Page 30 of Claiming Genevieve

“An engagement needs a ring,taibhseach,” I murmur, stepping closer to her as I slip the ring out of the box. Since the night I met her, Genevieve’s style has always been simple and elegant, and I chose a ring that I thought would match that—a five-carat, flawless emerald-cut diamond on a thin gold band.

Her eyes widen as I slip it onto her finger. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers, and I smile, drawing her closer with my hand still wrapped around hers.

“Not as beautiful as you,milseán.” I have the sudden urge to lean in and kiss her, but I can feel both my father’s and the priest’s eyes on us, and it’s hardly the setting I want for our first kiss. As it is, I’ve been having trouble keeping my cock under control throughout this entire ordeal, since the moment Genevieve showed up in a body-hugging dark blue sheath dress that gave me a number of indecent thoughts. Rather than get an erection in church, I managed to spend most of my time looking anywhere but at her, but now she’s so close to me that I can smell the herbal, salty scent of her perfume. The sight of my ring on her finger, a tangible promise that soon she’ll be mine to do with as I like—if only for a brief time—is enough to almost undo all my hard-won control.

She leans in, the scent of her skin mingling with her perfume, making my head spin for the second time tonight. Her lips nearly brush my ear as she whispers in it, low enough for no one else to hear.

“That’s a really bad line, Rowan. But it sounds better in that accent of yours.”

She pulls back, and I want to grab her and kiss her, to find out for the first time what her mouth tastes like, what those plush lips feel like under mine. But instead, I take a step back, clearing my throat.

“Our engagement party is going to be Saturday night. Give me a list of who you want to invite, and I’ll see that it’s sent out.”

The four days until then feel like they drag infinitesimally, days filled with the minutiae of the family business that my father expects me to focus on now more than ever. It’s not until I’m in the grand ballroom of our family estate, watching with a drink in my hand as guests filter in, that I feel like I can breathe again when I see Rory approaching me.

“Her car pulled around out back,” he says when he reaches me. “I told her to wait, just like you said boss.”

I nod, setting my drink down on the bar and straightening my suit jacket. The last thing I want is Genevieve hobbling into the estate ballroom on her crutches in full view of everyone. I’m well aware of how her injury makes her feel, and regardless of how real our relationship is or isn’t, I’m not about to let her feel humiliated at her own engagement party.

I stride toward the back door, and see the waiting town car just outside. I see Alek Yashkov step out, dressed in dark gray suit pants and a dark red button-down with the sleeves rolled up. I have a feeling this is the most formal I’ll ever see him, based on what I’ve heard about the man—other than maybe his own wedding to Dahlia, who follows him out of the car. I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his knuckles as he touches the small of her back, her name inked into his skin in dark letters that stand out against the rose-pink silk of his wife’s evening gown.

The other passenger door opens, and I feel as if all the air has been sucked out of my lungs when I catch a glimpse of Genevieve.

She’s wearing a white evening gown, made of paper-thin silk that seems to float over and cling to every inch of her willowy body. The skirt is long, hiding most of her cast, with a slit up one side, showing off her uninjured leg. The dress itself is strapless, showing off her toned upper body and sharp bone structure, and the bodice has delicate cutouts winding across it—from beneath one breast to the side of her other hip—with soft white feathers fluttering across the illusion lace.

It’s a dress fit for a ballerina. Even I, with my limited knowledge of it, know that swanlike in its elegant beauty. I quickly step forward to offer her my arm, helping her up out of the car as she braces one crutch under her other arm and lets out a slow breath.

“I hate this,” she whispers softly, and the admission startles me. It’s the most vulnerable she’s ever been. She looks up at me, her dark eyes for a brief moment showing how tired she is, how sad. And then the look is gone in a fleeting moment, and her expression smooths into that carefully practiced expression that I’ve come to recognize.

“We’ll go straight to the table,” I murmur as we walk toward the back door. I see Alek and Dahlia curving around the other side of the house, following Rory back to the front entrance. “That way, fewer people will see you on crutches.”

Genevieve shoots me a grateful look. I see a hint of surprise there as well, as if she’s startled that I thought of it. A flash of anger burns through my gut at the thought ofwhyshe’s surprised, that the piece of shit she was with before didn’t bother to think of her comfort or happiness at all.

Our table is at the back, facing the others spread throughout the room, and I help her to her chair, not letting go of her arm until she sinks down into it as gracefully as she can manage. “I’ll bring you a drink,” I tell her, taking the crutch from her and slipping it under the table out of sight.

When I come back a few minutes later with a glass of champagne for her—and a whiskey and ginger for me—I see two other women standing at the table, talking to Genevieve. I think I recognize one of them from the party, one of the other ballerinas, and the other one looks like she is, too—she has the same tall, willowy, elegant build.

“—it all happened so fast,” I hear Genevieve say, in a light, almost breathy voice that I’ve never heard her use before. “After we met at the party, it was just a whirlwind. I know it’s a fast engagement, but once you know—” She lifts one shoulder elegantly. “I’ve never been a romantic, but Rowan changed all that. I’ve never been so in love.”

The women beam at her, smiling and laughing, and I stand there for a moment, looking at her and unsure how to feel. I know what she’s doing, of course—she can’t exactly tell the truth, that we’ve agreed to a marriage of convenience that will end as soon as my father passes and I’m no longer obliged to be married. But hearing her say it aloud, with such conviction in her voice, as if it were actually true, sends a stinging pain through me that I didn’t know I could feel—and that I can’t make sense of.

Why do I care if she spins stories about our supposed romance to her friends?I should be pleased. It’s smart, and it proves I made the right choice in picking her to be my temporary bride. She might not know all the ins and outs of this life she’s about to marry into, but she clearly knows enough to be aware that it wouldn’t be good for it to get out that our marriage is a ploy. That should be a relief.

Instead, I feel oddly hurt, listening to her wax romantic about something that doesn’t really exist.

I rejoin her a moment later, when her friends have walked away, and hand her the glass of champagne. She gives me a grateful look, her lips pressing together as if she wants to say something and isn’t.

“What is it?” I drop down into the chair next to her, taking a sip of my whiskey and ginger and relishing the burn in my throat.

“I think I made the right choice.”

She takes a sip of champagne, looking out over the large room clustered with guests—her friends and family friends and business associates—and for a moment I think she’s not going to elaborate. My gut tells me that it might be better if she didn’t. I don’t need anything to encourage the strange swirl of emotion running through me right now. But instead, like the fool that I’m beginning to believe she makes me, I ask anyway.

“What does that mean,taibhseach?”

Genevieve looks at me, raising her glass to her lips, and I expect a flippant remark, or some other manner of deflection. But she seems more subdued tonight, more willing to be vulnerable with me. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s our engagement party, or the fact that I can tell her mood is tempered by her injury and lack of mobility, but she doesn’t have the usual fire that I’ve come to expect in our conversations.

“Just that I’ve gotten more consideration from you as your bride of convenience than I ever got from Chris as his actual girlfriend. More than I’ve gotten from any guy I’ve ever dated, actually.” She takes another sip of champagne. “Aren’t mafia guys supposed to be assholes? Broody and brutal and violent?”

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