Contractually Yours: An Arranged Marriage Romance (The Lasker Brothers Book 4)
Contractually Yours: Chapter 43

A week later, Sebastian sends a car for our first date. He hasn’t told me where we’re going, and when I pressed him for a dress code, he said to wear whatever I wanted.

I try on four different outfits before the limo’s arrival, finally settling on a blue asymmetrical dress that brings out my eyes. Then I put my hair in a topknot and secure it with a topaz pin. Aquamarine drop earrings on my earlobes and a silver-and-larimar necklace around my throat. Casual enough, I tell myself as nerves flutter in my belly.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror by the foyer. My cheeks are overly flushed, and there’s a sparkle in my eyes.

It’s a familiar expression—the girls in high school wore it when they finally scored a date with a major crush.

I turn away in embarrassment. Sebastian Lasker is not a crush. Not anymore. He’s just…

This is actually our first real date. I had to arrange the “date” we had before the wedding and send him flowers to bring so everything would look proper to the world.

At five sharp, a white limo pulls up. A chauffeur in a snowy uniform comes out and opens the door for me.

I murmur my thanks and climb inside, then freeze at the sight of Sebastian. “I thought you were sending me a car.”

“And I did. With me in it. A combo deal.” He smiles. “You look gorgeous.”

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” That’s such an understatement. He’s hot as hell in his black bespoke suit.

He laughs softly, like he knows I’m full of it.

He smells of fresh soap, and I realize he showered and re-groomed himself before coming over. Were we both nervous about this “date”? “So. Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he says mysteriously.

At least I’m not overdressed. The only jewelry on him is the wedding band.

“You don’t have to wear that ring anymore,” I tell him.

“I know, but I want to.” His voice is soft, but firm.

“It won’t change my mind.”

“I’m not wearing it for you. I’m wearing it for me, so everyone knows I’m taken.”

When he says things like that, my heart reacts badly. Irrationally. Dangerously. I can’t afford to be foolish. “Sebastian—”

“You didn’t want it back, so it’s mine to do with as I wish.”

I say nothing. He’s so, so stubborn.

“By the way, I saw the coat you sent me.”

It was an impulse that made me put it into the things I sent to the Aylster. I regretted giving it back for a moment, since it was doubtful he remembered the frozen ice block of a girl.

“It’s amazing that you kept it for so long,” he says. “I never thought I’d see Miss Hot Chocolate again.”

The memory of the hot chocolate surfaces—how soothing it was to hold something warm and take comfort from a stranger who showed more kindness than my own family. Something cold and hard in my heart shivers, giving a little, like a glacier shifting under a relentless sun. “You remember.”

“Of course.”

I smile a little. “You made an impression. Mr. Cashmere Coat. You were the only one who actually listened. Mom was busy feeling loved by Roderick. He was busy playing the loving partner to Mom and carrying on an affair with his assistant. Grandfather was too important and disapproving to encourage me to speak. If I hadn’t met you in Paris, I might’ve run away for real.”

“I wish I’d recognized you when we met in my office. I thought about you—how you’d turned out.”

“Well, what do you think?” I spread my arms, trying to keep our conversation as light and meaningless as possible.

He looks at me with an odd pride. “I could not have imagined better.”

My heart misses a beat. What am I doing? I raise my shield higher, refusing to let him affect me again.

The limo stops, and the driver opens the door. Sebastian steps out and extends a hand. I take it, feeling his fingers wrap around me securely. The gesture’s sweetly protective—and possessive.

Ignore the sensation. I look at a tall block of a building in front of us. It’s one of the most boring I’ve ever seen. No windows. A high, sloped roof and a drab beige exterior. The parking lot is empty except for the limo.

“This isn’t a restaurant. And even if it were, it’s definitely not open,” I say.

“It better not be open.”

“Did you rent the whole place again?”

“Not exactly.” He ushers me toward the building. He pulls out his phone and runs the screen over the security panel, then presses his thumb over the smooth screen.

The light on the panel turns green, and the door opens with a soft click.

“Sebastian, what’s going on?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

“If I trusted you less, I might think you were trying to kidnap me or something.”

He laughs.

“I’m serious—”

The words die as the interior brightens. Bronze statues dot the huge, open space. On the wall are a few paintings, but my focus returns to the statues.

“Are these François’s works?” I can’t keep the awe out of my voice.

“Yes.”

“But didn’t Barron Sterling buy them all? He doesn’t let anybody see them.”

“That isn’t why he put them into this windowless gallery,” Sebastian says. “He doesn’t want any sun damage.”

I laugh. “I know that, silly. I was just wondering about the voodoo spell you must’ve cast to get him to open this gallery for us.”

“I asked his girlfriend.”

“You know her?” I recall reading that she’s in her sixties or something like that. I thought it was very sweet that he was dating a woman close to his age rather than somebody who could be his granddaughter.

“Sebastian Jewelry did some custom work for her. I remembered how happy you were about your François, and I thought you’d like to see more.”

I’m surprised he noticed. That was when our relationship was still new—and he was upset with me for forcing him into marriage. “Thank you. I thought you were taking me to three different restaurants.”

“I told you I’d feed you, but didn’t promise to limit myself to restaurants.”

Of course not. Sebastian isn’t the type to limit himself. Even when others try to place restrictions on him, he replaces a way around them.

He is by far the most dynamic and intriguing man I’ve ever met. And I can’t afford to let myself be seduced…again.

I stare at the latest piece, which I was dying to get but couldn’t. Absolute Love. Unlike most of François’s work, this one was titled in English. It caused quite a stir when Barron Sterling paid forty million for it, then promptly hid it after releasing a few photos of the piece.

I can’t tear my gaze away.

“Is this your favorite?” Sebastian asks.

“I just think it’s brilliant. Do you know anything about it?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not really big into art like you.”

“He said he created it in a couple of months after he had a dream of his childhood.” I gesture at the statue. A man and a woman are hugging tightly, their arms entwined. At first, you can’t see it, but if you look closely, you can see a child between them, his face upturned and smiling.

“Nice,” Sebastian says.

“He said in an interview there’s no love like the love a man and a woman have for each other and the life they’ve created together—civilizations rose and fell for that love.”

“That’s a grand statement.”

“He’s an artist. Of course he’s going to make grand statements about his work. When I first read the interview, I thought good for him for having that kind of childhood and experiencing that kind of love.” My voice grows wistful.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says quietly, taking my hand.

“Even though I didn’t grow up knowing that kind of love…maybe I secretly wished I’d get to have it when I grew up—when I met somebody special.” I realize I’ve said too much and pull away, disengaging our hands. Seeing my favorite artist’s works up close somehow brought my defenses down.

Thankfully, Sebastian doesn’t try to take my hand again or continue with the topic. I look at the rest of the collection. Admire the immense spectrum of themes and expressions. Some of the works appear more realistic, while others are abstract.

“I’ve never understood this one,” I say, as we stand in front of the last piece. “La Tranquillité. There’s nothing tranquil or peaceful about the work.”

The piece looks like a representation of dark water being agitated in a huge container—minus the container. The lines are jagged and rough as the almost-black bronze soars to the sky.

“I think it’s about what’s to come. There’s a peculiar kind of relief that you get after a violent storm,” Sebastian says.

I shoot him a quick look. “I thought you said you didn’t know much about art.”

He shrugs. “I know something about life.”

“Wouldn’t a violent storm leave destruction behind?”

“Probably. But the air is clearer. And whoever is still alive has gained a little bit of confidence that they can survive something else like it in the future.”

“So if another one comes…”

“They ride it out.” He takes my hand again and kisses the back of it, the gesture full of tender affection.

And inside me, little cherry-blossom petals seem to flutter.

“I want to be there for you—ride it out with you.”

“It’s too late,” I say, although I don’t pull my hand away this time. And I easily could—he’s not holding me hard. But it’s like he’s leaving the decision up to me.

“Nothing is ever too late.”

I look at him levelly. “What will you do to even the scales for me, then?”

“Anything,” he says, holding my eyes.

His response is too easy. I’ve heard so many men glibly say whatever they need to say to get what they want.

I pull my hand out of his and take five long steps back. He watches, his eyes dark. “If I tell you to crawl on your knees for me, will you?”

“For you?” A corner of his mouth lifts, as though he’s saying, That’s all? “Over the proverbial mile of broken glass.”

Skepticism lingers. Words. Such easy words.

He drops to his knees. My lips part as a stunned breath leaves me.

He crawls toward me. He should look small—servile, even. But instead, he seems oddly powerful and resolute—like a man who knows what he wants and is going to do anything to get it. His eyes ensnare mine, and I can’t move as he closes the distance between us.

He stops when he’s only an inch away from the tip of my shoes. He looks up with a smile. “How did I do?”

I remain speechless. I’m not worth him throwing away his pride and doing this… I don’t have anything left for him to take.

His face grows taut, like he can read what’s flashing through my head. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me flush against him. “You are worth it, Lucienne Peery. You are the prize. I can do this over and over again until you believe that.”

Tears prickle my eyes. I lay my left hand on his hair. “This is unfair. You weren’t supposed to fight this dirty. You were just supposed to ply me with pretty words over dinner.”

He takes my hand from his head and threads his fingers through mine, his wedding band warm against my skin. He presses his cheek to the back of my hand and looks up at me like a man who has his prize in sight. “All’s fair in love and war. And this is love.”