Page 30 of The Irish Arrangement

Ian and I spoke further about business, but we were both careful to keep it simple and undetailed. Cara couldn’t be a spy for anyone. She was sequestered here and wouldn’t be leaving. She had no means to speak with anyone either, but this was the nature of our lives. Never share anything that could be used as a weapon later. We passed the rest of the dinner by conversing about the estate grounds, and I noticed how little Cara seemed to care.

If she was listening, she didn’t find anything worthy of a reaction. If she was waiting for a moment to speak up and complain, I wouldn’t give her my attention.

Sullen and broody, she sat there and picked at her food.

Ian stood, taking a call and nodding at me as he left the room. I doubted he’d return, and I didn’t plan to linger, anyway. Now that I’d stopped to actually sit down for more than a few minutes, on the go and busy all week, I would get sleepier. The drinks I’d had over the meal would make me even more eager to sleep.

But first…

I tossed my napkin to the table and sighed as I dragged my gaze to my wife.

She stiffened, realizing my concentration was on her. Without making eye contact, she tensed and waited for me to speak or move.

I didn’t do a damn thing. Looking at her and wishing she could ease up on this independent, recalcitrant bullshit, I sighed again.

Then she tipped her chin up, locking her flinty stare on me.

No. She was not going to make this fucking easy. Even though she knew what was expected of her, she had to be stupid and think she had any say in this.

“Let’s go.”

She curled her lip in disgust and rolled her eyes. “I’m not done eating.”

“Tough shit. Maybe you shouldn’t be so picky.” I pushed my chair back.

“I’m not picky. That lady just brought this out.”

That lady? I almost laughed, amused. She was so uncultured that she didn’t know to call Pauline a maid? I doubted Cara had been raised with wealth, but I didn’t realize she was this out of touch with the lifestyle I was used to.

“Eat after.” I stood, glowering down at her.

With a heavy exhale, she shook her head and dropped her napkin to the table.

I admired her tenacity. She wasn’t fighting me for the hell of it. Her antagonism wasn’t a show for attention or to look like she was strong. This woman, this curvy yet slender redhead, was a fighter no matter what.

“The front door again?” she growled, annoyed.

That’s enough. I grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward the stairs to my room. “Cut that shit out. I’m sick of your attitude.”

“Sick of it?” She scoffed. “How can you be sick of any of me? You’re not here to remember I’m alive.”

Alive. While my first two wives are dead? She couldn’t know what her words could mean to me, but I took offense anyway.

“Shut up. I don’t need to hear you say another fucking word.”

She didn’t stop her attempts to pull of out my grip, and I locked my fingers tighter on her as I directed her up the stairs with me.

“I can walk, goddammit.”

Reaching the doors to my wing, I slammed my free hand against the wood and opened them. Dragging her in, I relished her helplessness to overpower me. She was mine to fuck and do with as I pleased.

She grunted, scowling as I hauled her inside and released her.

Stumbling back, she glared at me and rubbed her wrist. “I hate you. I hate that I ever considered this deal.”

“What?” I locked the doors, working on unbuttoning my shirt as I stalked toward her, forcing her closer to my bed.

“I hate what I had to give up for this fucking deal,” she muttered, biting out the quiet, heated words as she watched my hands on my shirt.

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