Page 82 of Coerced Kiss
“Nothing artificial and no colorants or preservatives,” I tell the waitress. “Or you and the barman are dead.”
She scurries away to put in my request at the bar just as Anya wraps up her story.
“What kind of earring was it?” Elena asks. “Was it valuable? A diamond?”
“A pearl,” Anya says without missing a beat. “Its value is sentimental. My mother gave the earrings to me for my eighteenth birthday.”
“How romantic,” Elena says with a saccharine smile, sliding her gaze my way.
I place my hand on Anya’s thigh, enjoying the warmth of her body under the cool silk of the dress. “Indeed.”
The conversation turns to Elena and Raphael’s upcoming wedding. The blonde poses questions about when and where it’s going to be, clasping Dante’s hand and telling him how much she loves weddings.
Dream on, honey. He’s not taking you.
After Elena’s interrogation, no one puts Anya under fire again, but their attention stays fixed on her. Dante and Elena keep on stealing glances in her direction. Giorgio wisely doesn’t wink or smirk or dare to look at the woman on my lap. Only Luigi rests his gaze on her from time to time, hiding his dislike behind a two-faced smile.
Anya’s body stays rigid in my arms, but she makes me proud, doing a damn good job of keeping up the show. Even as she smiles and laughs at appropriate times, she clutches her bag in a death grip on her lap. I wrap one arm around her middle, holding her close to me, and rub a hand over her back until the tension slowly leaves her muscles and she eventually relaxes a little against me.
Giorgio tells one of his bad jokes, inviting an eye roll from Elena and a mocking smile from Raphael. Luckily, the waitress cuts him short when she arrives with our drinks, and not a minute too soon. Another carries a tray with bite-sized finger food.
I take Anya’s bag and leave it on the table to free her hands. Before giving her the mocktail, I take a sip to make sure it’s free of alcohol and that it tastes good. Satisfied, I kiss her lips and pass her the drink.
When the waitress offers us food, I inspect the selection and load a plate with an assortment of healthy options. Choosing a tomato and cheese tart, I pop it into Anya’s mouth. When she’s swallowed, I feed her a miniature quiche. If I’m picky about what she eats, it’s to make sure she and the baby are healthy. I avoidthe dessert tarts, knowing she doesn’t like sweets, but I offer her a tiny strawberry pavlova next.
As it goes at these parties, we avoid talking business. We enquire about the women’s families and the men’s hobbies. Unavoidably, the discussion always leads to sport. If Anya is quiet, no one questions her silence. They’ll assume she’s not a fan of soccer. In between taking a few canapés for myself, I feed her until she tells me she’s had enough.
Sadly, it’s almost midnight before Luigi makes the toast and we can leave. After sending a text message to Kevin, who waits in the underground parking lot, I lift Anya to her feet and take her hand as we say our goodbyes. The women stare after her when I lead her across the gallery. They may think they’re discreet in their evaluation, but when I turn my head, I catch them sizing her up.
I keep a hand on her hip not only to steady her on the stairs that she has to navigate in her high heels but also to show every man in the room that she’s taken. Mine. To look the other way. Lest they want a bullet in their brains.
The DJ is in his box, turning up the volume for tonight’s opening song. The floor is already packed. There are way too many gyrating bodies for my liking. The chance of Anya getting a fist or an elbow in the stomach is too big. I’m getting her the fuck out of here.
Using my arm as a barrier, I clear a path through the throng while catching the doorman’s eye.
Not two seconds later, two bouncers come toward us, pushing people out of their way.
“Stand aside,” they say, cordoning off the partygoers to make space.
Holding Anya under the shelter of my arm, I escort her to the elevator where a man waits with her wrap and my jacket. I take her wrap and hang my jacket over her shoulders beforeleading her downstairs. I only breathe easier once we’re outside, far away from the shoving and bumping.
“Not too cold?” I ask, hugging her closer so that she can borrow heat from my chest. The last thing I want is for her to get sick.
“Do people always jump when you click your fingers?”
I look at her. “What do you mean?”
“They parted for you like the sea for Moses.”
“Someone could’ve bumped into you. I wasn’t going to risk it.”
“So you did that for me,” she says with a tilt of her lips.
I rub her arm to warm her. “Of course.”
“Is that how you treat all women?”
I frown. “Like what?”