Don't Mess with My Lethal Fiancée novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: One Bed

In his penthouse she refuses the job, sets her rules, kisses him hard, and learns a delivery from her mentor is waiting downstairs.

I slept in the armchair with my knife in my hand.

Bram took the bed.

He had not argued, and he had not tried to move me.

He had simply taken off his jacket and said goodnight.

At six I was at the window, counting fire exits on the building across the street.

The penthouse took up the whole top floor of a Gold Coast tower.

It had three doors to the hall, two stairwells, and a terrace that dropped forty floors to Lake Shore Drive.

I checked every lock before the sun was fully up.

Bram padded out of the bedroom at seven in a gray T-shirt and old drawstring pants.

His hair stood up on one side.

He looked at me crouched on the floor, testing the bolt on the terrace door.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"You have a terrace door with a bad bolt."

"I've been meaning to fix it."

"I fixed it. Sit down."

He sat on a stool at the kitchen island and watched me stand across from him with a dish towel over my shoulder.

"You're a very odd bride," he said.

"I'm a very good one. Ask your uncle."

He laughed, low and surprised, and the sound went straight down my spine.

I turned my back on him and poured coffee so he wouldn't see my face.

A silver bowl sat on the counter by the toaster.

It held six oranges.

I put the coffee down, picked up the bowl with both hands, and carried it to the far end of the kitchen.

I set it behind the bread box where I could not see it.

When I came back, Bram was looking at me with no expression at all.

"I don't like them," I said.

"The housekeeper buys them on Mondays."

"Tell her to stop."

"All right."

He did not ask why, and that bothered me more than a question would have.

I leaned against the counter across from him, and for a minute neither of us said anything.

"Rules," I said, finally.

"You first."

"I don't take orders from your uncle, and I won't be handled by his housekeeper."

"Good."

"I sleep with my knife."

"I assumed."

"And I'm not doing what Pavel wants."

His coffee stopped halfway to his mouth.

"Who's Pavel?"

I had said too much, and I knew it as soon as the name was in the air.

"Someone who thinks he owns me," I said. "He doesn't."

Bram set the mug down very carefully.

"Then we want the same thing," he said.

"What do you want?"

"For the next three weeks, I want a wife who survives the wedding."

"That's not a want. That's a low bar."

"It's the bar I've got."

I heard myself laugh.

Then I stopped, because he had come around the island, and now he was standing close enough for me to smell soap and coffee.

I could have put a knife in him before he finished crossing the kitchen.

I didn't.

"You've been staring at my mouth since you came in," he said.

"You've been staring at mine since the ballroom."

"Since the cabin."

His hand came up and cupped my jaw.

His thumb moved across my bottom lip.

I took his wrist and meant to push it away.

I pulled him closer instead.

The kiss was nothing like the one in the ballroom.

This one was slow for about two seconds.

Then he lifted me by the hips and set me on the counter.

My knees came up around his waist before I decided they would.

His mouth went hot and open against mine, and I dragged my fingers up into his hair.

He tasted like coffee.

"Vesper," he said into my neck.

It was the first time he said it like that.

My whole body answered.

I pulled his shirt up and ran my nails down his back.

He made a low sound in his throat that went right through me.

His hand slid under the hem of my borrowed sleep shirt and flattened on my thigh.

His fingers found the empty strap where my spare blade lived.

He smiled against my skin.

"You sleep armed," he said.

"I told you."

"I like it."

I bit his lip.

His other hand pulled my hips to the edge of the counter until I felt exactly how much he liked it.

The house phone on the wall rang.

Neither of us moved.

It rang again, sharp and flat.

Bram rested his forehead against my collarbone and reached over without turning around.

"Yes."

I heard the doorman's voice through the receiver, polite and a little embarrassed.

"Mr. Corwin, I'm sorry to ring so early. There's a delivery downstairs for Ms. Tierney."

"From whom?" Bram asked.

"The card says it's from Pavel."

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