We’re mid-meal when the doorbell rings. Connor instantly tenses up at my side, and I don’t understand why. I look at him questioningly, and he seems to be consciously choosing to relax. His shoulders drop incrementally, his jaw unclenches, and he takes a deep breath.

  “Who’s that?” Robert says, his first words since sitting down.

  “I’ll go see,” Debra says, getting up from the table. She goes into the foyer, and moments later, we can hear her surprised greeting. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you for a few more days. We were right in the middle of dinner.”

  Another female voice says, “Good. I’m starving. I’m sure you’ve got something worth eating.”

  The tension around the whole table ratchets up at that voice. Well, I don’t get more tense, but that’s because I have no idea what the hell’s going on. I seriously feel like I just got dropped into one of those dinner theater mysteries, except that I have no character cards, and so far, there’s no body on the floor. But maybe that part is still coming? I eye Connor and then his father, deciding they’re the too-easy suspects. I slide my eyes to Evan, the nice, polite newcomer, and decide he’s either the victim or the murderer of the yet-to-happen pretend death.

  An older woman and a young man appear in the dining room doorway, Debra’s face is stony as she leads them in. “Audrey, Ian, this is Poppy, Connor’s fiancée. Poppy, this is Connor’s aunt, Audrey, and his cousin, Ian.”

  Ah, the whole picture becomes clear now. If this were a dinner mystery theater, I could now clearly declare ‘the game is afoot!’ This is the aunt and cousin Connor told me about. Interesting that he’s not the only one who seems to hate them, but everyone in the room is noticeably more tense now, even Robert.

  Audrey looks a lot like her sister, if you dipped Debra in glitter and then told her to go Rodeo Drive on everything. Her outfit’s clearly designer, her jewelry’s flashy, her makeup is pristine, and her hair is a shade of blonde that only comes from an entire day in the salon chair.

  And Ian is somehow just as I pictured him to be—slick and polished looking, a guy who you can tell lives on Daddy’s money and thinks his shit doesn’t stink. I’ve written characters like him before. They always end up being the bad guy or the annoying as hell character who gets put in his place on a constant basis and serves as a distraction from the real bad guy. Funny to think that I’m sitting here with an actual criminal at my side as my fake fiancé, but Ian seems to be the villain in the room.

  Audrey pulls up a chair without asking and begins criticizing the dinner she hasn’t even tasted yet. Not that she was even invited to. “Pork roast and potatoes? How quaint and . . . basic. Ian, when was the last time we had a roast? It must’ve been in that little chalet restaurant in Switzerland, right?”

  Ian nods, though I don’t think he’s even listening to his mother. His eyes are locked on me. I’m the outlier here, the newcomer who grabs interest, and with my red hair, I’m used to attention. Connor, however, places an arm across the back of my chair possessively like Ian’s sniffing around his territory a bit too much. “Good to see you, Ian. What’re you up to these days?”

  Before Ian can answer, Audrey jumps in, bragging about her son. “Oh, Ian purchased another five properties this year. That brings it up to fifty now, I think.” She looks to Ian but doesn’t wait for him to respond. “He’s quite the real estate tycoon. Real estate investment is the only way to go these days,” she tells me arrogantly. “It’s the smart money.”

  “That’s true,” Connor says generously. But then, he sends the bomb he set himself up for. “All you need is Mommy and Daddy’s money to buy property and a management company to do all the work. It’s a foolproof gig, if you can get it.”

  It hits home, and Audrey makes a sound of huffed displeasure. “Well, it’s better than being a thug.”

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Connor says, refusing to be drawn in at Audrey’s level. “We’re all stealing in our own ways. I’m sure the people Ian buys from think he’s quite the con man, buying their houses for bottom dollar, slapping a couple of hundred bucks’ worth of paint and some polish on them, and then renting them back out at top dollar. At least I’m honest about what I do.”

  Not thinking, I place my hand on Connor’s thigh and squeeze. “What you did, sweetheart. You’re reformed now, remember?”

  It feels good to remind Connor of the story he told me he’d shared with his parents, of a fiancée who helped him find the straight and narrow and become a business consultant.

  I wonder what it would it take to make Connor’s lie a reality.

  He looks down at my hand on his leg. His very muscular, thick thigh that I want to squeeze again. As I’m trying to decide if he wants me to remove my hand, Connor covers it with his own, holding me in place. “Yes, reformed. But let’s be real . . . business is a cut-throat world, and we’re all crooks to some degree.”

  He sounds more dangerous with that statement than with any other I’ve heard pass his lips. So why do I stay in my chair, sitting at his side primly with my hand on his thigh, and not run from the danger in the room? Because he’s tracing my fingers gently, slowly, almost reverently as he utters the growled threat.

  He might be a crook. He might be dangerous, for all I know. But that touch tells me that he’s not dangerous to me . . . but he might be dangerous for me. In a good way.

  It’s a very subtle and very intoxicating difference.

  Debra tries to break the awkwardness and returns to a seemingly safe topic . . . weddings. “Oh, Poppy . . . I didn’t get to see your ring. May I?”

  “Oh . . . uh . . .” I stammer, clenching my hand under the table as if that could make a ring suddenly appear. “Well, I don’t have it tonight. It’s—”

  “At the jewelers,” Connor says quickly. I give him a look, lifting one brow as if to say, ‘Is it that easy to lie?’ His answer is to blink slowly and take a casual sip of his wine like he’s handing the rest to me.

  “Yes, sorry about that. It’s at the jewelers. Connor said I could get the ring of my dreams, so they’re custom-designing the wedding band to go around the solitaire and getting it all sized for me because once I put that baby on, I’m never taking it off.” I smile sweetly at Connor, doing my best to make it look like I’ve got heart bubbles in my eyes.

  See, I can do this! I tell him silently. But you’ve gotta work with me.

  “That’s so sweet,” Caylee gushes, clearly vibing on the romance of the whole evening. She’s got love, so her brother has to have love too, right? “Custom rings?”

  “He’s probably making layaway payments on it,” Audrey quips under her breath, but I’m sure she intentionally said it loud enough to be heard. Ian chuckles, smirking at Connor like his mother got one over.

  Debra, with some surprising bite of her own, sugar-sweetly asks, “Isn’t that what Harold had to do with your ring?” Then she waves a hand, “Oh, silly me, I forgot, you bought it yourself, didn’t you?”

  Jeez, this family’s a soap opera in the flesh.

  Audrey looks like she sucked on a lemon covered in warhead powder. “I did. Because I married for love. Not for money.”

  She looks from Debra to Robert with disdain, and next to me, I can feel Connor vibrating like a racehorse about to burst out of the gate . . . except I think what he’s holding back from is letting his rage explode all over this room.

  Caylee saves the day as she rolls her eyes and huffs loudly. “Could we not? I’m getting married in one week, and I really don’t need World War Three breaking out between the two of you between now and then. Let’s call it a draw, retire to your respective corners, and you can pick up this fight again after the wedding.”

  It seems like Connor’s not the only one tired of whatever this battle is between his mom and aunt. Caylee’s right. She’s got a lot on her plate, and dealing with childish adults shouldn’t be one of them.

  Debra tilts her head at Caylee, giving in though I can see the continuing words of anger she’d like to spit at her sister sitting on the tip of her tongue. Audrey starts, “Of course, dear. You know we’re all here for you. It’s your day—”

  “Good,” Caylee says, cutting her off. “Now, Connor . . . you’ll be there, right? I need my brother there for my wedding. I’m only doing this once, you know?”

  He’s shaking his head before she even gets the question out. “Caylee, no. Dinner, that’s all I promised, and I’m here.”

  He seems to conveniently have forgotten that it’s me who agreed to dinner, not him. My heart twists as I see the disappointment in Caylee’s eyes. But a million points for Evan as he looks lovingly at her, wishing he could take this pain away. Audrey looks triumphant, especially as Debra takes a heavy drink of her wine. And Robert looks resigned, as if he never expected more from his bad seed son.

  “Of course, he’ll be there. We both will.” I don’t squeeze Connor’s thigh this time. I flat-out pinch him, daring him to disagree. When he makes a sound of shocked pain, I do it again, pinching up higher, dangerously close to the Jolly Green Giant’s beanstalk zone and reminding him that I fight dirty. “Isn’t that right, babe? We wouldn’t miss Caylee’s wedding for anything in the world.”

  As the words pop out of my mouth, Connor’s glare turns up to level eleven. Huh, who would’ve thought he had more intensity than the glares he’s already given me? Certainly not me, but the proof is right there in his gaze.

  Uh-oh.

  I might be in real trouble now.

  Chapter 9

  Connor

  If looks could kill, I would murder Poppy where she sits at my family’s dining room table. In fact, like my coffee mug suggests, I’m thinking of at least seven ways to do it right here, right now. I could probably bury her curvy, sexy little body out back in the treed part of my family’s property and no one would be the wiser.

  Not that I’ve ever done that. I might be a thief, a bastard, and a lying shit who walks out on everyone and everything, but I’m not a murderer.

  But she’s tempting me. In multiple ways, which scares the hell out of me because no matter how hard I try, I cannot control or predict this woman. All I can do is adapt on the fly and see if it leads to disaster or not.

  This time, though, as much as it pisses me off, it seems to be the right thing to say because Caylee shouts and claps, “Oh, my gosh! Thank you so much, Poppy! And you too, Connor! It means so much to me!”

  She claps again, and I can see how happy she is. I’m not exactly close to Caylee these days, but once upon a time, we were thick as thieves. No pun intended. And for some reason, it means something to her that I’m there. Even if she doesn’t need an asshole like me fucking up her happy day.

  “Excuse us for a minute,” I tell the table before I drag Poppy into the hallway. She stumbles after me, trying to keep up with my long strides in her heels. I whirl, backing her into a wall and looming over her. Getting right in her face, I demand, “What the fuck was that?”

  Her eyes cut back to the dining room, where I’m guessing they’re listening closely to every word we say. But I’m doing this on purpose. I’m being the asshole so that we can end all of this now before someone gets even more hurt. When her eyes return to mine, they’re flashing with warning as she whispers, “It’s your sister’s wedding. Did you see how happy she is? You have to go.”

  “No. I don’t. I don’t have to do anything,” I argue, not bothering to keep my voice down. I want them to hear me. It’ll suck, of course. But it’s better that way. For us all, Caylee especially. As much as I hate to hurt her, she needs to know that she can’t count on me, not for this. I stand up straight, stubbornly unwilling to debate something that’s not even an option.

  “Connor—” Poppy pleads quietly, and I fight to let it roll off my back.

  I can’t let it develop. Not what she’s doing. Not what she’s awakening inside me. I can’t have it. It’s not meant for people like me.

  Trying to keep ahold of what’s threatening to rise inside me, I interrupt whatever puppy dog-eyed plea she’s about to unleash. Quietly this time, I remind her, “One day. Just one day as my fiancée. Dinner, that was all I agreed to, and that was only after you stepped in where you weren’t wanted.”

  She flinches, and regret for my words is bitter on my tongue. I don’t want to cause her pain . . . and for some reason I don’t want to examine too closely, Poppy’s pain turns me away from the path I know I should take, hurting her now to save her long-term devastation. “Shit. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s fine. I’m used to it,” she says, ducking her head down. Suddenly, the fiery, mouthy spitfire is gone, replaced with someone small and unsure.

  What . . . what’s happened to her? Did I do that?

  “Poppy,” I try, leaning down closer, but she ducks even farther away from me. “Pops, look at me.”

  I don’t even realize I’m doing it until my fingers touch the soft skin of her jaw, guiding her chin up and her eyes to mine. My thumb brushes back and forth, enjoying the silky feel of her cheek, and I say something that I’ve said maybe a handful of times in the past few years. I apologize. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m the one who’s not wanted here.”

  She licks her lips slowly, speaking carefully. “Connor, I don’t think that’s true. I think Caylee very much wants you here, and your mom does too. Not just because of whatever weird feud she’s got going with Audrey and Ian, either.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to rattle all the thoughts in her head together before putting them into something logical, but there’s no logic in that. So she lets them pour out regardless, imperfect and unfiltered. “I couldn’t take it, their talking to you and about you like that. I barely know you, and you stole my laptop, but even I can tell that you’re not the monster they make you out to be. Or that you make yourself out to be.”

  I’m surprised. No, I’m shocked to my very core. Poppy has no reason to defend me or to believe in me. I am quite literally the boogieman in her life, the monster who stole her lifeblood, but yet, she’s defending me?

  Why?

  She seems softer, vulnerable as she looks up at me, waiting for me to disagree with her. But footsteps along the wood floor tell me someone’s coming, and I act impulsively, something I never do.

  I kiss her. This isn’t some polite peck on the lips, either. I claim her, full-mouthed and passionate, no gentle caresses, no slow tasting. I kiss her like I’ve done it hundreds of times before and she’s mine to kiss. Her hands reflexively lift to my chest, and for a second, I think she’s going to push me away. She should. I absolutely deserve that and have done nothing to earn her kiss. But instead, her hands curl into my shirt, holding me in place.

  I angle my head to get deeper, wanting more, and nip her bottom lip when she doesn’t give in. When she gasps in surprise, I take advantage and push my tongue into her mouth.

  I don’t know what’s come over me, but I like it, even as warning bells are going off loudly in my head. Poppy melts for me, matching my intensity without restraint or second thought. Her tongue fights with mine for control, something I refuse to give up.

  Between my legs, I’m hard as a rock, wanting this fiery woman’s body as well as her mouth. I push into her, our bodies aligned as I press her against the unyielding wall. Poppy’s hands wrap around my neck, one leg lifting to rest her thigh on my hip, and I feel warm heat press against the bulge in my slacks.

  My God, she wants me too. After all she’s seen . . . and she wants me. I hold her leg there, squeezing the taut muscle with my strong palm, and she moans into my mouth.

  I swallow the sound, wanting more of her passion.

  “Ahem,” a too-close voice says. Ian.

  Poppy startles and jumps, her mouth leaving mine as she follows the sound, and I definitely want to pop my cousin in the nose for breaking us up. “Oh, uh . . . sorry.”

  Her apology is accompanied by a small giggle, like a schoolgirl who got caught by the principal making out in the hallway with a boy. But she is no girl, I’m not a boy, and Ian is definitely not worthy of being any sort of morality police. He might not be responsible for the rift between Mom and Aunt Audrey . . . but this apple did not fall far from the poisoned tree, and he’s rotten to his core.

  “I hated to interrupt the show, but you know . . .” He throws his head to side, indicating that the parents are all one wall away, listening raptly. The way he’s looking at Poppy, though, has me furious, his greedy eyes tracking slowly up and down her body like he’s noticing things about her that he has zero business noticing.

  She’s mine, asshole.

  I don’t know where the thought comes from, but I go with it, putting myself between Ian and Poppy to intentionally block his sightline, and snap sharply, “We’ll be there when we’re done with our discussion.”

  My unexpected anger only fuels Ian’s interest, and his brow lifts as he smirks, “Discussion? Is that what it’s called these days? Maybe you should deal with your mother’s temper tantrum over the wedding drama, and I can have a word with Poppy. I’d be happy to explain the family history.”

  I’m certain any ‘family history’ he’d explain would amount to why I’m a piece of shit. Not that I’d give him a chance alone with Poppy. He thinks he’s cute and clever, but he’s slick and slimy, virtually licking his lips at whatever indecent image he’s creating in his mind.

  The mere thought strikes a dark chord in my gut, making me see red before I can even consider why I’m feeling possessive and protective of the redheaded spitfire currently peeking around my arm at Ian.

  Strike that . . . the redhead who was behind me. Poppy moves deftly and gracefully around my body, one hand on her hip and one finger stabbing Ian in the chest, murder written on her face. “Does that sort of shit actually work for you or are you used to saying whatever you want because of the size of your wallet?”

  She pokes him harder, her fingernail definitely causing a dent in the thin skin beneath his expensive shirt and cutting off any lame ass retort he can come up with. “Don’t bother answering because we all know the answer, don’t we? You couldn’t ‘explain’ a damn thing to me. You’re not capable of anything more than parroting what others say. So why don’t you run along back to Mommy and let the grownups talk? Like Connor said, we’ll be there when we’re done with our discussion. However long it takes.”