Page 42 of Precious Hazard

The brilliance of it is like a punch straight to my chest.

I stare at the pretty trinket that represents everything I’ve ever dreamed of. A promise of forever. Joy and happiness. A vow of endless love.

So many times I’ve imagined a day when the man I love would lower himself down on one knee. Would pledge to cherish me. Protect me. Would ask me to be his wife. Every fantasy I dreamed up was more romantic than the one before. None included a pretentious asshole presenting an engagement ring on a stack of papers containing the terms for the end of our marriage.

Goddamned Arturo DeVille has managed to ruin even this special moment for me. It might have hurt less if he had buried a dagger in my heart.

“Let’s see if it fits,” Satan says, picking up the ring.

My soul weeps in despair as he takes my right hand, not my left. Wraps his warm palm around mine. It doesn’t matter that this marriage is a sham. Temporary. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!

The ring slides onto my finger as if it were meant to be mine.

The stupid jerk even knew that Serbs wear their rings on the opposite hand from the Western tradition. A small part of me hoped he’d screw up and place the ring on my left hand, just so the disappointment would remind me this isn’t real. But the bastard obviously did his research.

“Perfect.” My fiancé nods. “Do handle it with care. It was a custom order from Rome.”

Really?

In that case, I can’t wait to do the dishes with this damn rock on my hand.

Pulling my gaze from the glittering emerald, I look my future husband right in the eye. “I’ll do my best,darling.”

And I’ll do everything I can to make sure Satan rues the day he chose to marry me.

Something isn’t right.

I grab my laptop, pulling up my emails so I can do some work, but my eyes keep darting to Tara. Ever since we got into the car, she’s been serenely curled up on her seat beside me, reading yet another of her books with a bare-chested dude on the cover. Her face is lit by a pleased smile, and sparkles dance in her eyes. The glint in those green depths almost matches the luster of the engagement ring on her finger. Almost.

What the hell was I thinking? Why did I drop a small fortune on that thing? I knew she’d need a ring once we got officially engaged, but I figured I’d just get something locally. Anything from Tiffany’s would have met societal expectations, so why did I end up making a request for a bespoke-designed ring from the most exclusive jeweler in Italy? Why did I insist it should contain a natural Heirloom-grade emerald in the richest shade of green at its center? Why not a diamond or a ruby? Christ. And why… why do I feel nearly feverish with excitement seeing that rock on Tara’s hand? I need my head examined, that’s why.

Does she like it? She didn’t really say anything about it. I couldn’t read her expression either. She just seemed withdrawn.Maybe she was too distracted by our discussion over the prenup to appreciate the ring? Or maybe I should have waited for another time to give it to her?

That conversation wasn’t exactly easy, but I honestly expected more of an argument from her about the prenup. Not about the properties or assets she won’t be entitled to, but about the specifics of how she should act and dress that I insisted on including.

But there were no protests whatsoever. Not even regarding the behavior expected of her at high-profile events. I thought for sure she’d go for my balls when I pointed out that there is to be no talking unless she’s directly asked for her opinion, no drinking more than a glass of wine, and no cussing. But nope.

I know, all that makes me sound like a chauvinist tool. That’s not who I am. But where Tara’s concerned, I can’t take any chances. She’s too wild. Too unpredictable. Too beautiful. And sometimes, too naive. Too inexperienced in dealing with Cosa Nostra.

As a society that clings to traditions, there are so many who put a great deal of stock in public image. They can be ruthless toward anyone who deviates from the norm. The thought of some underhanded bastard looking down his nose at Tara, or worse, using her to get to me, turns my stomach. But I’ll be damned before I ever letherknow that.

Her track record speaks for itself. I mean, what self-respecting woman would want to go to dinner with curlers in her hair and wearing something hardly a step above a ripped workout outfit? One time, she actually did dress in yoga pants and a sports bra, complete with an athletic bag flung over her shoulder. When I pressed her on what the hell she was thinking,she informed me of a Zumba class she was headed to after our date. On another occasion, she got into the car in her pajamas and a bathrobe. Her explanation: I arrived early, and she didn’t want to keep me waiting.

Honestly, that was better than her next chosen outfit. I had reservations at a fine dining establishment in Tribeca, and she showed up in a see-through mesh top and a skirt so short it could have been used as a belt. Riggo was bringing the car around just as Tara walked out the front door, and he almost ran into a tree.

And then, yesterday… Surprisingly, she was dressed appropriately in a nice wool jumpsuit. Except she had a bath towel around her head. Apparently, the special leave-in conditioner treatment she used needed another hour under the wrap. Luckily, the drive from Drago’s to our destination was lengthy, and she discarded the towel before exiting the car.

Each time, Tara’s actions are deliberate, delivered for the purpose of riling me up. I’d admire that daring streak in her if I weren’t worried she’d pull a similar stunt in front of my business partners or subordinates. Their vicious gossip might not bother me, but it would make her life infinitely more difficult. They’d smile in her face but tear her to shreds behind her back. She’d never fit into our world because respect is everything in Cosa Nostra.

I know that her absurd hijinks are just to piss me off. Payback for forcing her into this marriage deal. It should make me furious on all accounts. The problem is, though, I’ve actually started to enjoy her little antics. And I can’t have that. So that tyrannical and condescending document I made Tara Popov sign is as much for her protection as it is for mine.

So why the fuck is she smiling? And why do I find it both aggravating and alluring?

“Is that another one of Barbara’s steamy escapades?” I ask. “Who’s it with now? A stranded sailor? Another rich duke, perhaps?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Romance novel characters are like swans. They mate for life.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to voice such blasphemous questions.”

---