Page 46 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

I take a step behind her and tighten my hold on her waist, dipping my head to speak softly into her ear.

“Regardless of the reasons that forced us into this marriage, you are my wife. And you will be treated with respect. I won’t allow anyone to be rude or belligerent to you, especially in public.

What you and I say to each other in private, that stays between us.

” I blow on the peacock feather stuck in the side of her bun as it tickles my nose.

“And ridiculous doesn’t even come close to describing this abomination, gattina . ”

Tara tilts her head, giving me a sideways look while something that sounds like a muffled moan leaves her tightly pressed lips.

She appears as if she’s struggling not to laugh.

For a couple of heartbeats, victory is nearly in her grasp.

Until she fails. Her eyes sparkle with mischief while her lips pull into a radiant smile.

“I have to agree with you on that one, Satan.” A low, sensual chuckle slips from her, the sound mixing with the chatter of people and the occasional clinking of glass.

Her smile lights up her entire face. It’s not the fake grin this time, either.

It’s real. And warm. And directed at me.

Her anxiety seems to have also faded; she’s not pulling on her skirt anymore.

I must have been able to distract her enough to allow her to forget her troubles.

Realizing that makes me feel like a fucking superhero or whatever.

It’s a damn good feeling to know that I was able to make her laugh, make her happy.

And make her feel safe. When was the last time a tiny thing like that made my heart beat faster?

Made me pause to enjoy a small, simple moment? I don’t even remember.

“Is the crowd tonight typical?” she asks. “There seems to be quite a menagerie of guests.”

“Yeah.” Somehow, I manage to pull myself together. “Lots of prospective business opportunities await. Let’s mingle.”

The chairman of the board, representing a well-known venture capitalist firm, is sipping a flute of champagne next to the hors d’oeuvres table at the center of the room.

I’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with him for the past two months.

But instead of heading directly to him and using tonight’s opportunity to back him into a corner until he accepts, I find myself steering us in the opposite direction.

One of the owners of a country-wide retail chain is lingering by the open bar on the far left side of the ballroom, swaying slightly as if he’s already had a few too many.

This would be a great time to schmooze the man, try to see if I can dig up some inside information.

Just last week, Ajello and I were debating whether we should buy some of their stock. I direct our path to the right instead.

For nearly half an hour, we walk aimlessly around the room, all while I do my best to avoid being dragged into a conversation by whomever we pass.

What the fuck am I doing? Business was the only reason I wanted to come here tonight.

I should be networking, making connections with the big fish in the room and trying to determine whether there’s a way for us to exploit them, not strolling casually with my arm around my wife.

But that’s all I seem to be interested in.

I wish all these people would just magically disappear, leaving me alone with the gorgeous woman at my side.

My wife. My wife, who I just want to take home and find some mundane, meaningless crap to argue about.

All so I can enjoy her blatant attempt to defy me.

To give me a reason to whisk her into my bed.

Carry her off like some kind of caveman, then fuck her senseless, turning my bedroom into a sex den.

The thought stops me in my tracks. Have I completely lost my fucking marbles?

“Are you alright, DeVille?” Tara arches her perfect brow at me.

No. I don’t think I am.

And fuck! I hate, hate , haaaate her not using my name!

“Arturo DeVille,” a guttural, slightly accented voice calls out. “And little Tara Popov. What an unexpected surprise to see you here.”

I turn around, spearing the interloper with my glare. Katrakis Senior. He wobbles toward us on unsteady feet, looking slightly disheveled and obviously drunk.

“Heard you had issues with some paperwork recently. So awkward,” he slurs.

Motherfucker. I knew he was behind that fiasco with the permits.

“No sweat. It’s been resolved. A misplaced item is easily found when you have capable people working for you.” I tighten my hold on Tara’s waist, discreetly waving my security guys off when I see them approaching. “But I hear you’re still looking for yours. Any luck locating your missing son?”

Tara’s spine stiffens, and she leans into me. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought that up, all things considered.

“You know something about my boy’s whereabouts?” the Greek sneers through his teeth.

“I don’t bother with small fish, Katrakis. Perhaps you should look for your spawn in Atlantic City. As I’ve heard, he tends to frequent the casinos there quite regularly. Maybe that’s how he ended up losing the deed to the property that’s now mine?”

“You scumbag,” he hisses. “Always too full of yourself. You think you’re better than everyone else? Well, you’re not! See”—his angry gaze slides to Tara—“you’re screwing my son’s scraps. How does—”

For more than a decade now, one simple rule has been my credo.

Do not lose your shit in front of prospective business associates.

That means I’ve had to control my temper more often than this fucknut’s shit-for-brains offspring jerked off to his own reflection.

Along with biting my tongue, I’ve had to curb every impulse for violence.

Any deviation would tarnish the carefully crafted reputation our Family has been trying to maintain.

To outside society, I’ve done everything possible to appear as nothing but a savvy businessman.

One who would never engage in a physical confrontation with someone amid a crowd of witnesses. Never.

My fist connects with Katrakis’s face before the son of a bitch utters his next syllable. He flies backward, landing on his ass several feet away.

Screams erupt across the room as guests notice the commotion and the blood gushing from Katrakis’s broken nose. He doesn’t try to rise, just keeps lying between two tall tables and moaning like the fucking sissy he is.

“This is the one and only time you will disrespect my wife,” I growl. “Say another word about her, and I’ll rip out your tongue and shove it up your ass. Mark my words.”

A collective gasp rises from the crowd that have gathered around the Greek.

But no one is even trying to help him because everyone is staring at me.

I’ve met almost all of them at one time or another, and they probably thought they knew me.

I thought I knew myself, too. I was wrong.

I didn’t spare a single breath thinking about that credo of mine or the ramifications of my actions.

All I thought of was my wife. And how I will never allow anyone to hurt her.

“Let’s head out.” Putting my hand on the small of Tara’s back, I urge her toward the exit, silently telling my guys with a look to stay put and deal with the fallout here instead.

“That was subtle,” Tara murmurs next to me as we walk away. “Whatever happened to that ‘make no scenes’ and ‘cause no scandals’ decree you plastered all over the terms of our agreement?”

“I’m”— cough —“in a bad mood,” I grumble while trying to squelch the scratchy pressure in the back of my throat.

“No shit.”

We’ve picked up our coats and are heading down the hallway that leads to the main doors when the sound of someone calling my wife’s name behind us stops me. I glance over my shoulder and spot a twentysomething man in a form-fitting suit running toward us.

“Tara!” he yells again. “Is that really you?”

My wife turns around, and my hand falls from her back.

“Conrad? Oh my God! When did you get back?!”

Conrad? I search my memory. Did she mention a Conrad to me? The ache in my head is ramping up, and I can’t remember. Fuck. I really need to get some serious sleep.

As the guy reaches us, it hits me. The brat of an oil tycoon. The one who still calls her. The one she could have married. And probably wishes she did.

“I can’t believe this! It is you,” the guy exclaims and pulls my wife into an embrace.

That’s the final straw. The tipping point. The last drop that sends my brimming jealousy over the edge. I wrap my arm around Tara’s middle from behind, lifting her out of his reach while I fist the front of the idiot’s jacket with my other hand. “Step. Away.”

“The fuck, DeVille?” Tara thrashes in my hold, her feet kicking several inches above the floor. “What’s wrong with you?”

“ Arturo DeVille?” The pissant backs up a step. Surprise flashes in his eyes as they dart from me to Tara and back again.

“Correct.” With my glare locked on the handsy little fuck, I dip my head until my stubbly cheek rests against the smooth expanse of Tara’s. “Is that your ex-fiancé?”

“What? No… I mean, yes. No. No! It wasn’t official— Would you let me go already?”

A fiancé . I crush Tara harder to my chest and touch my lips to the shell of her ear. “You should tell the boy to leave.”

“I won’t. We haven’t seen each other in years. Put me down, damn it.” She tries to kick my shin.

The brat must have a couple of working brain cells in his head after all because he appears to have grasped the situation, and he takes another step back.

Good. His chances of escaping alive have marginally improved.

Considering I’ve already gone off the deep end tonight, at the moment, I’m close to ripping him limb from limb.

“Put your hands on my wife again, and I’ll fucking end you,” I growl.