Page 54 of Girl Anonymous

No. She wouldn’t call it that. That would indicate intimacy, engaged emotions, a relationship. Better to call it fucking, and she told herself one time did not mean mindless fucking.

Her other self pointed out, logically and with great precision, that thinking about the fucking every night while she was alone in her bed constituted mindless…something. Mindless horniness. Mindless need. Wanting to touch herself now, in the dark, while he stood beside her…that constituted lust.

She was not married to him. She was tagging along so she didn’t get killed because of that damned… “What happened to the bottle?”

“Not to worry, I have it,” he assured her. “Let’s go out the side door. It’s right here.”

She grabbed his lapel. “Wait. A month ago you hated me. I was the villain. I had stolenla Bouteille de Flamme. I’d killed your father. My sister’s blood meant nothing. You judged me. Why now? You make some kind of phony marriage to me? You believed me when I said someone came into my house and put the bottle in my drawer? Why? Why now?” She was so angry. The bastard. The Arundel. Dante. Always the same. Injustice and death and…and fucking.

And she was the one being fucked.A pretend marriage.Damn him all to hell.

“You could have been the one who they sent to kill me,” he said. “You could have been the one who planned the theft ofla Flamme. You’re smart enough. You’re the apex of the Daire family. You could own the world. I knew it. But I didn’t believe it.”

“Because I was a virgin.”

“Because you risked your life to save my mother!” He took a long breath. “I made you memorize the number. The last thing I did was make you repeat it. What does that mean to you?”

“It means you’re hedging your bets.”

“I only bet on sure things.” He put his face close to hers. “You. Need to. Remember. That.”

CHAPTER 25

She would remember that. Maarja remembered everything Dante had ever said to her, because it was safe. It was important. If she was going to live through this, she needed him. He was either going to save her…or kill her.

A man who was going to kill her wouldn’t perform a wedding ceremony with her.

Would he?

The side door wasn’t normal-sized. It was narrow and short, made to fit a hobbit or maybe to give the 1940s milkman somewhere to put his deliveries. Dante held her elbow as she stepped onto the slick concrete stairs and down the steps. He followed her at close quarters. He opened the gate that led into the next house’s backyard and shoved her through. They walked through somebody’s backyard, avoided their handkerchief-sized garden, went through another gate into the next backyard, then down a narrow side yard, through another gate, and…they stood at the back of the Live Oak Restaurant and Inn.

The brick building was old, and long, and thin, a former brothel converted into a world-class restaurant and a few suites expanded to rent for fifteen hundred dollars a night. And up. Most people who lived in Gothic couldn’t afford to stay here. Certainly she never had. But she’d eaten in the dining room,rubbing elbows with movie stars and jet-setters who traveled to Gothic to enjoy Señor Emilio Alfonso’s Spanish creations.

With his hand on her spine, Dante directed her into the side door here, as narrow and low as the last one, and she found herself in the small restaurant kitchen, aflame with cooking burners and full of ovens toasting iron pans of bread, cheese, vegetables, and thin slices of exotic meats that, oh, God, smelled like heaven to someone who planned a cheese and veggie plate before falling into bed.

Señor Alfonso, justly famous for his four-star restaurant in Barcelona, Spain, directed his small staff with energy and enthusiasm. Catching sight of Dante and Maarja, he shot them a welcoming smile and gestured them toward the small table in the far corner of the kitchen. Not in the dining room, the kitchen! They were as private as it was possible to be. No one could see them or know they were here. How had Dante arranged this in the convenient here and now? Maybehehad put the bottle in her sock drawer?

She chewed on that thought as he seated her on the bench against the wall, slid the table closer, then snuggled against her, effectively trapping her and touching her. Leaning in, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

In a low voice, she said, “Someone tried to frame me for theft. You involved me in some bizarre ceremony—”

“Wedding ceremony,” he corrected.

“You seem to think my house needs protecting, that I need protecting.”

“I will always protect my wife.”

She took a breath and let it out.One battle at a time, Maarja.“You have people impersonating us, dressed like us, leadingthem, whoever they are, astray. You rent a house we can walk into so it looks like we’re people we’re not—”

“Bought it.”

“And we sneaked through dark backyards to have dinner inthe Live Oak Restaurant kitchen!” She leaned forward, got in his face. “What’s wrong? Really, Dante? What isn’t wrong?”

Oblivious to the moment, Señor Alfonso appeared at the table carrying hisgambas al ajilloserved in a miniature cast-iron skillet sizzling with olive oil. He placed the shrimp in front of Maarja where the scent distracted her with its garlicky goodness. “The señorita loves these, I know.” Pulling a corkscrew and a bottle from his expansive apron pocket, he expertly opened the wine, producing two glasses, and poured a taste for Dante. “From Rioja, as you requested.”

Dante tasted it. “Excellent. One of my favorites.”

One of the sous chefs arrived with a cutting board with small wedges oftortilla Españolasurrounded by toothpicks of Manchego cheese topped with pimento-stuffed Gordal olives, and a basket of crusty bread.

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