Page 19 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

I say, “I’m hungry again,” and it’s that simple.

The novel is set on a side table, sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket, and he’s listing options of food, either to be delivered or restaurant options.

I choose one of the resort’s restaurants (if we stay alone in the room for any longer I’ll probably get bored and try to seduce him into more orgasms), and make quick work of changing before we’re walking side by side there, both smelling of sunscreen.

“You like to read,” I say once we’re seated. “I just remembered your house was full of books.”

Those piles of books stacked on side tables and shelves seemed so strange to me then, so incongruous to the image of Maxim Orlov I’d created in my mind.

I think I imagined him perpetually with a glass of liquor in hand, forever brooding in a club, maybe puffing a cigar.

I couldn’t imagine his legs propped up and brow furrowed while reading sci-fi.

“Yes, I’ve always liked to read. My father used to say books were the sign of an impressionable man. He loathed them.”

“So, obviously, you got your hands on as many books as you could,” I conclude and he smirks.

“Exactly.”

“When do you find time to read?”

“Probably the same way you find time to play games with your niece and nephew.”

We smile at each other. Anyone watching might believe there’s real tenderness between us. I don’t know that I would go that far after three months of this charade, but I do have respect for him, and a general contentment of his presence.

As he orders every appetizer on the menu for me, I’m sure that my choice in spouse was a good one. Not the most romantic of stories, not like my father might have wanted for me, but life married to Maxim will be comfortable. And the added protection of my family will alleviate some stress I carry.

The waiter offers to pour wine into the glass in front of me, but I cover it with my hand and shake my head. “No, thank you. Water is great.”

“Apologies,” the waiter says, and retreats with a bow.

I avoid alcohol as much as possible, because you really never know when you’ll need to be in control of all of your faculties. Only one of Maxim’s guards came on the trip with us, and has kept his distance, out of sight and out of mind. By all accounts, I’m probably safe, but I try not to risk it.

“Maxim Orlov?” A deep voice says, interrupting our comfortable quiet.

We both turn in their direction, and a sun-kissed man I am almost confident I’ve never seen approaches with a much-younger woman on his arm. She’s way, way hotter than him, but he’s got the rich as sin thing going on, so good for her.

“Maxim Orlov at an Orlov resort, I’ll be damned. And I hear congratulations are in order.” He’s got a southern accent, though not a thick one. He turns to me and whistles. “You’re the new Mrs. Orlov? How’d he manage to pull you?”

I scrunch my nose in distaste at the remark, and all geniality is gone from Maxim’s eyes.

“This is my wife, Mary. Mary, this is Colton Tenneson.”

Marianna for himself, Mary to those he dislikes. Noted.

The man’s name is familiar and surprises me; Colton Tenneson owns a lot of property in Boston, a couple even built by Morelli Construction.

I’ve never met him, but Willa has had to work with him and his team; says he’s insufferable and the perfect example of just how far nepotism can take an unqualified person.

“A pleasure, Mary,” Colton says, not bothering to introduce his date. I nod at him and smile at her. “I was surprised to hear you were getting married. When was the big day?”

“Yesterday,” I say. “We’re celebrating.”

The woman next to him startles, and Colton lets out a belly laugh.

“Your honeymoon! Incredible. Well, then I better not try to talk business with you, eh?”

“No,” Maxim says simply. Colton taps Maxim’s shoulder as if they’re friends, and the action makes me want to commit bodily harm to the man.

“We’ll meet up when you’re back in the city. Nice seeing you both,” Colton says before, thankfully, making his exit. These days, a mob boss can’t just be a mob boss, they have to be respectable businesspeople and have annoying, perfunctory business conversations. It’s not all crime and cleanups.

Plates of food are brought out to us, and I really was starving because I’m distracted from asking any prying questions about the disturbance in our evening. I’m about to dish up one of everything when I remember Leo’s request to take photos, so I snap and send a photo off to him.

“So you work with that guy?” I ask between bites of the most delicious stuffed mushrooms I have ever eaten.

“No, but not for lack of trying on his part.”

“So what, everyone wants a piece of you?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Maxim has worked hard over the last decade to make Orlov Enterprises into a worldwide juggernaut of a company and to make his crime family respected and feared.

Of course they want a piece of it. “Speaking of, got any angry exes I should be on the lookout for? I should have asked last night. If they were at the wedding, you could have pointed them out to me.”

“None of note. None that you’d need to worry about if there were.”

I raise a brow, unsure of his meaning.

“None of them can fight,” he explains, and it’s a concerted effort to keep from smiling at the hint of praise.

I know many men who hate to acknowledge that I can fight because, usually it means they know I could beat them.

Maxim has no such concern for his perceived strength or masculinity, as he’s made clear on multiple occasions.

“And what about you?”

“No exes,” I dismiss quickly.

It’s Maxim’s turn to pause over his food, but instead of a raised eyebrow it’s a knowing smirk.

I wave my fork in the general direction of his face. “What’s that look about? You know of an ex I’m omitting?”

“Only the shattered hearts of a dozen patrons of my club,” he says, and puts a bite of chicken in his mouth.

“Yes, well I wouldn’t call drunk hookups exes.”

“You were never drunk,” Maxim notes, and I still. Noticing my pause, he leans across the table and lowers his voice.

I imagine we look like two lovers, leaning close to converse over our candlelit dinner, not two practical strangers who now share the same last name. His eyes drop to my lips and back up with a challenge. I force a closed-lip smile.

“It was never about the drinks for you. I don’t know what kept you coming back to my club—I don’t flatter myself that it was the ambiance—but in all of your time there, you never drank anything but water.”

He nods at the empty wine glass, a punctuation to his observation.

“So why did you pick my club?”

I look away, uncertain or unwilling to answer. At first, I went to his club because of the distance. It was a good place simply because no Morelli or Donovann clan members were there to see me. But then it was something different, that I struggled to admit even to myself. It was Maxim.

He was never a discreet observer of me, standing on his perch of the second story staring into the crowd.

I never tried to convince myself that he was looking at someone else, I could feel his eyes on me, and a part of me craved that attention.

He never looked at me with knowing condolences or concern for my health and well-being.

He looked at me like I was interesting, not dangerous.

That’s what kept me going to that club instead of to another fight night; his eyes, and the promise of a meaningless hookup at the end of the night.

“Good DJs,” I lie. “I never went home with anyone more than once, so you have nothing to worry about. No one would fight you for my attention.”

Maxim leans back in his chair and gives me a long look, so long that I fold and take a sip of water to look away from him.

“You don’t know,” he says. “Do you?”

My skin prickles, unsure what he means and not liking the feeling of being seen in ways I don’t see myself. It makes me uneasy.

“What?”

Maxim smiles, shakes his head. “I should have been paying you commission, Marianna. You took those guests, first timers some of them, and with one dance, one kiss, one night alone with you, you made them regulars. They came back, mooning eyes looking for you, distraught to see you with someone else. There is no shortage of women and men in Boston who would loathe me to know it’s my ring on your finger. ”

I blink at the image he painted, strangers lusting after me, pining for more than one night. I know he’s wrong.

I am a catch, sure, but no one would want me for more than a hookup unless there was something in it for them. The promise of a child, in Maxim’s case.

“You’re lying,” I say.

Maxim’s face is serious, but there is still a glint to his eyes, like he knows a secret. His dark hair is slicked back, per usual, but some strands have fallen loose over his forehead. At his temples, a slight dusting of gray hair mixes with the black. He is striking.

This time, I don’t look away.

“For someone as perceptive as you, you sure don’t realize how people perceive you .”

I do, though. They’ve always made it very clear; I am frightening, off-putting, surly, rude, brash, short, nightmare fuel for small children and nerdy math teachers.

I am not approachable, nor particularly polished, not like my sisters.

I am the youngest daughter, the runt, the one who’s never been quite right .

“Well at your club, I was always just pretending,” I say. “Nobody would covet me as a wife.”

His face turns to shock and then concern, and he’s about to say something else, something that will make me feel completely naked before him, and I don’t want to hear it, so I stand abruptly.

“I’m tired. Please have them send my meal to the room, I’ll eat it later.” I leave before giving him a chance to urge me not to.