apparently. Also rumored to have connections, or former connections, to the Italian-American mafia. Or, as my father had always referred to them, the New York Firm.
Which means we have at least one thing in common.
Probably the only thing.
That was all I knew about the man I’d just unwillingly—what was the American phrase?—hitched my wagon to.
His short beard was surprisingly soft when it grazed my cheek as he leaned in for that kiss. It didn’t scratch or chafe my skin, which somehow left me feeling even more annoyed. The fact that he actually had the nerve to look rugged, yet well-groomed, in his smoky three-piece Italian suit was maddening. That his hands were calloused, yet his nails were neatly trimmed. That his light brown hair was carelessly pulled back into a low man bun, yet it was obviously freshly-washed. Not to mention, his whiskey-colored eyes were sharp and intelligent, yet they gleamed with an insufferable brand of cockiness that I’m sure had been manufactured over years of practice.
These confusing contrasts were not going to work for me.
My husband—Nico—looked at me with unabashed satisfaction after the priest finished offering his blessings and left the room. “That wasn’t too painful, now, was it?”
That was literally only the third time he’d spoken to me since we met twelve hours before. “Speak for yourself.”
His admittedly beguiling eyes crinkled in the corners. “Aw, come on. I’m sure you could do worse.”
I glared. “I wouldn’t put money on it if I were you.”
His mouth tugged up in a half-grin. “She’s got teeth, does she? Good. It would have been disappointing if you were nothing more than a pretty face.”
My head reared back at his audacity to speak to me that way. No one who knew who my father was would ever dare to. Especially in his own house. But strangely, it didn’t bother me. I wasn’t offended. I’d never asked or expected anyone to walk on eggshells around me. In fact, all I’d ever wanted was for others to treat me just like everyone else. Not to mince words or hide the truth or handle me with kid gloves.
So, even though he was being an outright mudak—asshole—at least he was being forthright.
“What a shame,” I retorted. “That’s all you appear to be.”
He nodded once. “Nice to know you think I’m pretty. It will make everything that follows much more tolerable.”
I narrowed my eyes. “If you think there’s even the slightest possibility of this marriage being consummated in any way, you’re obviously thinking with the wrong head.”
There was a microscopic tick in his eyebrow, as if I’d surprised him, before he schooled his expression back into one of indifference, with a hint of boredom. It looked for a moment like he might have actually been impressed with my bold words.
“Yet the fact that you just mentioned my other head indicates that you’ve already thought about it,” he pointed out. “Possibly even pictured it. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Many women have succumbed to those same urges.”
My mouth tightened as my nails dug into my palms. How many of those women had slapped him? “Don’t make the mistake of assuming I’m anything like the horde of women who’ve been desperate enough to sleep with you.” I huffed in dry laughter. “Actually, on second thought, go ahead and think that. It’ll make every time I reject you that much more satisfying.”
His gaze brazenly raked over me in a lazy, head-to-toe perusal. “Trust me, legs. You know nothing of satisfaction. Not until you’ve been in my bed.”
Okay, one, I hated his new nickname for me. But only because it came from his mouth and because he thought of it. Two, men like him drove me mad. Nothing annoyed me more than guys with little man complexes who talked a much bigger game than they’d ever be capable of delivering on. Men who only used their mouths to get women into bed, but didn’t have the follow through to actually keep them there.
All talk and no walk.
Although, Nico certainly didn’t strike me as the type to have a little man complex. Mainly because he was by no means a little man. At five-foot-nine, I was a taller than average woman, and I was wearing heeled boots. For him to tower over me by half a foot put him at six-and-a-half feet, minimum. And he was built like most of the byki—guards—that patrolled my father’s estate. Even through his suit, his pectorals were clearly defined and compact. His arms filled out every inch