For Maggie, it must be hell.
He shook his head and tried hard not to laugh. She stood trapped in a corner with some of his female cousins, her cinnamon-colored hair a bright beacon in a room filled mostly with olive skin and brunettes. Her dress was short and flirty, the skirt flouncing above the knee and showing off a pair of endless legs that begged to be wrapped around a man’s waist. Bright red and yellow splashed over the delicate material and made her easy to spot in the thronged mass. Her height had always been impressive, but she matched most of his cousins with her three-inch red sandals. Something about her shoes turned him on like no other woman’s shoes had. Almost as if her lust for sexy, come-get-me heels confirmed her inner hellcat.
He refilled his wineglass and chatted with old friends as he kept an eye on her. He expected a chilled politeness that would put off his affectionate family, but each time his gaze snagged her, she was laughing or listening intently to the many stories regaling her ears. Fascinated, Michael inched toward her.
Sure, he knew she was socially professional and relaxed in work settings. He just didn’t expect her to be so open in her ruse. Her childhood bespoke a cold familiarity, and she radiated a distance that was part of her core. Hell, she wore it like a cloak, which he spotted the moment she walked into the restaurant to meet him for their blind date. But something felt different tonight.
He studied her as his uncle Tony talked shop with him—problems with suppliers and increased rent and the possibility of owning properties. He nodded, listened with half an ear, and eavesdropped on his fake wife.
“How did you do it?” his cousin Brianna whispered to Maggie. She reminded him of when people dropped their voices automatically to say such words as “cancer.” The question still sounded as harsh as a gunshot. “Michael has avoided marriage forever. He has a reputation, you know.”
Maggie’s lip twitched. “Really? What type of reputation?”
Brianna looked around and leaned in. Michael hid behind the breadth of Uncle Tony’s back. “He loves the chase. Seems he likes to seduce a woman—the bigger the challenge the more skilled he becomes in gaining her affection. Then, as soon as she gives in, wham.”
Maggie drew back. “Wham? What wham?”
That whisper again. “He leaves her flat. Heartbroken, seduced, and abandoned.”
Anger cut through him at his cousin’s impression. Dios, did he ever get a break? He never led a woman on, yet his reputation preceded him all the way to America. Nick had informed him many times of the murmurs of his prowess among women and how he’d once been concerned Alexa would fall vulnerable to his charms. Michael took another casual step in and listened for her answer.
Maggie clucked her tongue. “How horrible! Maybe that’s why he married me, then. How strange.”
Brianna widened her eyes. “What’s strange? Tell me. We’re family now—your secrets are safe with me.”
Maggie took a deep breath and looked around as if worried who’d overhear. Her whisper was as soft as his cousin’s. “I refused to sleep with him until he married me, of course.”
Michael choked on a piece of bruschetta. When he recovered, he looked up to find Maggie’s mischievous grin, followed by a wink. She touched Brianna’s arm, then turned on those sexy heels, and her skirt flipped, showing off a perfectly curved backside. He clenched his jaw as the sudden want clawed at him. He imagined sinking his teeth into her firm flesh and taking a succulent bite. The echo of her cry as he held her down and pleasured her misted his vision. When he resurfaced, Uncle Tony still droned on, and Maggie had moved to the other side of the room.
What the hell was he going to do about her?
More important, what was he going to do about his sudden need to claim the woman who pretended to be his wife?
• • •
Something was wrong with her.
Maggie nibbled on salty prosciutto from the antipasto, drank her wine, and mingled. In only twenty-four hours, she’d experienced every event she always avoided and despised.
Long, chatty conversations focused on weddings and girly talk. Check.
Cooking and chopping and ruining her perfect manicure. Check.
Dealing with mother-in-law and sister-in-law and cousins all prying into her personal life and making judgments. Check.
So why wasn’t she running from the room in terror, like one of those idiots in Scream who saw an obscene white mask?
Maybe because she knew it was all fake?
Had to be. There was no other rational explanation. Other than with her brother and Alexa, she didn’t do family functions. She cooked on her terms, when she thought it’d be a fun distraction. And she never had to deal with a flock of females who giggled and asked a billion questions. She was used to silence—had lived with it most of her life—and had little experience with such open affection.
Yet, they all welcomed her into the fold wholeheartedly. All of his sisters were so different, yet Maggie actually liked them. They were real. His mother never laughed or criticized as she taught her to make her first homemade pot of gravy. A tiny part of her flamed to life, a part she was ashamed to admit she owned. What would it feel like to have so many people love you no matter how many mistakes you made?
Her gaze caught on Venezia wrapped up in her fiancé’s arms, laughing at something he said. Their connection burned from across the room, and the adoring expression on Dominick’s face smashed straight through the gut with one pure emotion.
Longing.
Maggie swallowed past the lump in her throat. As horrific as their ruse was, somehow it felt so right once she saw the couple together. Nothing should stand in their way—especially an ancient custom. What would that feel like? To have a man look at her with such possession and love? To belong to a person who actually gave a damn?
She pushed the question from her mind and made her way back to Michael. Time to get her head back in the game. He stood next to a very attractive man with burning blue eyes and scruffy facial hair. Thick, jet-black waves of hair spilled over his forehead. Crap, the man was sex on a stick, and she briefly wondered if he was a model. Carina stood with them, her head tilted up as she gazed at the stranger as if he were the sun and the only element that stood between her and a cold, frozen death.