Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Alana
Alejandro hands the menus back to our waiter and gives me his full attention.
I can’t deny how intoxicating it is to be in the company of a man like him.
He’s wearing a navy suit and a crisp white shirt that’s open at the collar, revealing the tiniest glimpse of one of his many tattoos.
It hasn’t escaped my attention that almost every woman in the restaurant has glanced our direction at least once.
He’s probably the best-looking man I’ve ever seen—but he’s still a bastard and a devil.
I can never forget that, no matter how many times he does something sweet and makes me want to.
He takes a sip of his Scotch, still eyeing me over the rim. “That was quite the show you put on outside.”
Oh, the kiss. The one that made my legs feel like jelly and my panties a little damp. It stopped being a show the moment his lips met mine, but he’ll never know that. “Well, I had to make it look convincing, didn’t I? Although I’m not sure us together is that convincing.”
His brow furrows, showcasing his annoyance, but he still looks hotter than hell. “Why would you say that?”
The water I’m sipping almost shoots out of my nose. Is he serious? The look on his face says he is. Wow. “Oh, come on. I’m not your usual type, am I? I’m sure there are more than a few people wondering what LA’s most eligible bachelor is doing with a slightly chubby brunette from New York.”
His frown turns to a murderous scowl. “Chubby? In what world could you be ever considered chubby, Alana?”
I glance around the exclusive restaurant. “In your world, Alejandro. Your world of models and actresses and women who survive on carrot juice and kale. The kind of women you usually date.”
I’m fairly body confident as a rule, and back in New York, I was happy to show off my curves in any weather. But here in LA, women have bodies that are beyond unbelievable. They all look like they’ve been airbrushed to perfection.
“None of those women meant anything to me.”
I snort unattractively. “And I do?”
He leans forward, his hands clasped together in front of him. “You’re my wife, aren’t you?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “Your wife in name only.” I haven’t allowed myself to think too deeply about why he refuses to touch me aside from the two fake kisses to prove our legitimacy.
I’ve kept myself busy with work and any other distraction I could find to stop myself from spiraling into a sea of self-loathing where I tell myself I’m not attractive enough for him to consider having sex with.
Initially, I was of course relieved that he didn’t force himself on me, that he planned to get such needs met elsewhere.
As time goes on, however, it’s becoming more of a gaping black hole of anxiety and misery.
I don’t want him near other women, and I do very much want him near me.
His dark eyes narrow as he regards me with either suspicion or curiosity. Is he thinking about the same thing? Despite those thoughts racing through my mind, the intense heat of his gaze has warmth pooling between my thighs.
He draws in a breath, his nostrils flaring. “Speaking of names. Why do the staff call you Alana?”
“Because it’s my name. What the hell else should they call me?”
“Mrs. Montoya,” he snaps, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Of course he’d think that. I’ve only ever heard them call him Mr. Montoya or Boss. They never use his first name.
“I’m not Mrs. Montoya, though.” A scowl forms on his handsome face, and I rush to correct myself. “I mean, I am, of course, but it makes me sound like your mom. And it’s far too formal.”
“It’s supposed to be, isn’t it? They’re the staff.”
The staff! What an entitled asshole. “They’re your staff. But to me, they’re the people I spend most of my time with.”
He leans back like I’ve offended him. Is he annoyed at me for telling the truth? He’s so damn serious and has so many rules, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to insist that Magda, Jacob, and Hugo start calling me Mrs. Montoya.
My darling husband simply glares at me for a few moments. Right as he opens his mouth to reply, the waiter brings the wine. After Alejandro has tasted it and confirmed it’s to his liking, our waiter pours us each a glass and leaves us alone again.
I take a sip, expecting it to taste a lot like most reds I’ve had, but I’m surprised to find it’s the most incredible wine I’ve ever tasted.
Rich and warm, with hints of chocolate and cherry.
I take a moment to savor it before I swallow.
It must have cost as much as a small family car in a place this fancy.
“So how was your shopping trip?” Alejandro asks as I’m still savoring the warm afternotes of the Rioja.
I place my glass back on the table. “It was really fun.”
It was a hell of a surprise this morning when Jacob handed me a small white envelope containing a credit card and a note on Alejandro’s personal stationery instructing me to take his card and buy whatever I wanted. No limit.
I called him to thank him and tried to clarify the no-limit thing, but he said it meant what it meant. I could spend whatever I wanted, which is quite generous, even if he is a billionaire.
His kind gesture made me wonder if he has a heart in there after all—if only for a brief moment.
“And you said you got what you needed?”
I nod. “Yes.”
That scrutinous gaze is back, raking over my face. “And what exactly did you buy?”
“Just some stuff.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment, but I have no reason to feel ashamed. Just because he has extravagant tastes doesn’t mean I have to. That may be what he expects in a wife, but it’s not like I’ll be flaunting my candy and ketchup for all the world to see.
“What stuff?” he pushes. “Am I going to come home to twelve new sofas and a new four-poster bed?”
“No. I didn’t buy anything like that. Why would I?”
He takes a sip of his wine and then his tongue darts out to lick his lower lip. “So what did you buy?”
“If you must know, I bought some bubble bath, ketchup, and candy. Oh, and my favorite tea. A new pillow as I don’t like the ones on your bed. A couple of picture frames and some candles.”
“I gave you a card with no limit, and that’s what you bought?” He arches one eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say, feeling defensive.
“Why didn’t you just ask for the candy and such to be put on the grocery list?”
“Because there was nothing wrong with the brands you have in your house. But when I went shopping, I was thinking about my place back in New York and what things would make your house feel a little more like my home. Those are the things I thought of.”
I find myself fidgeting under the heat of his scrutiny.
Why is he suddenly so interested in me? If only to stop him from looking at me like that, I offer an explanation.
“That brand of ketchup is what my grandma used to use when I was a kid. It reminds me of her house, and that was always where I was happiest. I love English breakfast tea in the mornings. The tea you have doesn’t taste as tea-like. ”
“Not as tea-like?” The corners of his mouth curl into a panty-melting smile.
I shake my head, frustrated at myself for being so distracted by him. “You heard me. And the bubble bath is the one my grandpa used to buy me every Christmas; it always makes me think of him. The candles are jasmine, and that’s my favorite smell in the world.”
He nods, and that smile grows a little wider.
It’s doing all kinds of things to me, which are not unpleasant at all.
In an attempt at self-preservation, I babble on.
“I like a nice firm pillow, and the ones in your bed are too soft. The candy was just because I love candy and there is never any in your house. And the picture frames are to put a couple of pictures of my family in. Is that enough of an explanation for you?”
He continues watching me, that curious grin still on his face. He thinks I’m an idiot, doesn’t he?
“You surprise me, Alana,” he says eventually. “I assumed you’d spend a lot more. Buy something of more … worth.”
Is he being deliberately cruel? “If you had listened to anything I just said, then you’d know the things I bought are the things that are worth something to me.
Would you rather I spent a fortune on pointless furniture we don’t need?
Or maybe some new clothes and shoes so I could be your perfect trophy wife? ”
“Like I said, you surprise me” is all he says.
“Well, that’s because you don’t know me at all, Alejandro.”
“Don’t I?” he asks, his eyes narrowed and a dangerous lilt to his voice that makes goosebumps break out on my skin.
I fold my arms over my chest and meet his stare with my own. “Tell me what you think you know then.”
He sits back and runs a hand across his dark stubble. “I was led to believe you were a spoiled little rich girl who’s never had to work for anything in her life.”
I blink at him, shocked and saddened. That is so far from the truth, but why do I even care what this monster thinks of me? In fact, the less he thinks of me, the better. Maybe he will think of me so little that he’ll want to let me go back to New York and forget about this ridiculous arrangement.
Leaning back in my seat again, I pick up my wine glass and tap my fingernail on the rim. “Well, in that case, you’ve got me completely nailed,” I say, giving him the biggest smile I can muster.
The rest of our dinner passes without incident.
After the heated debate about candles and ketchup, we avoided anything contentious and stuck to making small talk.
I enjoyed watching him eat though. Well, mostly watching his hands—large and powerful, with thick veins snaking up to his wrist and disappearing under his shirt sleeves.
Even the way he cut his steak was hot. He does everything with such certainty and confidence.
I also might have allowed myself a brief moment to imagine him pinning me against a wall and ripping my panties off with them.
I squeeze my thighs together as heat builds in my core. I should hate this man—I actually do hate him a lot of the time. So why does my body crave him like this?
Why do I have so many fantasies involving him and those beautiful hands running over every inch of my body? Of him holding himself over me and …
He catches me staring at him and flashes me a wicked grin that turns my insides to molten lava.
I clear my throat, about to ask how his soufflé tastes, when I’m distracted by a flash of metal from the corner of my eye.
Before I can register what’s happening, a gun is pointed at my face and Alejandro is launching himself over the table.
“Give my regards to your father.” The gunman’s words have hardly left his mouth when Alejandro wrestles him to the ground and quickly disarms him. All I can do is stare open-mouthed and try to remember to breathe.
“Pull the car around,” Alejandro barks to someone behind me, and two of his bodyguards rush to our side. They grab the man, who’s now bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose, while Alejandro rushes back to me. I’m frozen to the spot, my legs and hands trembling like autumn leaves in a storm.
Without another word, he scoops me into his arms and holds me close.
I bury my head against his chest and close my eyes, not wanting to look at the faces of the diners who must be staring at us as we pass.
I hear people muttering though, about him being Mafia and whether this was a professional hit.
Alejandro marches out of the restaurant, still pressing me tight to his chest and barking at people to get out of his way. We’re in the safety of his car by the time I open my eyes, and he’s sitting back against the leather seat with me still in his arms.
“Drive, Jacob,” he commands, and the car speeds away from the curb.
It’s only now that I feel brave enough to look at Alejandro’s face, and I’m almost sorry I do because he’s looking at me with such worry and concern that I want to cry.
He smooths my hair back from my face. “Are you okay, Alana?”
I offer a shaky nod. I’m unharmed at least. Thanks to him. But I can’t stay here on his lap, no matter how nice it feels to be wrapped in his strong arms.
I start to edge away, but he holds me tighter. “Alana! You’re in shock. Just sit still.” His tone brooks no further argument, and I don’t resist him.
I don’t want to.
I settle on his knee, and he loosens his grip, keeping one arm locked around my waist while he slides his cell phone out of his pocket and makes a call.
Most of what he says is in Spanish, but I understand the nature of the conversation.
And considering who my husband is, I suspect that the man with the gun in the restaurant won’t be breathing for much longer.
Alejandro’s muscles finally relax after he ends the call.
He runs his free hand up the outside of my thigh and rests it on my hip. His warmth permeates the thin fabric of my dress, yet I shiver from his touch.
He feels it too. “Are you okay?” he asks again.
“Yes, but what was that about, Alejandro? That man mentioned my father.”
The kiss he presses on my forehead isn’t romantic but protective and reassuring. “I heard him. Don’t worry though. He’ll be dealt with.”
“But what was it about?”
He tucks my hair behind my ear and stares into my eyes.
“Your father and I have many enemies, Alana. I don’t know why that happened tonight, but I will find out.
And this is why I insist on you having a bodyguard whenever you leave the house.
Promise me you will never go anywhere without your security detail. ”
“I promise. But if this is about my father—”
“Just let me deal with it. It’s what I do.” His tone is gentle but final. Without moving me from his lap, he takes a bottle of Scotch and a crystal tumbler from the drinks cabinet and pours a generous measure into the glass. “Drink this. It will help with the shock.”
I take it from him and down it in one. The strong liquor burns my throat and makes me cough, but it feels good, and the slight buzz is pleasant.
He raises an eyebrow. “More?”
“Yes, please.”
“If you insist.” He pours another. “But be careful, princesa. This is stronger stuff than you’ll be used to.”
I take his challenge as an opportunity to get my mind off what happened. “You think I can’t handle my liquor because I’m a feeble woman?”
“No.” He grips my jaw in his hand. “I think you can’t handle hundred-proof Scotch when you’re knocking it back like that.”
To prove my point, I knock the second glass back too.