“Wait a minute. Between Charlotte and McTiernan? I need details,” Winston demands.
I launch into the story, explaining to him what Charlotte told me, which wasn’t much. Even though I originally told myself I wasn’t going to tell my brother any of the details until I had more of them, it all comes pouring out of me anyway.
“Do you think she put that together?”
Hearing him say it out loud makes anger flare in my blood. “I don’t know.”
“You trust her?”
“I thought I did.”
“You should ask her about it.”
“Not like I can bring him up in casual conversation during our wedding reception,” I mutter. “I’m still pissed you kept this from me.”
“You’ll get over it.” Winston says it with such assuredness, because he knows it’s true.
Damn it.
“And why the hell will a bunch of Morellis and McTiernans be at my wedding reception again?” At the light, I whip my car to the right, my tires screeching on the pavement, the back end of my car squirrely.
“We’re putting on a show, little brother. Uniting with the Lancasters is a fucking power move and you know it. You wedding and bedding a Lancaster makes you a king.” Winston actually sounds proud, the power-hungry motherfucker.
“Start calling me king, then,” I demand, my grip on the steering wheel so tight my fingers start to cramp up.
“Ha, you wish. I’m the king of this family. You’re just the sorry-ass second son.” He ends the call before I can say anything else, the music I was listening to before I got on the phone now flooding the interior of my car. I turn up the volume, letting the angry guitar and heavy bass beat thrum through my veins.
I should be feeling on top of the world. I’m about to marry a woman who is fine as fuck and a nice piece of ass in bed. I sound like a callous asshole even in my own thoughts, but damn. That’s exactly what Charlotte is.
She’s also sweet and sexy and gives me those looks—the shy glances that say so much without her uttering a word. With the big blue eyes and lush mouth and tempting body. I gave into my earlier resistance because I have every right to. She’s about to become my wife.
Mine.
And no one else’s.
Now I feel as if the rug has been ripped out from under my feet at the mention of a Morelli relative terrorizing her at the hotel and knowing that particular Morelli offshoot was in Paris. Just as she was.
It all adds up, and Winston just confirmed it. She fucked that guy and now he’s sniffing around her, for what? Looking for another chance? I don’t believe for a minute it was a coincidental meeting in a hotel coffee shop the morning of our wedding. I bet he followed her. Made sure she saw him so they could what? Engage in casual conversation? Make nice with each other and ask banal questions like, “What have you been up to?”
Please. That doesn’t track.
Did she flirt with him, or did she tell that asshole to leave her alone, she’s getting married? Did her heart pang at first sight of him, remembering what they shared in her past? Is she not over him? I always got that sense, but maybe I’m wrong. Pretty sure he did a number on her and it messed with her head. She’s distrustful of men.
Of me.
And now he’s back and possibly trying to earn a spot in her heart that he abandoned in the first place.
I punch the steering wheel and curse under my breath, full-blown anger coursing through my blood, heating it up, making me hot. I pull into the parking garage of our apartment building, reminding myself I need to calm the fuck down, but it’s no use.
I’m pissed.
By the time I’m entering our apartment, I’m motivated by rage and not bothering to try and hide it. Doja Cat takes one look at me and speeds away into Charlotte’s room.
Smart kitty. Not that I’d hurt Doja but I’d want to avoid me too.
Jasper makes his appearance, regal in his black suit, his hands behind his back, his expression somber as usual. The guy gives nothing away.
“Mr. Constantine. Congratulations on your wedding day,” he greets.