DRAMA NOVEL ONLINE Borrowed Bride: Chapter 2
A pickpocket. It’s not unheard of, but this one is either stupid or damn suicidal.
“Was it worth it?” I demand, my voice low enough for only her to hear as my hands sweep up her waist. Where did she stash it? A pickpocket as fast as her surely didn’t have to hide my wallet somewhere I couldn’t reach. The fabric of her T-shirt rises with my fingers, briefly exposing her midriff.
“Worth it?” she hisses back. Her head jerks away from where my lips tease the shell of her ear and I’m faced with thick auburn curls.
“In some cultures, you’d lose a hand for what you’ve just done. Stealing like some filthy street rat.”
She doesn’t reply. Coward.
My knuckles brush against the weight in the left pocket of her jacket just as I find a firm bulge near her breast tucked just underneath her shirt. I’m not kind as I roughly seek out both items and pull them from her. Taking half a step back, I glance down.
Two wallets. One is brown, worn and frayed at the edges. It’s heavier than my own sleek, black card holder. It seems this thief has an array of talents.
Traffic beeps behind us, and the air fills with the slick sound of tires on a road that’s getting wetter by the second. I don’t have time to delay, but I’m also not walking away from this just yet.
“Is it a death wish you have? The last person to steal from me was cut into tiny little pieces and fed, bit by bit, to the hippo at the zoo,” I say, studying her from head to toe.
She’s trembling.
Her knee shakes against my own despite the firm set line of her lips and the sharp edge in her gaze. She’s not what I would expect from a pickpocket at all.
“That’s twisted,” the woman replies tightly.
“So is stealing,” I snap, lifting my wallet. “This is not yours. I don’t give a shit what little sad story brought you to the streets so I’ll ask you again, do you have a fucking death wish?” I don’t try to keep the anger out of my tone, but as she shakes before me while trying to look unaffected, I take her in fully.
The rain drizzling around us soaks into her hair, darkening the auburn and bringing out the red streaks hidden in the color. Her almond-shaped eyes, lined with black, are espresso-brown, though they almost look like pools of black ink in the low light. She has an oval face and full pink lips that turn pale with how she repeatedly presses them together. Dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt that hugs her shapely figure, the leather jacket might be the most expensive thing she owns.
I wouldn’t be surprised if that were stolen too.
Our eyes meet and a short, unexpected jolt of tension bolts through my chest. For a fraction of a second, she reminds me of someone. Someone long dead to me. The woman I once gave my entire heart and soul to.
Never again. She was cruelly taken from me, and that kind of pain never fades.
“Well?” I ask, tapping the wallets against one another. “Rat lost her voice?”
She lifts her chin slightly, exposing the golden length of her throat to my gaze. “I’m not a rat. You look like an asshole. Easy mark that doesn’t keep an eye on his belongings.” She smirks slightly and that right-slanted curl of her upper lip is so similar that tension forms in my chest once more.
Odd.
I open my wallet in front of her. “You read me so well, so tell me, where does the value lie? Is it the wallet itself? It’s expensive leather; I’m sure you could pawn that to some disgusting broker for a pretty penny. Is it this?” My fingertips nudge against the sparkling platinum trinket that dangles from the corner of the wallet. It’s the only thing that’s out of place in my entire look—my entire world—but it’s a dear gift from my sister, and I’d kill without hesitation if it were stolen.
“Is it the money?” I flip open my wallet and pull out the wad of cash. At a glance, it’s maybe two grand in big bills. I toss them out and her gaze drops to watch them scatter around her worn boots, soaking into the puddles forming around us. “No, that can’t be right. While money is traceable, these days most people don’t carry cash. It’s the cards, isn’t it?”
She remains tense despite the trembling of her knee against my own. “Sure. Assholes like you have more money than sense. You wouldn’t miss some fucking plastic.”
Her attitude amuses me despite the anger that her little stunt has caused.
“And this.” I open the other wallet. It’s empty of cash but there’s a single credit card and some ID. Sliding it out, I study the information. “David Garcia. A relation?”
“A dumbass.”
“Strange name for a victim.”
“You’re both far from being that,” she snaps.
“Really? You think theft is a victimless crime?”
“I know it is,” she replies tightly. “People like him. You. You don’t know shit about suffering. All that money, it’s not something you deserve. Whatever. If you’re gonna kill me then kill me.”
My free hand attaches to her throat within half a second and I tighten my grip just enough for her eyes to flash with alarm.
“You think you can pretend that you’re not scared to die?” I hiss closely, brushing our noses together. “You stole from me. But you think it’s all about money because of your pathetic, narrow-minded view of value. I’m not pissed about the money, or the cards, but this?”
I hold up my wallet so the little butterfly dangles from the corner. Her dark eyes dart to it.
“I’d start wars over this, you rat.”
I step back. She slouches down the wall, coughing sharply and touching her throat with her own palm. “You’re crazy,” she gasps wetly.
“And you, what are you? Just a street thief? Have prostitutes upgraded since I last went looking for tail?” There’s no denying her beauty. In fact, she’s quite stunning in a dirty sort of way. If she was cleaned up and appropriately dressed, she’d crush the hearts of a dozen men with one glance.
“Fuck you,” the woman spits. “I’m not a whore.”
“Boss.” One of my guards steps forward before I can reply. He slides his hand over his gun and the woman’s eyes dart down to it immediately. “You want me to take care of this? You’ve got places to be.”
As he speaks, my attention never leaves her. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of the gun. Maybe she really isn’t scared to die.
Frederick is right. I have places to be. And yet, somehow, I can’t bring myself to walk away because another idea is forming in my mind. A street rat with no family and no value outside of what she steals from others.
She may be the perfect solution to a pressing problem.
“Call and delay,” I order Frederick. “You, girl, what’s your name?”
“What, you don’t want to call me ‘rat’ anymore?”
“Rat it is,” I decide, having no patience to battle back and forth with her. “I will give you a chance to earn your life back.”
Her brow lifts and her eyes narrow while she massages her throat. “How?”
Inside my wallet, I remove my American Express Centurion Card and hold it out to her. “If you can find the limit on this card by the end of the day, you can go free. If you can’t, you have to face the consequences of stealing from me with no exceptions.”
She reaches for the card immediately but I curl it back toward myself, forcing her to hesitate.
“Do you understand? If you fail, then I get to do whatever I want with you. I could kill you. Sell you. Fuck you.”
Her lower lip curls into her mouth and her brows knit together, then she glances up and fixes me with a steady stare. “Do I get to keep what I buy?”
Not the response I was expecting. “Sure, why not.”
She takes the card and studies it, turning it over in her hands. “My name is Gianna.”
“Marco.”
The shopping spree starts exactly as you would expect. Gianna picks the most expensive-looking storefront on the street and strides inside, buying everything she can get her hands on. She snaps up whole floors of furniture, entire suites dedicated to decorating new rooms, and all sorts of decor—including wallpaper and flooring. Each time she selects something, the card clears the purchase, and she moves on.
For two hours, we move from store to store, and she buys everything—the local bookstore ends up with empty shelves and an empty storeroom, the furniture shop has to close because they have no stock left, and five jewelry stores try to give her discounts based on the amount she’s buying. She refuses, paying full price for everything.
She doesn’t reach the card limit.
Gianna changes tactics as the skies above finally crack and the downpour starts. She goes from hotel to hotel, not caring about the downpour even as my guards try to keep her dry under umbrellas. She buys out every single available room, complete with room service.
“What are you doing?” I ask as she pauses in the middle of the street and quickly texts someone.
The rain rattles hard against the umbrellas keeping us dry, and Gianna flashes her phone at me.
“I’m not calling for help if that’s what you’re asking. I’m posting on a few forums that can reach out to the homeless around here and let them know a room has been paid for. Those people can get shelter from the storm.”
She talks as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and then she strides forward and continues her trip. It’s an odd choice. With a challenge like this, I would expect Gianna to buy as many cars and boats as she can think of, but her mind seems to stall on the concept of luxury. Instead, she buys furniture and books to donate. She scoops up hotel rooms for the homeless.
And then we buy out an entire grocery store that she then instructs to be handed out to any of the homeless still on the streets while keeping a bag for herself. The bag contains personal hygiene products, vitamins, and other necessities that really should be an afterthought, along with that kind of card in her hand.
Still the card swipes, and still each transaction ticks through.
By the time night falls, Gianna runs out of open shops to visit. Soaked to the bone from all her rushing around, my guards and I lightly guide her toward a private boutique that refuses to let her inside until they catch sight of me.
They fall over themselves apologizing but I ignore them. My focus is entirely on her.
For a thieving rat, she’s not what I expect. Most of her kind that I’ve come across are greedy and only care for themselves. I’ve killed any that I haven’t flipped to work for me. After all, a talented pickpocket can be invaluable at the right gatherings.
But Gianna is different. Her focus is on other people rather than her own well-being.
The clock strikes eight and Gianna stands on a small circular stage in the middle of the dressing room while an assistant helps her into a gorgeous deep blue silk gown. It flows over her curves like water, and the silver embroidery around her bust draws my eyes to the swell of her chest over and over.
I won’t deny her attractiveness. The way she carries herself is admirable and the small plan in my mind, the one that’s been growing since I met her, is almost complete.
“Are you going to kill me?” Gianna asks suddenly, causing the assistant to drop her box of pins in surprise.
“Why?” I ask from where I recline in one of the soft leather chairs, tilting a complimentary glass of scotch back and forth between my fingers. “Do you think I should?”
“The dress cleared on your card,” Gianna says. “Every single dress cleared. Every single thing I bought today has cleared without issue. I can’t even fathom the expense. That card has no limit.”
“It does.”
“I don’t believe you.” She turns away from me, admiring herself in the mirror.
The dress is backless. The beautiful blue fabric hugs her body and creates a deep V-shape right at the base of her spine. I stare at the expanse of visible bare skin, and my fingertips tingle with a sudden urge to touch.
“You tricked me with a new card,” Gianna continues, then she turns back to me. “Admit it.”
“Is it a trick if you’re the one that stole it in the first place?” I shoot the assistant a glare and she abandons her job and flees from the room. “You forget that you stole from me. You are the criminal. I gave you an out. Maybe you just didn’t want it enough.”
I walk slowly toward the stage.
Gianna’s chest lifts and the hollow of her neck deepens. “Giving me a card with no limit sets me up for failure.”
“It has a limit.” I tap my temple with two fingers. “Up here. You can’t fault me for knowing how to take care of myself.”
Gianna swallows a soft, audible gulp as I reach the stage. “So you are going to kill me.”
“No,” I reply. “Not while you’re wearing that dress. Take it off.”
Her eyes narrow and I tense slightly, waiting for her reaction.
Will she run? Will she fight? Will she try and talk her way out of it?
Gianna does neither.
She reaches for the halter strap of her dress and unclasps it. When the dress falls from her body, it runs down her like water and pools around her ankle like a droplet of moonlight. She stands there in her underwear and her lips apart.
Before she can speak, I grasp the side of her neck and jerk her toward me. Our mouths collide in a sudden, powerful kiss that sends a jolt of yearning through my entire body. Her hands land against my chest, bracing herself against me. When her fingertips curl and press into my shirt, I prepare for a bite of teeth or something more, but there’s nothing.
Continuing to surprise me, Gianna kisses me back. My world narrows to the soft press of her lips as they weave against my own, following my path in the kiss. She smells faintly of vanilla and rainwater, and her skin is hot beneath my palm. The contact is almost too much, as if an electrical charge simmers beneath her skin, searing into my hand.
When I pull back, Gianna pants, and her warm breath ghosts over my cheek.
“Perfect.” I step back. She will be more than satisfactory for what I need. “You almost made me believe you could stand to kiss me. Good. Because this is just the beginning of how you’re going to pretend to be my wife.”