Page 13 of Gilded

MALIA

I ’m in a mood, and the argument between the caterer and the pastry chef over what they consider a mismatch of the wedding dinner and wedding cake isn’t helping.

“There’s nothing wrong with spice cake.” The pastry chef has an Indian accent and an uppity attitude. She glances at me. “Is there?”

“You’d have to ask my father,” I say, using one hand to turn pages in the caterer’s catalog featuring photos of all the high-brow dishes he offers and the other to turn a Lego over between my fingers.

I’d rather there be no food, no cake, no goddamned wedding.

“They are expecting the best of the best,” the caterer tells the chef in his thick New York accent, equally as insolent.

“Spice cake is for Alabama in October, not New York in spring. It’s a seven-course meal, and I’m serving grass-fed, dry-aged Wagyu tomahawk steaks as the main dish.

You have to come up with something comparable, or the whole thing will fall flat. ”

“Stop being so dramatic.”

“I won’t have your hillbilly cake dragging down my sophisticated dinner. And if you want to see dramatic, serve spice cake to Mr. Zeiger or Mr. Tarik.”

“Spice cake is iconic. Its origins date back to the eleventh and twelfth centuries, introduced by the Greeks. Hugo’s late wife was Greek. It’s more than appropriate for Malia’s wedding.”

I look up. “My mother was Greek?”

The other woman glances at me. “Wasn’t she?”

I don’t know. I know almost nothing about my mother. Not even what she looks like. The fact that this stranger knows more than I do doesn’t sit well.

Then the name Varopoulos pops up in my head like a neon sign.

Followed immediately by the trust fund my father stole.

It must have been created by a part of a family I know nothing about.

A family that is probably generous and thoughtful given the amount of money they left me in the trust. Somehow, knowing I have relatives out there somewhere, yet not knowing them, leaves an open cavern in my chest.

I close the catalog and pick up The Kite Runner , one of the fifty books Luka sent for me while he was gone, a rich combination of best-selling thrillers, suspense, and literary fiction, and wander to the window facing the dark ocean.

As the caterer and chef continue to argue, my mind drifts to Luka. Heat and ice twine inside me. I hate who he is. I hate what he stands for. I despise what he’s promised Soren just to get what he wants.

Then he does something as thoughtful as sending these books after I made an off-hand comment.

I lift my wrist to my nose and breathe deep of the beautiful scent he included with the books, in a gorgeous deep red, faceted bottle.

These are the first true gifts I’ve ever received, and I find it perplexing they came from a man I barely know.

His week away has given me too much time to think. Too much time for resentment to grow, resistance to take root, and self-loathing to creep in. My body betrays me every time I think of him with a stream of heat that creates pressure between my legs, the way it did when we were together.

A silver-and-white helicopter passes overhead, drifting toward the landing pad, almost getting lost in a background of clouds.

It has to be Luka’s. My father’s helicopters are black.

Soren took one of them into the city to drink and do whatever the hell he does.

All I know is that he always returns drunk, smelling like sour alcohol and women’s perfume. It’s nauseating.

Knowing Luka is close makes my stomach squeeze. Nerves rise to the surface and rattle. I haven’t been able to stop wondering about the next step in the learning process, and I have no source for information. No internet, no friends, no allies in the staff. I feel like a leper.

He was rough with me last week, but he warned me that’s how Soren likes sex. And I’m afraid that will hurt me in ways I don’t even understand yet.

The chefs stop talking, and I know Luka has stepped into the room. I turn as the chefs say hello and introduce themselves, but Luka’s gaze holds mine. The condition of his face makes me pull in a breath and hold it. He’s wearing a dark suit without a tie, and the injuries seem out of place.

I wait for the chefs to leave before I ask, “What happened?”

I’m surprised at how bland my voice emerges, as if the cuts and bruises don’t turn my stomach. Don’t make my hands itch to grab ice packs and baby him. It’s a stupid thought, but that’s my nurturing side aching for someone to care for. I give myself a harsh reminder that Luka is not that person.

“Occupational hazard.” He comes toward me in a slow prowl, and my temperature spikes. I’d forgotten how intoxicating his voice is. Smooth, deep, fluid.

His hair is a little messy, falling out of whatever style he tamed it into this morning, and it reminds me of how he looked after our last hour together. All ruffled and flushed. The memory cranks my temperature even higher.

“Did you have a doctor look at you?” I ask.

“I’m fine. A few stitches and a lot of bruising. Not all that different from your own injuries.”

Hardly, but I don’t feel like arguing over whose are worse.

He glances at the doorway the chefs just used to exit. “The wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like the plans are coming together.” He holds my gaze with such intensity, I don’t realize I’m wringing my fingers until they sting.

“I literally couldn’t care less.”

He cocks his head. “You’re not taking the opportunity to spend your father’s money?”

My temper kicks. “I don’t want a dime of his dirty money.”

Only after the words are out do I realize that was a problematic thing to say given Luka is tangled up in that money too.

“Isn’t that a bit…hypocritical?”

The insinuation blindsides me. “ What? ”

He rests his ass against the arm of the sofa, reminding me of how he enticed me to kiss him last week. A kiss that seems to come to mind every other minute. Only now, his arms and ankles are crossed. His expression seems cool and serene, but it’s veiling something else.

“You bring in the money he uses for those dirty purposes, don’t you?”

My stomach drops to my feet. He’s so bold. So fearless. So fucking right.

I hate how right he is.

Keep it together. Think of the future.

“You look beautiful,” he says, his gaze scanning my body. “I love the way these dresses showcase your body without looking slutty.”

I glance down the front of my dress, another simple wraparound style in a black-and-pink pattern.

This one is secured with a vertical row of buttons at the side of my waist, and I love it.

“That’s a backhanded compliment, but since I never get them in this house, I’ll take it.

I love the simplicity and comfort of them. ”

“I didn’t mean it that way, but you’re right. I’m sorry. I could have phrased it better.”

“Jesus, I don’t know what to think about you.” I exhale built-up stress. “I never get this kind of treatment.”

“What kind of treatment?”

“Compliments, apologies.”

He nods. “What’s in your hand?”

I lift the novel. “I’m enjoying the books you sent for me. Why did you do that?”

“I also love to read. I can’t imagine not having access to books that interest me. But I meant your other hand.”

The feel of the Lego registers and I’m not at all in the mood to be laughed at. I open my hand, exposing a square blue block. “Lego. Found it in the stacks. I probably lost it in here as a kid.”

“Women your age are always on their phones or the internet. Why aren’t you?”

“I don’t have a phone, I’m not allowed on the internet, and from what I can tell, I’m nothing like other women my age.”

“You’re not allowed?”

“Not allowed.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask my father. He doesn’t feel the need to explain himself to me.”

He considers that a moment, then asks, “Have you thought about me?” His slow, hot smile shoots gooseflesh across my shoulders. “Please don’t say not even a little.”

I laugh, but I won’t dignify his position in my life by telling him I haven’t been able to think about much else.

“What happened while I was gone, princess?”

I hate the term princess. Outside of my surroundings, there is nothing princess-like in my life. This is nothing but a gilded cage.

“Nothing. The week has been uneventful.”

“I like uneventful. Does anyone need to lose limbs?”

“Not even a finger. I know you’re not serious, but it’s still a disturbing joke.”

“Oh, I’m serious, love.” The dip in his voice is menacing. “But it’s good to know it won’t have to happen. Is your father back from his trip?”

I’m stuck on the love at the end of that sentence. A sweet endearment I would eat up if it wasn’t delivered in such a twisted context. And I wonder for the first time if he really would cut off someone’s hands.

“No, he’s still gone.”

“Where did he go?”

“No one ever tells me where they go or when they’ll be back. They just leave.”

“And Soren?” Luka asks.

“He’s out with friends. Seems to spend most of his time that way, which I also prefer.”

“And what have you been up to?”

“Finalizing everything for the gala and my visit to Thrive.”

“What type of charity is Thrive?”

“A home for orphans in Kenya.”

His brows lift. “Your father is letting you go to Kenya?”

“On a private jet with four bodyguards who will take me from the hotel to Thrive and back.”

“When is that happening?”

“A week and a half.”

He nods. “And your gala? Are you still looking forward to it?”

“The galas are one of the few things I do look forward to throughout the year.” At least, they used to be. “I get out into the real world. Meet people.”

“Bring in money,” he adds.

“Right. That too.”

He goes quiet but never breaks eye contact. And even though he looks calm and in control, I feel a whirlwind of some kind whipping up inside him.

I lift my hand to his face and focus on the injuries, grimacing. He’s bruised from cheekbone to chin, and his stitches add a dark accent at his chin. “That’s an intense occupational hazard. Do you need pain meds?”

“No. I’m loaded up. What do you want to do tonight?”

Escape. Leave this island and never see or speak about my father or the first twenty-one years of my life ever again.

But that would take me down the wrong path. I’ve shored up my acceptance of my situation over the last week. Like Luka said, I don’t have to like the situation, but I do have to deal with it. And those injuries remind me of just what kind of man I’m dealing with.

I lower my hand and ease away. “I’d like to cut to the heart of this arrangement. I want it behind me. So, let’s just, you know, fuck.”