Chapter 12 Dom
DOM
It’s a measure of how desperate I am for public events to bring Taggie to that I find this acceptable.
“A blind book charity auction?” she asks as we enter the hotel that’s hosting this evening’s excuse to have my hand on the small of my wife’s back, I mean important fundraising and philanthropic opportunity.
“I don’t understand either,” I reply.
We’re here at one minute past the time on the invitation, because I am as patient to have Taggie in public so I can touch her as a hungry tiger is for his tea.
“Taggie!” Lily Anderson greets my fake-wife as though they’re best buddies and I reluctantly allow her to be pulled away for a hug.
We’re supposed to have been married in secret for a year, I remind myself. This level of obsession is going to get suspicious. But like the threat from Thaxted and the inevitable choice of how to deal with him, I’m pushing the risk to the back of my mind and relishing the present.
“I don’t know if I said,” Lily is telling Taggie. “I’m the owner of a bookshop in Croydon, and Willow has one in Bethnal Green.”
“So what’s a blind book auction?” Taggie glances around at me. “Dom couldn’t tell me.”
Lily raises her eyebrows and tuts. “Not book boyfriend material.”
“Her book husband,” I growl, and draw Taggie back to me.
The noise in my head and the thudding of my heart immediately quiets. She’s a drug, and I’m willingly addicted. Taggie sinks into my side, wrapping an arm around me, and my inner monster calms.
“Too right,” Lily agrees with a grin to Taggie.
“The idea is a cross between a charity auction and a blind date with a book. Various donors—some requiring more persuasion than others—have agreed to give books from their collection for free to be auctioned in aid of our chosen charities. And the twist is, they describe the book, but you don’t see exactly what it is until you’ve bought it. Surprise!”
“Oh my god that’s awesome!” Taggie squeals.
Lily hands us both a program. “Don’t miss Lambeth’s book.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say dryly.
The event turns out to be a whole dinner and after dinner thing, and it takes us a moment to find our table.
I drape my arm over the back of Taggie’s chair and listen indulgently as she reads the auction list from cover to cover.
The listings are all the most influential of the London Mafia Syndicate, and Taggie shows what a perfect mafia wife she will be—would be—by effortlessly recalling all their names and territories as well as details about the wives she’s met. Around us, the room fills up.
We’re joined by Mayfair, Lambeth, and one of the Blackwood triplets, and their wives.
No children, but there are some on other tables.
I don’t look that way, not just because I’d rather watch Taggie, but because it gives me an ache in my chest that, while it’s been present since my family died, it’s definitely worse since I met Taggie.
Champagne cocktails are served as an aperitif and Taggie takes a glass with adorable excitement. Her eyes sparkle, as she tries it and finds it sweet and bubbly and decadent. But when Blackwood’s wife selects the sparkling flowery soft drink instead, Taggie notices immediately.
“I’m pregnant,” explains Ella Blackwood with a rueful laugh. “Inevitable really.”
People congratulate her, and joke about babies, and when Taggie glances up at me, my stomach swoops. Her expression reflects the longing I’ve tried to repress: to have a family to love and care for.
I have a flash that she can see my hidden desires. It’s like she sees past every barrier I have. Then she looks away, blushing, and I know it was an illusion.
Yes, she’s the only one who knows about my revenge plot, and how it hurt me to lose my parents and siblings.
Not even the members of the London Mafia Syndicate, who helped me when Richmond became my responsibility, know that.
But she thinks I’m helping her out of kindness, and she believes she can leave anytime.
“Anyway, enough baby talk. Who’s bidding on the signed special edition of Blythe’s?” says Ella.
“Not bidding, but I was curious,” Taggie replies. “Who do you think the author is?”
Then they’re off, trying alternately to get out of the book donors what the book is, speculating from the description, and wondering how much they’ll go for.
As we eat dinner, I listen. Taggie is passionate about books with sprayed edges, whatever that means.
It turns out there’s more to this evening than my stated aim of showing off our relationship and my covert aim of touching Taggie when she’s conscious and pretending that she loves me.
Because winning auctions for my wife is totally within my skill set.
When dinner is over, Lily and Willow introduce the auction, and Westminster takes the stage and talks about how important these charities are.
I play with Taggie’s hand as Westminster drones on that although London’s taxes pay for lots of the needs of London’s most vulnerable, and each mafia does its part, there remain people who slip through the gaps.
“Is he really lecturing mafia bosses on taxation?” The kingpin of Rotherhithe leans over from the neighbouring table and asks in a stage whisper, his Russian lilt stronger in his irritation.
“Do you pay any taxes?” Lambeth replies in the same tone.
“No.” Well. I do. A bit.
“I think there was a tax I paid once,” Rotherhithe says thoughtfully.
“No, that was a taxidermist,” Mayfair says deadpan. “Terrifying, that stuffed wolf. The Bratva kids seem to have taken it as their mascot and pretend to ride it.”
I glance at Taggie, and her lips twitch with mirth, though she’s looking straight ahead and seemingly listening to Westminster, who is still talking.
Lambeth nods. “Easily confused.”
“Yes, you are,” Rotherhithe grumbles, but smirks. “Who’s afraid of the big Bratva wolf, Mayfair.”
“Enough of that,” one of the women from the audience yells. “Time for books, Westminster.”
There’s a collective intake of breath as Westminster’s hand twitches as though going for a gun. But he instead pulls out a credit card, and grins. “My beautiful wife is correct, as ever. Gentlemen, we’ll be needing these…”
A ripple of relieved laughter goes through the room as he saunters back to Anwyn and sweeps her up for a kiss.
Jealousy stabs at me, and I have to look away. I wonder what it would be like to have that. A genuine relationship. A marriage based on trust so deep that it can stand a public… whatever that was.
Lily and Willow invite Blythe Blackstone onto the stage for the first auction lot, holding a brown-wrapped oblong that is large enough to do some damage in a fight.
“This is a spicy fantasy romance, signed by the author, in an exclusive leather-bound edition…” she explains.
Taggie’s face is a picture of longing. She’s gripping my fingers and her eyes are glistening.
I don’t understand buying books. Never have.
But I do understand wanting something beautiful and special.
I totally get the desire to possess that’s so strong you’d do unspeakable things to have it.
After all, for two years, that has been revenge, and my life.
And after a week, that obsession has been eclipsed by Taggie.
The bidding starts and Taggie’s shock as it increases is such a delight.
I let my colleagues have their fun, battling over it. There are gasps around us at the price reached when Canary Wharf finally bails, and Taggie has covered her mouth, eyes wide.
“That’s so much!” she whispers to me.
“All done?” Lily says as the rival bidder folds.
My hand shoots up. “More.” I wasn’t even noting the amount, I was watching the only thing that matters to me: Taggie.
“What?” Lily looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Just more,” I clarify. “Whatever he bids.” I nod towards Streatham. “More than that.”
“Richmond has finally lost his marbles,” says Lambeth idly.
“Ten thousand more?” asks Streatham, glancing at his wife. “What do you think, Sophia?”
“Ten more on top,” I counter immediately.
Taggie grasps my arm. “What are you doing?”
“A hundred.” Streatham’s tone is irritated.
“Sure,” I reply, then add to Taggie, “Getting you the book you want.”
“Hundred and fifty?” Streatham offers.
“Let him have it since it’s important to the newlywed,” Sophia says before I can also up my bid, and shoots Taggie an indulgent look.
My fake wife just blinks back, not understanding.
“Fine,” grumbles Streatham. I’m on my feet in a second, and there’s applause as I weave quickly through the tables to the stage, and take the wrapped book from Blythe.
“Enjoy,” she says, and winks at me.
When I return to our table, everyone is smiling except for Taggie, who looks faintly alarmed. Then as I sit and place the book before her, her expression shifts to all-out shock.
“Dom, I...”
“Open it,” I tell her roughly. “It’s a late wedding present, bambola.”
Someone coos.
“I can’t!” she says in panic, glancing around. “It was so expensive.” But she has picked up the package, and turns it over in her hands.
“It’s for you.”
“This is insane,” she murmurs.
“No.” I reach out and touch her cheek, regarding her with all the real affection I feel on full display. “This is love.”
Her breath hitches, and her lips fall open.
I smile as I take the opportunity and kiss her lightly on that pink bow of a mouth.
There’s new brightness in her eyes when I draw back, pretending that such moments are commonplace for us, and that they don’t affect me intensely.
Every moment is fresh with Taggie. Each kiss is more meaningful.
She brings a finger to her lips and brushes it, giving a little laugh. “Your beard is scratchy.”
I smirk. “You love it.”
And the shyly pleased expression that she gets then makes my blood sing. She’s mine. She doesn’t realise it yet, but she’s mine forever.
“Open your present, bambola,” I prompt.
This time she obeys, carefully peeling off the ribbon and the tape and then pausing to relish the pulling back of the brown paper... to reveal a book. Leather-bound, chunky.