“Hello, Natasha. Long time, no see.”
She swung her hips as she stalked towards him. “Don’t you mean since our wedding night?”
Less wedding, more hoax. Natasha hadn’t married him because he was the best thing since peanut butter and chocolate got together. She used him.
He tamped down his anger and remained cool as he said, “What’s it been, five months? Six?” He could have quoted the exact time down to the minute had he wished. He kept his tally to himself. He’d never give her that kind of power. And, so far, so good. He still had his wits about him.
Her hands tucked behind her back. “Too long and overdue. I’m here to ask for a divorce.”
Despite expecting this, he couldn’t help a growl. Given the lies she’d told him, he should be happy that she wanted to end the false marriage. Yet, a part of him had known then, and knew even more strongly now.
She is mine.
More than ever, he was convinced of it, and yet she didn’t appear to have the same struggle as he did. He’d been fighting the urge to hunt her down ever since that night. He wouldn’t be the one to go begging. The one to admit weakness.
Which was why he waited. Why he bided his time. He’d wagered that one day she’d return if only to ask him for a divorce.
He had pictured this moment in so many different ways, some of them ending in naked passion. But in every instance when she asked him to sever their marriage, his answer remained the same. No.
Never.
He wouldn’t agree even if she seduced him right this second and made him purr.
He arched a brow. “Is this where I say I believe the vow was until death do us part?”
“If you insist.” The hand behind her back emerged, lifting a gun that she held level with his face.
“I take it you got my note.” The one that was basic and said, Here’s a copy of our marriage certificate. Signed, Your husband.
“We are not married.”
“I see you’re surprised. So was I when I realized you weren’t who I thought.”
“That wedding was a sham,” she growled.
“Perhaps to you. And yet, vows were exchanged.”
“I left before it was done.”
“Apparently not soon enough, given I received a certificate in the mail two weeks later.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you got the notice?” Natasha shoved up the face covering, revealing her full-lipped glory. Her eyes a stormy sea.
His resolve began to slip. Still so damned gorgeous. He had to remain strong. He took another sip of liquid courage before saying, “I would have told you, but you disappeared and then didn’t keep in touch.”
“Because I was done with you,” she exclaimed, waving the gun with clear exasperation.
“Maybe you were, but I still have unresolved issues with you, wife.” He said it quite deliberately and enjoyed the spot of angry color that appeared in each of her cheeks. She was a liar and a fake, but he remained steadfast in his certainty that she belonged with him.
“Is this a male ego thing? Because I don’t do those. I used you. Get over it. Don’t get pissy with me because you didn’t do your homework.”
The sassy rebuke kept his blood where it belonged. “I would have eventually gotten around to doing a background check.” Said in a grumble. Way to remind him of just how monumentally deficient he’d been. He’d not taken any kind of precaution. Hadn’t once even thought of checking Natasha out more deeply. She’d fooled him so well. He admired her skill.
“If it makes you feel better, I never dug too deep with you either. I fell for your lazy playboy act.”
That brought a smile to his lips. It turned out they had more in common than either of them realized.
“Who says it’s an act?”
“Because I’ve been looking into you, as well. You’re an interesting fellow, and your name isn’t actually Dean.” The gun she’d relaxed steadied in line with his heart.
It was a nickname given to him because some of his female family members decided that he reminded them of the television heartthrob on that show about the paranormal. He preferred it over his real name Neville Horatio Fitzpatrick.
“Would you really shoot me, Natasha?” he asked, not the least bit worried despite the steel in her expression. Surely, she felt the connection pulsing between them. The electricity. Or was that just pure hate? She certainly didn’t seem to be softening.
“Either you agree to a divorce, or I’m going to suddenly become a grieving widow, Neville.” She did on purpose to use the name he hated.
“You are more violent than I recall. What happened to the soft-spoken university student I met?” She’d been wide-eyed and shy in the bar where he’d first seen her. Sipping on her virgin piña colada, her shirt buttoned to her neck, her skirt covering her knees. Her hair hanging loose with just a barrette holding it out of her face. She’d seen him looking and smiled, ducked her head. He’d completely fallen for her innocent act.
“You saw what you wanted to see. Just like every other man.” Said with disdain, and he couldn’t blame her. She was right. He’d only ever seen the luscious woman who made him feel like a big, bad tigon. She smelled just right, and even though she’d never shown him her beast side, he could sense the feline inside her, was attracted to it. Wanted to rub himself against her and smear her with his scent. Cordon off an area around her with some urine to mark her as his. Roar to everyone looking that she belonged to him.
She’d really fooled him.
“I’m surprised guns are your weapon of choice.” Because he would have said her most dangerous weapon was her gentle touch. She had a way of rousing his passion and blinding him to the truth. And damn did it feel good.
“Guns. Knives. Pressure points. Poison.” Her bow lips curved. “I had an interesting childhood.” As the daughter of a renowned Russian mobster, of course, she had. Not that he’d known of her background when he met her. As far as he knew, he’d met Natasha Smirnoff, foreign student from Russia, orphaned and currently in America on a scholarship. A lone tigress with permission to be in the territory to study.
More lies. The Pride knew nothing about a Ms. Smirnoff. So many balls dropped, and rules broken.
As she listed off her mercenary capabilities, he lifted his glass in salute. “To the hidden depths of Natasha Tigranov. Anything else you’d like to add to the list?”
“I like to compete in archery and axe throwing competitions.”
“But the question is, can you cook?” He already knew the reply.
“No.”
“Then how on earth do you feed yourself?”
She scowled. “I have a chef.”
“A chef?” He snorted. “Do you even know how to boil water?”
“Of course, I do. Scalding is one of the techniques I learned in my lessons on torture. Would you like me to show you?”
“Only if you’re planning to make some fresh egg noodles. I do love my pasta.” He patted his tummy.
“As if I’d cook for you.”
“I’d say that’s the wrong attitude to take, wife. Isn’t pleasing your husband your job?” He deliberately threw out the most sexist thing he could think of. He was sure she’d shoot him. Her hand did shake a little, but she had great control.