Chapter 17

Kalista

I had heard that the waiting list for La Carta Manairó was, at least, two months long.

But all Griffin had to do was place a call, and here we are.

I sit with my back straight against the cool metal chair, watching Griffin like a hawk, waiting for him to make an attempt to lift something from me.

Not that I’ve made it all that difficult for him.

My Givenchy cocktail dress looks more like lingerie than it does Fort Knox.

But something tells me that even if I was laced and strapped up tighter than a bank vault, Griffin would just want to crack me open even more.

With this dress, I’m challenging Griffin to take something from me without me—or anyone else—noticing. Mostly anyone else.

Since I walked in the room, I’ve been aware that at least one other diner has been checking me out—or staring at Griffin.

“So, love, how do you feel about being Mrs. Langdon?” Griffin asks me as we read through the menu.

“That depends. Who’s Mr. Langdon? Is he hot?”

“Oh, very. They say he’s the most attractive man in the world.”

I look up at him, feigning confusion. “But I thought I was pretending to be married to you?” I fight the smile that crosses my face, but ultimately fail.

“Very funny, Kali. Let’s hope you can be that natural when you’re not being yourself.”

“I can be natural. Almost everything about my old life was a charade too, Griffin.” I remind him.

The waiter comes to take our orders, bringing a few bottles of wine for us to try.

“I’m sure it was, love. But it’s a little bit different when you’re completely reinventing yourself. Any little mistake could mean game over for us.”

I can tell that Griffin wants to trust me, but he seems genuinely concerned. Why can’t he see that I won’t fuck this up for us?

“I may be green, Griffin, but you can rely on me at the auction. You should know that,” I say, waiting for the waiter to leave before I continue. “So, what will you have me do? What am I going to lift?”

“You, Kalista love, are not going to lift anything,” Griffin says firmly, sipping at the wine—a rich red with fruity undertones. “I’m not going to throw you off the deep end and hope that you’ll suddenly be an Olympian.”

“I can lift something from the auction.”

Griffin’s lack of faith almost hurts my feelings. But he means well—of that I’m certain—though I bet he started small, too.

“Maybe from an auction, one day. But not this one.” He’s resolute. “Your job is to be my eyes and ears. To keep a look out and make me look good.”

“Wow, you really have given me the harder job.”

“I know. Making me look good is a full-time event. I didn’t want to burden you with having to lift something as well,” Griffin teases.

The slight feelings of hurt vanish from my chest. I can’t stay mad at him—not really.

The waiter brings over our plates—foie gras ravioli with truffle and a coffee for me, a fillet of steak for Griffin.

Though Griffin is talking, I look up at the waiter as he’s refilling our wine glasses. I wink at him, and then struggle to hold back my laughter as he almost spills wine across the table and Griffin’s crisp white shirt.

Griffin and I exchange eye contact, and I know that he’s impressed.

“So, your life was a charade, too, huh?” I ask.

Griffin pauses with his meal, I watch the cogs in his mind tick and turn to try and find a way out of this question. I’m waiting for some kind of vague non-answer or an obvious evasion. But I’m surprised at the sincerity of his face.

“You know how it is, love. Especially when you’ve got old money. If you’re not doing something, you’re not on the cover of Tatler. If you’re not in Tatler, you’re a nobody.” He sighs softly with an even softer shake of his head.

I nod in understanding. He’s right. If you’re not constantly on the cover of magazines or in the ‘trending’ section of social media, it feels like your life doesn’t really amount to anything.

“Daddy always used to say that I helped draw attention from the younger market.” I confess. “Not that I can imagine why teenagers would be interested in Von Knopf’s Chemicals.”

“It doesn’t matter, because you’re still drawing their attention.”

He sips his wine and thinks for a moment more. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then falls silent.

“Were you the same?” I ask, trying to pull the truth from him.

I can feel the honesty and Griffin’s words resting heavily in the air between us.

I would never have imagined he would understand what it was like to feel so alone even when the whole world follows your every move; but the way his eyes dance as if lost in memory tells me otherwise.

“My parents liked to cart me around to their galas and their parties as a shiny bauble. I was something to show off so they could secure their next big deal instead of just being their son. They liked to pretend that I was the most eligible bachelor in all of England. I think I had twelve possible wives at one point.”

My mouth falls open slightly.

Twelve?

The most I’d ever had was three. But then again, I don’t have Griffin’s accent.

“Is that when you became a thief?” I ask, my voice soft and low so none of the other diners can hear us.

“No, that started when I was younger. It was when the novelty of having everything brought to me by a butler on a silver tray started to wear off. I wanted to challenge myself.”

“And the Gryphon was born.”

“Exactly,” Griffin says with a satisfied smirk.

We’re halfway through dessert—sharing the chocolate culan—when I slip my foot towards Griffin’s leg. I slide it up his thigh, and he sits up straighter in his seat as I caress his leg.

“Oh, love, getting ready for the gala, are we?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Griffin moves his leg forward slightly, allowing me better access to him.

“Well, dear, I figure it was a good as time as any to start practicing being a good wife,” I say, raising my leg higher and higher.

With the tips of my toes, I caress his thighs—finding Griffin’s wallet in his pocket—and another bulge that begins to present itself.

“That’s true. If we want to be believable, we’ll probably have to consummate the marriage.”

Griffin leans forward to feed me a mouthful of chocolate tarte. I look up at him through my eyelashes the whole time, wrapping my lips around the spoon and letting him draw it back out from my mouth.

Griffin clears his throat, and I stand from my seat.

“Well, husband, I’m going to powder my nose. Don’t flirt with the waitresses when I come back,” I tease.

As I pass Griffin’s chair, I pause to pick up the wallet I had nudged from his pocket—which, to my delight, he didn’t notice.

I play with the straps of my shoe as well, when I feel Griffin’s hand pinch my ass.

“Now, love, you know I only have eyes for you,” he says before giving me a light spank to send me on my way.

The touch of his hand sends a jolt of electricity through my body. And the knowledge that he didn’t see me take his wallet makes the moment even sweeter.

When I return from the bathroom, I stop at Griffin’s seat to deliver a soft kiss against his jaw. A distraction while I slip something into his pocket to replace the wallet I took.

After I sit, I watch Griffin as he, in turn, watches the crowd. I can see him sizing them up, and picking apart their persons for weaknesses—ways he could steal their wallets or their car keys.

Everyone here, after all, can afford it.

I finish my glass of wine as the waitress brings over our bill. I say nothing as Griffin reaches down into his pocket to look for his wallet.

The look on his face as his fingers find the lace of my panties—the same pair he had me model when we first came to Barcelona—rather than the leather-bound wallet containing countless euros, is priceless.

For a moment, I think back to what he said to me in that dressing room, whispering into my ear.

You’re damn right, ‘I’ll do.’

“It’s okay, love,” I say, pulling his wallet from my clutch. I leaf through the orange, green and yellow euros that reside there. “I’ve got this.”