Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
But she does. I saw it in her eyes, in the pained expression she wore. I saw pity.
I’m not a man to be pitied.
I’m also not a man she wants to get close to. Not if she hopes to live very long. That’s what plagues me worst of all as I pull onto the freeway and head downtown. I don’t know anymore if I’m pushing her away because I don’t want her or because it would be safest for her to stay far away from me. I’m the last man she needs to develop any sort of tender feelings toward.
All I’ll do is get her killed the way my mother was. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than me, for sure. Considering the man who fathered her, I’d say she’s already suffered more than enough. I can’t imagine how he’s treated her, and I’m not sure I want to know. Not when it would be so easy to murder the bastard. Maybe once we’re back in Italy, with an ocean between him and us, I can satisfy my morbid curiosity.
Though really, all that sharing and relating would only bring us closer. I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to her to make her care for me, to put her life in danger that way. Any woman who makes the mistake of caring for me would end up paying for it in one way or another.
She seems good and frightened right now. That’s for the best. If she’s feeling intimidated, she’s hating me and behaving herself. I can’t ask for much more than that at the moment.
“I want you to think about what you need. For the wedding, all of it. I’m not in the mood to wander around from store to store while you make up your mind.”
“I’m sure I won’t need much,” she whispers. I glance over to find her staring out the window, her folded hands pressed between her knees.
“You’ll need a dress, at least.”
She snorts. “Does it really matter?”
“I’m sure it will matter to your father and mother if you show up for the wedding wearing sweatpants—or nothing but one of my dress shirts. Not exactly what they had in mind.”
“Why do you even care?” An interesting question. I don’t know how to answer it, so I let it go, and soon we fall back into uneasy silence.
That’s a good thing. She needs to feel uneasy around me. We’ve drifted too far away from how things ought to be between us. I know it’s up to me to change that.
I warn her again as we pull into a parking garage in town. “I’m serious. Do you doubt how bad I could make things for you if you decide to look for help while we’re shopping?”
“I get it. I’ll behave.” A glance her way treats me to an eye roll.
I’ve never seen a woman look so unhappy about going shopping, but then I don’t have much experience with this, either. I suppose my presence isn’t helping things. It takes conscious effort to maintain a pleasant expression as I all but drag her down the street. “We’ll go in here,” I mutter, keeping a tight grip on her hand while gesturing toward a store with the other.
Her eyes widen. “Versace? Are you kidding?”
“Why would I kid?” She says nothing else, allowing me to lead her inside.
“This is nice,” she whispers. I don’t even know if she realized she said it, and I doubt she was talking to me. More like an inner thought she whispered without noticing.
And she’s not wrong. The stores here in the Design District are top of the line, all the way, hence our being here. “What would you like?”
She blinks, her mouth falling open as we begin strolling through the place. “I have no idea.”
“You need everything, don’t you? Top to bottom.”
“I guess, but…” She runs tentative fingers over a silk blouse, then winces when she looks at the price. “This is too nice for me.”
Just when I think I have her figured out, she goes and says something like that. Too nice for her? Girls like her live along this strip, or at least that was the impression I got during prior visits. Even now, the street is crawling with girls her age carrying shopping bags over one arm and sipping smoothies and iced lattes.
“I would think it’s fairly standard for a girl from your family.”
She seems to shake herself out of it, then shrugs. “You’re right. I… don’t get a lot of opportunities to choose my own clothes.”
That, I believe. “Well, if it would make you feel better, I can pick out things I like for you.” I’m already looking around for a store clerk. “Remember. Not a word.”
“I remember,” she whispers a moment before a girl dressed in black from head to toe joins us, her brows lifted in anticipation. She’s going to be glad she came to work today, at least if she works on commission.