Chapter 2
Chapter Two
ALEXANDER
My future wife sits primly, her right foot tucked behind the ankle of her left, her knees pressed together, as her parents no doubt drummed into her. She’s resting her hands in her lap, and to those who aren’t paying attention, she’s coming across as the epitome of a perfect, submissive, soon-to-be-bride befitting of the heir to the De Vil Dynasty. Namely, me.
It’s her eyes that give her away.
Behind the dazzling green is a steely defiance as she flicks her gaze to me. Miss Imogen Salinger isn’t the timid soul my father led me to believe she was.
Thank God.
It’ll make this sham of a marriage a lot more interesting if my wife isn’t a doormat. There’s not much fun in a lion playing with a mouse. The kill is over far too quickly. No, much better that my adversary is a lioness, even if she’s pretending otherwise, probably for the sake of her parents.
Her bright yellow dress covered with blue forget-me-nots is all wrong. It’s too innocent. And while her parents have assured my father she’s still a virgin, her virtue is the only thing innocent about her.
Not that I’m interested in taking her virginity. I’ve only agreed to go through with this marriage because it is expected of me. Not only are arranged marriages the norm in my family, but disobeying the head of the household and defaulting on his orders could mean losing our position in The Consortium.
It’s happened before. My father often tells the story of the French Baudelaire family who were evicted from The Consortium because the heir refused to follow his father’s orders. In that instance, it wasn’t in relation to a marriage, but his insubordination showed the head of the household had lost control, and their privileges were revoked. Shortly afterward, another family spotted their weakness, moved in, and the Baudelaires lost everything.
Not all Consortium families follow the tradition of arranged marriages, but it has been that way in my family for a millennium or more. My duty is to comply with this outdated tradition, even if I don’t intend to stay married.
The biggest issue facing my longer-term plans is that my father will never grant me a divorce. Apparently, the only way for me to escape this ill-fated union is for Miss Salinger to end it. And I intend to make sure that she does. I’ll play the game, move the chess pieces until they’re exactly where I want them to be, then bide my time until I get what I want.
Which I will.
There isn’t a doubt in my mind. I’m a winner in whatever challenge I set my sights on. It won’t be easy, but I will emerge the victor from this pointless union. Then I’ll be free to live the life I intended for myself—one of solitude, where I can nurse my grief in peace .
Not that I intend to share any of this with the intriguing Miss Salinger. I aim to make her so miserable, she’ll demand a divorce. From what I know of her, she’s quite the social butterfly. If I isolate her, she will capitulate much faster.
And speed is of the essence. The more time passes without an heir on the way, the greater the chance of my father probing and discovering my wife remains untouched, then demanding answers as to why. I can’t allow this to drag on for months on end, nor will I contemplate the idea of children, no matter what’s expected of me. After what happened to my sister, the idea of having children, of putting them at risk in a world that’s growing evermore dangerous, isn’t something I’m willing to do.
As much as she must think of my family and me as heartless, I do have some sympathy for Imogen’s plight. It can’t be easy for a twenty-one-year-old to be ripped from her home and brought to a foreign country to marry a man she’s never met—one significantly older, with far more life experience. She has no more say in our wedding than I do, and if things were different, that commonality may have given us a level playing field on which to meet. But it’s a moot point, given what I have to do if I’m to force her hand into asking me for a divorce.
I catch her gaze, confrontation swimming in her green irises. A blast of heat in my groin is surprising enough that I shift in my seat. I have a type, and green-eyed, redheaded, curvy women are it. My father couldn’t have known that’s how Imogen would turn out when Scott Salinger signed over his daughter’s future to me before she was born, but all I can think is : Bravo, Father. Bravo.
The beginnings of a smile pull at my lips. Another surprise. Usually, I find a scowl comes so much easier. Imogen glares at me, the intensity one of a woman who’d like to get her hands on a dagger and drive it through my heart. The thought of her trying is something of a turn on.
I’d like the opportunity to subjugate her.
“So,” she says, fire shooting from her eyes. “Have you mastered the art of thrilling conversation, or is this performance a special treat just for me?”
My father chokes on his whiskey. Jessica, Imogen’s mother, looks as though she might faint, and Scott’s face blooms with color.
“Imogen! Apologize to Alexander. Right this second.”
I direct my attention toward her, curious how she plans to handle this. An apology doesn’t interest me, but her reaction to her father’s demand does.
Rather disappointingly, she lowers her chin to her chest, the fire that had enchanted me perishing beneath Scott’s scolding.
“I apologize unreservedly.” She refuses to meet my gaze. “That was rude and unnecessary.”
I say nothing. Fiddling with the cuff on my shirt, I run my thumb over the family crest and my initials stitched into the fabric, my eyes not leaving her for a second as I wait for her to look at me.
When she doesn’t, I intervene. “I’d like to talk to Imogen.” I pull my gaze away from her and settle my attention on my father. “Alone.”
He smiles, pleased at my request. “Of course.” He gets to his feet and motions for Jessica and Scott to do the same. “Good idea to leave them to get acquainted without us breathing down their necks.”
Imogen’s mother kisses her cheek, and her father squeezes her shoulder. It looks more like a warning than a supportive gesture. After her unauthorized outburst, I’m not surprised. I’d wager he’s made her practice how to behave at our initial meeting a hundred times over the last five days.
As soon as the door closes, Imogen shifts her gaze to me.
I run a finger along my bottom lip, appraising her as she, in turn, appraises me. Neither of us speak, though I know she’ll break first. I’m an expert in the art of silence.
Give the girl her due, she lasts approximately sixty seconds. That’s more than most people manage in my company.
“Why didn’t you want to meet me before now?” Her opening gambit isn’t the question I expected, although I’d have put it in the top five.
“What was the point?” To me, it seemed futile to go through the charade of meeting ahead of schedule, as though this were a normal relationship. A waste of time if you will. A senseless endeavor that wouldn’t change anything.
Her eyes flare, her forehead wrinkling. “Wow. How charming.”
“If you’re looking for charm, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Clearly,” she mutters.
I rise from my chair and help myself to a cognac. After taking a sip, I let the burn slide down my throat, and return to my seat, crossing my legs. “Miss Salinger, let me be clear. My family expects me to marry, and my father has chosen you as my bride. But if you’re looking for a fairy tale…” I trail off.
“I’m not looking for a fairy tale,” she snaps. Standing, she goes over to the drinks cabinet and snatches up a bottle of gin. “Nor am I expecting a gentleman. Which, considering your behavior, is just as well.” Turning her back on me, she makes herself a G and T .
I’m… impressed. There aren’t many people in my life willing to stand their ground. A powerful name like De Vil usually garners respect and, in some cases, fear. At the very least, a desire to tread carefully.
“I’m glad we understand each other.” I knock back my cognac and set the glass on the coffee table. Lacing my fingers together, I wait for her next comeback. I’m rather enjoying the exchange.
She breathes out a heavy sigh. “Okay, couple of things. One, don’t call me Miss Salinger. If you do that after we’re married, you’re going to look like a complete weirdo. Two, as hard as it might be for you, at least try to see this from my point of view. I’m the one who’s had to leave my home behind. I’m the one who’s had her dreams tossed into the trash. I’m the one having to make all the sacrifices. I’m alone here, whereas nothing has changed for you. The least you can do is try to be civil.”
Further evidence that isolation is the right approach to put a speedy end to this marriage. “I thought I was being civil.”
She looks at me as if she might kill me. My groin heats again, and I adjust my position.
“Oh, my God. You actually believe that, don’t you?” She massages her temples as if to stave off an oncoming headache. “We should at least try to get to know each other a little before the wedding.”
“Why?”
Her impatience with me goes from about a three to one hundred in the time it takes her to blink. “Jesus Christ.”
Her lips purse, and she wrings her hands. Although, if I had to guess, she’d rather wring my neck. This initial meeting isn’t going as I thought it would, and I couldn’t be happier about it. If I’d known she was this feisty, I might have changed my mind and met her before today. It’s so boring when people grovel, fawn, and bootlick. Forcing her hand into demanding a divorce will be the most fun I’ve had in a long while, especially as fun isn’t a concept I’m all that familiar with.
“Do you like coffee or tea?”
I arch a brow. “Neither.”
Her eyes close slowly, and she takes two deep breaths. “What do you like to drink?”
“Water. Cognac.” I point my chin at the empty brandy glass on the table.
She pauses, as though she’s waiting for me to ask her the same question. I don’t. After a few seconds, and the merest shake of her head, she hits me with her next fascinating question.
“What do you like to do in your free time?”
“I don’t have any free time.”
Smoothing both her eyebrows at once, she presses her fingertips to her temples again. “Work with me here.”
“I am. You’re asking me questions, and I’m answering them.”
“You are aware you’re behaving like a complete jackass, yes?”
I get to my feet once more and swipe my empty glass off the table. With my back to her, I pour another drink. After corking the bottle, I bring the glass to my lips and slowly pivot, replying with a question of my own—one laced with sarcasm.
“What do you like to do in your spare time… Imogen ?”
She takes a moment to answer, as though she’s carefully weighing my question. “I like to spend time with my friends, although that’s been curtailed somewhat by recent events.”
A wave of sadness rolls across her face, but she pulls herself together a second later. Her melancholy further cements my decision that isolation is the right approach.
“I also like to draw. I majored in architectural studies.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
I keep it to myself that my curiosity eventually got the better of me, leading me to attend her graduation last week to watch her from the back of the room, right before I visited her parents and invoked the relevant clause in the contract. She’d graduated, with honors I might add, and that made her my property. For now.
Another bout of sadness bows her shoulders. “I was supposed to start a job with one of the biggest architecture firms in America. Then you arrived and stole my dream from me. My parents tell me I’ll be too busy being a wife to work.” She almost spits the word wife.
I mold my expression into one of indifference, but file away her admission for possible future use. If working for this firm is her dream, then maybe if I regularly remind her of what she’s lost, it might just force her hand into leaving me.
Returning to my chair, I take a few moments to study my future wife. If I were in the market for a long-term commitment and wrote out the characteristics of my perfect woman, she’d be it. She’s smart, fearless, with hair the color of autumn leaves, vibrant green eyes, and a body made for a man’s hands to explore. Not to mention the stubborn jut to her chin that makes her a worthy adversary.
“What else do you want to know?” I ask her.
A gentle headshake signals her surrender. “Nothing. Like you said, why bother?” Rising to her feet, she rubs her lips together. “I’m going to go find my parents. I presume that’s all right with you?” Though she’s not asking me for permission. She’s testing me.
“My exact words were ‘what’s the point’, not ‘why bother’,” I remind her.
A flush blooms in her cheeks, and her hands curl into fists. “Jackass,” she hisses before spinning on her heel and marching across the room.
To her credit, and my surprise, she doesn’t slam the door.