Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (9 page)

I
wake up again
, alone.

"Gray?" I call out immediately this time. I hear the shower running in the bathroom, and for a minute I wonder why he needs another shower.

Then I remember that he came all over my stomach.

And after that, he smiled and rubbed it all over me, up between my breasts, and down between my legs. Like he was branding me.

And I'd liked it.

I sit up, my lips still swollen from his kisses. My body in shock.

Rather, my body feels blissfully, totally happy.

My brain, however, is working on overdrive.

I grab my cell phone. It's after one in the afternoon already!

"Gray!" I call out louder, and I hear the shower shut off. "Gray, where are my clothes? I've got to get to the bar."

Gray comes out of the bathroom wearing a towel and a scowl. "The bar? As in O'Malley's?"

"Um, yeah. As in the bar my family built and owned for three generations. And, you know, where I work. Every day."

I didn't know it was possible, but Gray scowls
even more
. I also didn't know it was possible for someone to look so sexy and so annoyed at the same time.

And,
annoying
.

"I thought we put this issue to rest last night," Gray says. "I don't want you working there anymore."

I blink. "Well, you might have said that last night. I also might
not
have agreed to it." I tap my finger against my chin. "Hmm, I'm trying to remember. After I was kidnapped and basically forced to marry you against my will, did the priest say the whole 'I will obey my fake husband for the rest of eternity' line? I think he did not."

Gray growls and tosses his towel on the bed, standing naked in front of me.

Holy shit, even when he's not hard he's…
huge
.

I look at the ceiling as he moves to stand by the bed.
Right
by me, and puts his hand on my cheek. He holds me gently, but forces me to look at him.

His eyes look like a summer sky today, his face burnished gold.

"Katya, you didn't have to marry me."

I pull away from him and get out of bed, scooting to the foot of the bed so I don't run into the massive wall of muscles standing on my right. I wrap one of his smooth-as-silk sheets around me so I'm not naked, because while Gray may be able to hold a coherent conversation while buck-naked, I'm not that confident.

Did I mention this room is
really
well-lit?

"Sure, I could have walked away. And then my father would have been killed. And then your
boss
probably would have killed me anyway. Or worse."

"It would have been worse," Gray says. "You don't know Markov, the man who wanted you. You don't
want
to know Markov. And Kat, hear me now: none of this shit is my fault. So stop fucking acting like it is."

I close my eyes. No, I guess it wasn't
his
fault. He didn't cause all of this to happen.

But he sure as hell hadn't stopped it.

"Where are my clothes?" I say. "I've got to get out of here."

"I threw them in the washing machine."

"You did what?"

Gray does
laundry
?

Imagining him separating my delicates is almost harder to believe than the fact that we're married.

Or that we—my cheeks start to burn, thinking about how I fell apart in his arms. A rush of heat fills me, like I can still feel his arms around my waist, his hand between my legs, his lips on my skin. But it obviously didn't mean anything to him, or at least, it didn't
change
anything. He's still being bossy, arrogant, and full of himself.

Gray ignores me and walks into his closet, which is so big his voice literally echoes as he calls back to me. "I did your laundry. It's in the dryer, in the closet in the hallway."

Okay, Gray, the tattooed Russian mafia god, did my laundry.

I find the washer and dryer, cleverly hidden in a closet that I hadn't even noticed when I was snooping through his apartment yesterday. Sure enough, there are my jeans and t-shirt and my ratty old bra. I slip them on, still warm from the dryer, and run back to the bedroom.

Gray is dressed. No suit today. He's wearing jeans that show off his perfect butt, his massive thighs. A casual gray t-shirt, his tattoos showing above the neckline and on his arms. He shouldn't look so good in plain old cotton. It's not fair.

His hair is wet and looks like gold. His sinfully full lips catch me checking him, and he smiles.

I smile back.

But I'm acting like a fool. I don't really know this man in front of me.

I can't still think I'm in love with him.

I can't let myself
fall
in love with him.

I can't let him touch me again.

What I needed was money. My money, from my bank account. Get my passport picture taken, send out an expedited passport request. I remembered when Elle had needed a passport, quick, when she'd chaperoned a summer school trip to Italy. It had only taken her three weeks, I think.

But first, I needed to get the hell out of this apartment.

"C'mon." As Gray walks behind me, he caresses my ass. I shouldn't start tingling just from his touch, dammit.

"What kind?" I follow him to his perfect, gleaming kitchen. He's holding four cups of coffee!

"I didn't know how you liked it. Black, cream, and a chocolate macchiato. Of course, you distracted me in the shower, so they're cold now." He arranges the cups on the bar as I pull out a stool and lean on the bar-height counter.

I would like to play hard to get, but a hungover girl who's been recently kidnapped can only hold out against caffeine for so long.

"I'll take all three," I mumble, reaching for the macchiato first.

Gray smiles.

I force myself to frown at him. Even if he did buy me coffee.

And make you come two—no, three—times
, the small, sex-crazed voice inside my mind reminds me.

"I'll be gone all day," Gray continues. "I also got you a new phone." He hands me the latest phone, in a sleek, silvery-gray protective case. Of course.

"My phone is—"

"A piece of shit. My number is in there. Call if you need me."

He walks around the counter to stand next to me, placing a hand on my waist. Like he owns me.

I frown.

Gray smiles and kisses my nose. "Don't say no, Katya. Why would you? You deserve the best, after the way we grew up."

"The only reason I'm not yelling at your right now is because you brought me chocolate." I take a sip of the macchiato; even cold it's thick and delicious and a pure burst of sugary sweet chocolate. "But you can't actually be this bossy, can you?"

"How do you think I stay alive,
Katya
?"

God, he has a way of making me half-think I
should
listen to him.

Stockholm Syndrome, I decide. And it's only been twelve hours.

Me, my aching heart, and my crazy libido have to get out of here, ASAP.

"Well, certainly not by eating anything in this place." I gesture toward the fridge. "Do you truly live on protein shakes and vodka?"

Gray laughs and takes a sip from his cup. "Don't forget coffee."

"Well, it's ridiculous.
I
need more food, and you do, too. If it's alright with my very-bossy husband, I'd like to go grocery shopping today."

I expect Gray will let me go, if Dacko or whoever the poor kid chosen to replace him trails me. And I'm pretty sure I could sneak an ATM visit in while we're out; they have them everywhere, even in the upscale markets, nowadays.

But Gray surprises me. "Sure. I'll go with you."

S
he fucking loves to cook
.

I watch Kat study every damn aisle at the overpriced, gourmet market down the street. Hell's Kitchen used to be one of the rougher neighborhoods in New York; now you can't walk down the street without someone trying to sell you grassfed beef or organic wheatgrass or a tasting flight of fucking olive oil.

Kat is eating this shit up. Almost literally.

"
Bellissima
, try this one!" the Italian behind the cheese counter begs. If he wasn't almost eighty, I'd be pissed at how much attention he's giving Kat. But then again, who
wouldn't?
Even in a plain t-shirt and old jeans, her hair slowly drying into long waves and no makeup on, she outshines every damn woman in Manhattan.

I can't take my eyes off of her.

Kat gleefully takes the sample from his hand, a small wedge of pale yellow on a piece of plastic.

"It's called Belicino, from Sicily. Made from sheep's milk with olives
in
the cheese."

Kat takes a delicate bite between her sweet pink lips, then rolls her eyes with pleasure. I never thought I'd be jealous of a dairy product, but damn. She's about to devour the rest when she glances at me.

"Want to try it?" she asks.

I lean down and open my mouth. She blushes as she feeds me, trying not to let my tongue touch her fingertips.

"What do you think?" she asks.

I grab her hand back, and slowly suck on the tip of her thumb, as if to get every last crumb off. "Delicious."

"Gray." Kat's voice sounds strangled, and she's turned an even brighter shade of red. I can't help it. I love touching her, teasing her, and most especially tasting her.

We walk the market together, me holding the teeny damn baskets they make you carry, while she loads it up. She's chattering on about what she's going to make me for dinner, but I'm losing the thread of the conversation.

She's here
. It's almost unbelievable. I'd wanted her for so long when we were young. I'd left to keep her safe. Now we're together. I can almost pretend we're a normal married couple, shopping for the weekend together.

It's real but it's not—she's real, what I'm feeling is real—but we're so far from fucking normal.

We check out and Kat blanches at the total. "It's Manhattan, babes, and you bought a ton of organic shit," I say. A couple hundred bucks is nothing to me, but I can tell she's worrying.

"Gray, I didn't realize it would all cost that much. I can pay you back—"

"What's mine is yours, Kat."

She doesn't say anything, just purses her lips like she doesn't know what to do with that information, or doesn't like it. She just needs to get used to it. She's fended for herself for so long, so doesn't know how to let go and let someone take care of her.

I realize, maybe I'm the same way. Not that I need anyone to take care of me. But, it's going to take some getting used to. Living with someone. Being with someone.

The streets outside are packed with locals, tourists, cab drivers, cars. It's a bright, sunny day. Warm. I can't remember the last time I just went for a walk through my neighborhood, went grocery shopping. I usually eat at Solonik's café, or grab something in the car on the way to a job.

"Oh, an ATM," Kat says. "I just need to get some cash. Elle and I are going out tonight."

"Who's Elle?"

"Oh, you remember Elle—well, no, you wouldn't. She was in high school with me. We started hanging out after you—" Kat frowns, then tries to hide that she's upset. She shrugs. "After you left. She's my best friend."

I make a mental note to look into this Elle. If Kat likes her, I'm sure she's cool. But it never hurts to do your research, on a job or on people you're involved with.

Kat pulls a wallet from her old purse. I put my hand over her hand.

"Babes, save your money. I'll treat you to drinks tonight."

"You really don't have to do that. Besides, I may need some cash just for the subway and stuff, later on in the week." Her face colors and she scowls at me. "
If
my husband gets his ass out of the 1950s and let me leave the house."

I raise my hands in mock surrender, trying to put a smile back on her face. She can't hold her fierce look for long, and relents as I grin at her.

"Kat, let me take care of you. I take out my wallet, place a few hundreds in the palm of her hand, and force her to close her fingers over them.

Kat rolls her eyes, but slowly puts her wallet and the money back in her purse. I notice the handle is ripped, the fake leather peeling off in strips.

"Kat, I'm not trying to power-trip with you. I'm trying to keep you safe. And in case you didn't forget, last night was kind of insane—"

"You think?" Kat snaps, walking down the street. I watch her sweet ass sway for a minute, before I catch up.

"I was protecting you. I didn't know if Markov would try anything. The safest place for you was in my apartment, with a guard at the door."

Kat shrugs, but I can tell she's relenting.

"Of course you can leave the apartment. Anytime you want. Dacko or one of my other guys will go with you, wherever you want to go."

Kat stops and turns at me, her mouth hanging open. "What! You're having me
followed
!"

Now I'm getting fucking pissed. I grab her hand, lean in and whisper, "Do you or do you not remember that your father was almost
killed
yesterday? That you were—"

"I get it!" Kat shrugs me off and rushes down the block, weaving in and out of the strolling tourists. It's easy for me to keep up with her, but I let her work off some of her frustration for a minute. Then I see a shop across the street. Fancy-ass purses. I think of the strap about to fall off on hers, the way she had to pack up everything she owned in plastic carry-out bags.

I take a few big steps and catch up with her, gently grabbing her arm but stopping in her tracks.

Kat allows me to lead her, but she immediately lets me have it. "Gray, you need to trust me. I need my freedom. You can't wall me up in your ivory tower. It's the same as Markov or whoever locking me up down in Brighton Beach—"

"It's not at all the fucking same," I growl, leading her across the street. "Listen, it's just until things settle down. You can do anything you want."

"Except go to work. Or have my freedom." She's spitting mad.

"Babes, do you really love being a bartender? Is that why you're so hard-up to get back to O'Malley's? I don't remember you including 'bartending' on your list of hopes and dreams, when we used to hang out on your fire escape late at night."

Kat stops dead in the middle of the street. "You remember that?" she says. Her voice is soft.

A car horn blares, and I drag her to the sidewalk, to safety.

"Of course I remember that. Jesus, Kat."

She sniffs. "Well, I wouldn't know. You left and—"

I turn around, grab her, look into her forest-green eyes. They're so fucking sad, and it breaks my heart.

"I'm sorry I left, Kat. Everything I ever did, I did to protect you. And that's what I'm trying to do right now."

Kat blinks. I see tears well up in her eyes for a moment, but then she wills them away.

"My strong, stubborn little
Katya
," I whisper, brushing away a bit of wetness from the side of her cheek.

"Who are you calling stubborn, big guy?" Kat says. She cracks a small smile. "And no. I'm not in love with bartending. I honestly—" She blushes, so easily and so prettily. "I like cooking. Derek and Smalls—the cooks at O'Malley's—have been giving me lessons. And I've been working on my baking in the bar's kitchens, too. I didn’t really have a working oven at my last place."

I suddenly understand. Her joy while we were shopping. The way she touched and tasted and
studied
everything.

"You'd make a great cook," I say. "Chef. Baker. Whatever the fuck you wanna be."

She grins. "Yeah, whatever the fuck I want to be."

"And I want to help you do whatever that is. But for now, you need extra protection around." I grab my heart and roll my eyes dramatically. "Do it for me. Don't give me a heart attack by running around, unprotected."

"Oh my God, I just realized something. Gray Petrokov is a
fucking cornball
." Kat says, then cracks herself up.

I smile, then pull her inside the shop I'd been eyeing. Kat's eyebrows raise as we enter the quiet, modern space. She stops short and looks around, her eyes widening. It's one of those fancy stores where there's only twenty different dresses hanging up, and they're all shades of black or kumquat or some shit.

"Gray," she whispers. "What the heck are we doing in a place like this?"

"Kat, I told you, you don't have to worry about money anymore."

She lets me pull her over a line of purses in the display window.

A saleswoman rushes over to Kat, her face pinched as she takes in Kat's relaxed—okay, cheap—outfit. Then she glances over at me and her face colors. I know that look too well. She's checking me out. She wanted to kick my girl out of the store. Then she sees tattoos and muscles, and now she wants me to whip out my dick.

"Sir, hello," the saleswoman says, suddenly sweet as candy. She's tall, high-lighted hair, too thin for me. She runs her left hand down the front of her shirt, playing with a necklace that's laying between her two fake tits. I'm used to this. Women like her don't want to marry me, but they sure as fuck want to take me home—or just plain fuck.

At one point, I would've been down to take what she was offering. But now I'm just pissed that she's doing it in front of my girl.

I shift the groceries I'm carrying and put my free arm around Kat's shoulders. I expect Kat to stiffen at my touch, but then I notice: Kat's cheeks are red. She's blushing, which normally I love.

But she's also watching Slutty Saleswoman like a hawk.

I feel a wide grin spreading across my face. Is Kat
jealous
?

It shouldn't make me feel good. But if I’m honest, the fact that she might still care for me—when I'm not on my knees making her come—makes me feel like I just won the Super Bowl.

"My wife needs a new
bag
," I say.

The salesgirl's eyes involuntarily snap to Kat's left hand. No ring. Yeah, I'll have to remedy that, as soon as Kat will let me put the ring that's hidden in my dresser on her hand.

"No I don't," Kat whispers.

I shake her shoulders, lightly. "Babes, no more carry-out bags, yeah? Now pick one out. Then let's go home and eat all this stuff you bought. I'm starving."

Kat looks at me like I'm crazy, and maybe I am. But she does what I say, walking hesitantly around the room, looking at all the purses.

"Which one is the cheapest—"

"Don't even ask that, Kat," I say.

Kat bites her lip and looks away, but I think she's trying not to smile.

Finally she strides over to the window and grabs one. I don't know shit about purses, but it's not too big, and not too small. It's a gray-blue leather with a short strap.

Kat puts it over her shoulder and takes a few steps, testing it out.

"Looks nice, babes."

Kat shoots me a little smile, her cheeks reddening. "Well, if you're insisting I buy one of these things, I figured I'd get one that reminds me of you."

I raise my eyebrows. I have no idea what me and a purse have in common.

Kat sighs like it's obvious. "It's the same color as your eyes. Kind of gray, blue in another light…" She trails off like she's embarrassed. "Oh, you know what you look like."

"Bottega Veneta. Very good choice," the saleswoman says stiffly.

I hand her my card and tell her to hurry and ring us up. Then I walk up to Kat, tilt her face up to look at me, and say, "I like you carrying a little piece of me with you."

She's still beet-red so I give her a break. "Now get home and cook me dinner, like a good little wife."

Kat rolls her eyes and stalks away. I slap her ass on the way out and she yelps, but when she turns around, she's laughing.