.” She turns the obnoxiously large brass handle, and the door swings open.

The scent of roasting lamb hits me immediately, undertones of garlic and lemon becoming clear as I follow her into a Morris Print-wallpapered hall. To the left, dark-stained stairs run upward, the newel post shining a kaleidoscope of colors, thanks to the sun beaming in through the stained glass skylight above the closing door.

The Whittington family home is delightfully middle-class. A Victorian semi-detached red brick on a leafy London street. It’s not what I was expecting for the family home of a fintech billionaire, but maybe Leif Whittington doesn’t share.

I find myself frowning as I watch Lavender pull the sleeve of her sweater down to her fingertips, hiding her ring. Like that’ll help.

“Lavender’s here!” A girlish voice precedes a girl whose head pops from a tall door to the right. A little younger than Lavender, her long ponytail slips over her shoulder, blond hair to Lavender’s dark. “And she’s brought someone.” The girl’s eyes flick over me, her disinterest clear.

Maybe all Whittington women like to play it cool. Or maybe it really is my age.

I admit I hadn’t given a thought to Lavender’s age until I had her passport in my hand. I’d had Lachlan look into her background and just assumed, especially after meeting her, she was older. Who the fuck owns an art gallery at the age of just twenty-four?

By the time I realized, it was too late to do anything about it. There was too much at stake to back out. Besides, wasn’t I already craving her? And it’s not like she’s a kid. So the girl can keep her disinterest, and my wife can keep pretending because I know she’s hot for me.

I give my head a tiny shake. My wife. What the fuck is it about that?

“This is Primrose,” Lavender says without giving me a chance to reply. “Tell-a-phone, tell-a-graph, tell-a-Primrose,” she adds, turning from me to slip out of her jacket. She throws it on an antique coat stand next to which is an umbrella holder in the shape of an elephant foot with hot-pink toenails. She doesn’t see her sister pull a childish face before closing the door.

“So that was Primrose,” Lavender says, turning to face me. “Younger sister. Pain in the bum. Tattletale, perky, annoying Goody Two-shoes.”

“Ah, sisters.” Heart pang. It’s a thing. And Lavender’s sudden glance is quizzical. “I used to have a sister.” The lightness in my answer costs me, and Lavender doesn’t miss it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, intuiting my meaning. “I have a couple spare if you’re interested.”

“You don’t really mean that.” I suppose, as the old adage goes, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. And then it’s just too fucking late to do anything about it.

“Try me,” she says, swinging away.

“Did you bring Tod, darling?” a voice asks from the depths of the house.

“No,” Lavender calls back. She turns to me. “And here comes my mother. Remember what I said about her spy skills.”

A woman walks barefooted along the dark wood hallway toward us. “I thought Primrose said you’d brought someone with you,” she calls, drying her hands on the flowery apron tied around her waist. It covers a denim-colored dress that skims her tanned knees.

Tall and striking, though blond hair to Lavender’s dark, the woman is quite obviously her mother. The similarity in their finely boned features is a dead giveaway.

“No Tod today.” Lavender’s answer rises at the end like a question.

“Sorry?” Her mother turns a warm smile my way. “Were you here to see Brin?”

“Mum!” Lavender complains with an almost violent roll of her eyes.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Did I get that wrong?” Her smile doesn’t waver as her attention jumps between us. “Let me start again. Polly,” she says, offering me her hand.

“Raif. Raif Deveraux.”

Lavender giggles—nerves maybe—but turns it into a clearing of her throat.

“So lovely to meet you, Raif.” The Whittington matriarch’s handshake is firm.

“Yes, Raif,” Lavender grumbles. “Obviously not Tod, but I am allowed other guests, you know.”

“Of course you are, darling.” There’s a note of warm chastisement in her mother’s smooth reply.

“I apologize for the lack of notice,” I say with my most charming smile.

“No, not at all.” She glances her daughter’s way. “My home is always open, though Lavender rarely brings anyone home.”

“Except Tod!” calls the younger girl’s voice from behind the closed door.

“See?” Lavender mutters. A look passes between mother and daughter, a whole conversation seeming to take place.

“My contribution,” I interject, offering up the two bottles of Masseto I’d thought to bring along.

“Oh, how lovely,” she replies, taking them from my hands. “Come on through to the kitchen, and we’ll open it.”

So we do.

“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Whittington.”

As she splashes a liberal measure of the blood-red liquid into two glasses, she pauses and looks up with a kind smile.

I’m not being disingenuous. It is beautiful, if not quite what I was expecting. The country-style kitchen is obviously bespoke and built as much for use as for looks. The butcher-block countertops are cluttered with half-peeled vegetables and cooking utensils.

“Please, call me Polly,” she says, pressing a glass into my hand. “Everyone does. Including my children,” she tacks on a little unhappily.

“Not usually to your face,” Lavender says, pulling open a cabinet to reveal a built-in fridge. She pulls out a can of soda, cracking it open with an obnoxiousness I’m certain has taken her years to perfect. “Who’s for lunch?” she demands, slurping from the can.

Her mother frowns her way. I find myself doing the same, though not for the same reason. She’s still holding her sweater over her ring.

“Primrose, Brin, and El,” her mother says.

One of those names causes a flicker of something inside me. Interesting. For the past few weeks, hearing that name would’ve caused anything from a wave of fury to a lick of resentment. But today, I feel… none of those things.

Cause and effect.

“Heather and Archer might pop along later,” Polly adds, “but Leif and Mimi are in Miami, I think. Or was it Barbados this week? And El, of course, is still in Tokyo. Which leaves—” Her words halt, and in a blink, she crosses the kitchen. “Lavender?” Polly takes away the soda can without relinquishing her daughter’s hand.

“Surprise,” Lavender says weakly.

“Is that—is that an engagement ring?” Polly’s gaze moves my way, but before I have a chance to say something, Lavender draws her attention.

“No, it’s not.”

“Oh, well.” A breath rushes out of her. Relief, I think. Short-lived, whatever it is. “Silly me.”

“It’s a diamond wedding band,” Lavender adds with an upward inflection.

“A what?” This time, Polly’s eyes look like they might fall out of her head as it whips around.

“Ow! You’ve got fingers like crab’s claws, Mum. Let go.”

“Sorry.” Her mouth works, no words immediately available until she whispers, “Is this a joke?”

“Why would you say that?” Lavender’s response takes me by surprise. I’d expected fireworks and attitude. What’s with the sad-sounding voice? “I’m old enough to get married.”

“Yes, of course. But you never even mentioned you were seeing someone.”

“Because I wasn’t,” she retorts. “And then I was. And you know, sometimes shit just happens.” She slants me a look that speaks volumes. Hardly a ringing endorsement.

“But what about—” Polly’s startled gaze bounces briefly my way.

She doesn’t say Tod’s name, but it’s ridiculous how pissed off I am anyway.

“I only saw you on Friday. How did you go from single to married in the space of three days?”

“I’m afraid that’s my fault,” I add, drawing all eyes my way.

“Only because he swept me off my feet,” Lavender says in the kind of wooden tone that wouldn’t win her any acting awards.

I suppose it must feel fast to them both. Meanwhile, I’ve been planning this for months.

“But how did it happen?” She takes her daughter’s hand, ignoring the ring, her words almost beseeching.

Lavender looks… conflicted. I cross the kitchen to stand beside her, linking my fingers through hers. “Your daughter is a rare gem.” My hand tightens on hers in solidarity rather than a warning. “I asked her to marry me because my life has not been the same since I met her.”

“So you didn’t just meet?”

Lavender’s expression twists into a sneer. “Ew, Mum, no! I did not just marry my one-night stand.”

“No, of course not.”

“I walked into Lavender’s gallery exactly six weeks ago.” I gaze adoringly down at her, which isn’t hard. She averts her gaze, but I guess coy works just as well as adoration. “I walked in a whole man and walked out having left my heart.” Lifting her hand, I press a kiss to the backs of her fingers. It surprises the fuck out of me as she tips onto her toes and throws her arms around me.

“You haven’t got a heart,” she whispers hotly in my ear.

As she begins to pull back, I hold her for a second longer than appropriate in a nonverbal behave.

“Oh. You’ve been dating?”

“I just didn’t mention it because there are way too many opinions in this house.”

“That’s true of most large families who love each other.” Polly’s reply makes it sound as though this is a common refrain.

“Raif asked me to marry him, and I said yes. We’re really happy, and neither of us wanted to wait. So we took his jet and flew to Gibraltar. It’s where Raif is from.”

“Oh.” Polly reaches out, sliding Lavender’s hair over her shoulder. “How lovely.” Her eyes seem to glisten as they flit my way again. “You had family at the ceremony?”

“No. It was just the two of us. Lavender insisted we get back for lunch today to share our happy news.”

“Yeah,” she replies without much conviction. “To tell you all.”

“Oh, well. Lovely,” Polly musters. “I’m sure your brothers will be—”

“I don’t care what they say,” Lavender retorts. “I’m twenty-four, not twelve. I get to make my own life choices. Raif has his own private jet,” hurricane Lavender says, veering the conversation away. “Not like Whit. He uses a company jet,” she adds for my benefit. “And he has such a beautiful house in Gibraltar, Mum. It’s huge! All white, and all clean lines, overlooking the ocean. Isn’t that right, Raify bear?

“It has a pool and tennis courts, and Raify baby says we can all spend the summer there. All of us,” she adds with malicious glee. “Kids, partners, and Granny. Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Of course.” It doesn’t mean I’ll be there. “But I think you should pick a pet name and stick with it, princess.”

“Do you, pookie?” This time, her smile is all teeth. “Well, I have to choose. I suppose it will have to be Rita.”

“Rita?” Poor Polly. Her head moves between us like she’s at Wimbledon.

“Inside joke, Mum.”

“Oh.” But Polly still looks disturbed.

“When you know, you know. You’ve always told us that,” Lavender says. “You and Dad didn’t know each other for very long before you got married, did you? And look at how happy you both were.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And what about Whit? One minute, he’s insisting Mimi is nothing but his PA even though we all knew he was treating her like his little toe and banging her on every bit of furniture in his office—”

“Lavender!”

“Next, they’re getting married. And you were over the moon. You don’t look like that now.”

“Whit had known Mimi for years,” Polly protests. “He was in his thirties.”

“So is Raif. Barely,” she adds under her breath.

“Sorry, what?” Her mother’s head swings between us like a two-year-old with a Lazy Susan as she tries to figure out what’s going on. I can’t say I blame her. Lavender isn’t exactly selling our love.

“I’m thirty-six,” I offer with an engaging smile. “Lavender does love her little jokes.”

“Whit might’ve been older, but Mimi was around my age.”

“Yes, but—”

“She’s not your daughter, so not your concern?” Lavender offers. Taunts?

“I wasn’t going to say that. I think of Mimi as my daughter.”

“You were gagging for them to get together. Stuck your ore in and everything. So why can’t you be happy for me? Why do I have to be different?”

“You aren’t different, darling.”

Oh, but she is. My wife is a brilliant strategist and excellent deflector. If she ever tires of art, she could try acting. Or maybe world domination.

“It’s not as though I joined a cult,” she mutters before downing a mouthful of her soda. “Though I’m sure Raif could start a cult if he wanted to.”

I don’t think she’s referring to my charisma. My tongue, however…

“Will you be taking some time away from the gallery?”

“No. Why would I?”

“To spend some time together? At his beautiful house. A honeymoon?”

Lavender gives her head an adamant shake. “The gallery is still my focus. And Raif has his own stuff going on.”

Before Polly can ask about my line of work, I add, “Lavender made it clear from the outset that the gallery is her priority. I understand how important it is to her. Pulling her daughter into my side, I add, “We have a lifetime to look forward to.”

“Oh, how lovely. And supportive.”

“Your daughter means the world to me.” It’s not entirely a lie. Marrying her means the world. It helps me protect what means the world to me, at least.

“Well, congratulations,” Polly adds with the kind of false gaiety no one would buy. “To you both…” She seems at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Lavender suddenly seems to wilt against me before stumbling into her mother’s arms.

“No, darling. It’s just a surprise, that’s all. You must never apologize for being happy. Life is too short not to grab those moments of happiness,” she says, taking her daughter’s face in her hands. Their hug is brief but fierce, and both women’s eyes glisten as they break away.

“I think we’ll break out the champagne,” Polly murmurs, running her fingers under her eyes.

Champagne is produced, and Polly asks me to do the honors. She’s busy lifting glasses from the cabinet when the girl from the hallway—Primrose—saunters into the kitchen.

“Why are we drinking champagne?” Plucking an orange from the fruit bowl, she brings it to her nose.

“Your sister got married yesterday.” Polly holds a glass flute, examining it. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Primrose’s gaze dips to Lavender’s midriff.

“Pfft, as if!” Lavender scoffs.

“Is this some kind of joke?” The orange makes a dull thud as Primrose drops it to the countertop.

“Why would I joke about something like that?” Lavender demands belligerently.

“You’ve told worse jokes. Remember the one about your ex and the broken window? Oh wait, that wasn’t a joke. It was true.”

Lavender turns instantly pale, her expression hardening as she flips her sister the bird.

“How could you have gotten married? You were at work yesterday.” Her eyes flick my way. “I’ve never even seen him before.”

“I don’t tell you everything.”

“When did you propose?” her sister asks, turning my way.

“Friday night.”

She snorts and glances her mother’s way. “That explains it. She was at a house party. I bet she was on a bender.”

“Who was on a bender?”

All eyes move to Brin Whittington as he comes to a stop just inside the doorway.

“I’ve put new cartridges in,” he says, wiping ink from his fingertips. “I don’t know what you do with the bloody thing.” Brin’s gaze lifts, his expression flickering as though he doesn’t quite trust what he’s seeing.

“Brin. What a pleasant surprise.” I hold out my unused glass. “You’re just in time.”

“What’s he doing here?” he asks no one in particular as he crosses the kitchen. “In time for what?”

It’s possible he only takes the glass because no one has answered him.

I pour a little champagne into the remaining flute. “To congratulate us.”

“Aren’t you engaged to…” His words trail away as I slide my arm around Lavender’s waist. Her stiff posture slackens as I give it a slight squeeze, and she offers her left hand for examination.

Brin’s eyes fly wide, darting from his sister’s hand to his mother’s face. Polly musters a wan smile, and his attention darts back to me.

Ah, the sweet fucking justice of it all. How brilliant my smile must beam as Brin splutters, “No fucking way.”