Page 24 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

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 let her know 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.”

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t expect someone like you to comprehend the dream of finding a loving lifelong partner.”

“Someone like me ?”

She doesn’t answer, just continues reading.

“And? Why not?”

“Because you’re already married to your precious Cosa Nostra, DeVille. And anyway, it’s not as if any reasonable woman could fall in love with a jerk who outlines in a ten-page manifesto how she’s expected to behave while married to him.”

“That agreement was drafted specifically for you, Tara. It’s not something I would have done for someone else.”

“Oh, aren’t I lucky?” She tilts her chin, pursing her lips in the process. “A special contract for a special wife. That’s so nice. I’ve never felt so uniquely singled out before.”

“You know exactly why I had to do it.”

“Nope, not really.”

“Our first ‘date,’ when I wanted to take you to a nice dinner at a fine establishment, you showed up in a cropped sweatshirt with those plastic things in your hair. A lot of affluent and powerful people, people like the owners and CEOs of reputable and influential companies, many of which the Family collaborates with, dine at the place we were headed.”

“And you were afraid your dignity would take a hit if you arrived with a date dressed in an old sweatshirt? I had no idea that your ego was so fragile.”

“Perception is reality when it comes to these people. And the Family cannot afford to be perceived as weak. Anyone can be made or broken based on their image and reputation, which is true in the Mafia just as much as within the corporate world. That’s why you won’t ever see a CEO going out in a polo shirt or a CFO wearing flip-flops.

And since my job is to represent the Family, I won’t ever be caught in anything that disgraceful.

My date won’t be either. And most especially, neither will my wife. ”

“God, you must be a Virgo.”

“A what?”

“It’s a zodiac sign. When’s your birthday?”

“September ninth. And I don’t believe in astrology.”

“Yup, Virgo. Knew it right away. Jesus, I’ve never met a man with such a large stick up his ass.”

My lips twitch, and I barely contain my smile.

I’ve clearly lost all my marbles because instead of being royally infuriated by her audacity to speak to me in this manner, I’m actually amused.

Her constant needling irritates me to no end, but at the same time, I’ve found myself eager to see what she’ll think of next.

My reactions to Tara Popov are becoming more than a mere inconvenience.

I can’t believe I still haven’t made that call to Miranda like I’ve been intending to for weeks.

My ex-lover could have helped me exorcise this unhealthy attraction I seem to have developed toward my future wife.

Why haven’t I contacted the buxom blonde already?

Oh right. Because every time I reached for my phone, Tara’s likeness popped into my thoughts.

A picture of her, naked and pressed under my body, gasping for her next breath as she bites retort after snarky retort at me. While I fuck her senseless.

I shake my head and reach for my phone. “One of Gateway’s business partners is celebrating a company anniversary on Friday. You’ll accompany me.”

“Can’t. Our Slava is on Friday.”

“ Slava ? What’s that?”

“A big cultural celebration to honor our patron saint. All our friends and family are coming over for lunch.” She licks her thumb before turning the page.

“Also, I can’t go on any fake dates until after.

We’re expecting about three hundred guests, so Keva has recruited the entire household to help prepare sarma . She’ll kill me if I try to ditch.”

Three hundred people?

“Alright. What time should I be there on Friday, then?”

Tara shuts her book with a loud snap and scrunches her nose at me. “Family and friends, DeVille. And you’re neither.”

In all my dealings with the Serbs over the years, I’ve gotten a glimpse of how flirty their guys get. There’s no way I’m letting Tara attend that damn Slava unsupervised. “I’ll bring the wine…, my darling future wife .”