When all else fails, wear red for the win. Scarlet energy flows from the gold-trimmed bodice hugging me. The skirts flare out and ripple with it. This night isn't for the understated elegance, it favors the bold.

I expected it and I craved it while I waited for tonight.

What I didn't expect is for my breath to hitch at the sight of Ryan.

Upon our return to L.A., he disappeared to check on his place and his business. I haven't laid my eyes upon him until my hired limo pulled in front of the shop where we had our first meeting. So, Ryan walks out, and my breath hitches, as dumb as it sounds.

Okay, trust me, I know what a man wearing a tux looks like. I know what Ryan looks like. But Ryan wearing the tux is the whole that's more than the sum of its parts.

So much more.

Richard, the miracle-worker, had done a magnificent job, uplifting Ryan's silhouette to a wet dream level. My Galatea has come to life in his full glory.

Despite the frustrating habit of pushing his shortened bangs back or scratching the stubble behind his ear, the haircut settled into a thick wave, rivaling the fabric of his tux in its beautiful black. His face, already well-made, gains new elegance from this transformation.

I steal glances at my new husband, like some sixteenth century damsel given away in marriage. I marvel the whole ride to the venue. Too soon the limo slows down to a stop in front of it. A giant staircase climbs to its doors. Myriad twinkling lights turn the all-windows building on a hill into a palace woven with fairy glow for one night. The banners stream in the wind with the imperial eagles. The Father Frost on the other banners wears furs so luxurious, it would have him spray-painted by the animals' rights activists if he were real.

"We are here," I explain needlessly.

Ryan gives me a curt nod. Then his eyes move back to studying the staircase and the building's entrance. They scan the crowd, sorting the security from the guests in our view. The who-is-who if the L.A. underworld will be here tonight, and Ryan won't be Ryan if he didn't look for trouble.

"The ambush is unlikely, my darling," I whisper to him. "Once we get inside, there's a metal detector to prevent firearm-related unpleasantries."

"Sure, once we inside. But the snipers on the roof are a terrible nuisance. Ruining your dress would be a crime."

"Glad you approve my choice." I smooth the skirt over my knee. "I trust you'll catch a bullet to save it."

"The highest honor I can dream of, Naz. However, just in case I'm not on hand to give my life for your dress, watch your back."

A twitch of his lips hints at a smile, but before it fully develops, he rushes to do his duties and opens the car door for me. Once I grip his wrist and he extricates me from the limo's leather seat, I add, "You too, Ryan. Watch your back, I mean."

The tux fits him too well to stain it with blood. Plus, a bullet in the back is a fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. To the forehead or in the chest, when it's one's own fault, is another matter.

Ignoring the mad pounding of my heart, I set my foot onto the first of the carpeted steps. The watchful eyes of the security guards and costumed staff train on me. My hand slips into the waiting crook of Ryan's arm and the familiar sensation of my body moving a split second ahead of my brain tickles me. I felt it many times before, always in a fight. Perhaps, this instinct kicked in here because Ryan and I are always sparring, verbally at least. This time we don't fight. Just move in unison with one another. Flow, as if we're already dancing.

Together, we climb the staircase. Liveries, tuxes, and impractical gowns swirl all the way to the mirror-fountains-tropical-flora decorated entrance.

Once we are through the doors and the metal detectors I promised Ryan, and into the foyer, I catch the first glimpse of us together in full ball gear. The wall-to-wall mirror doesn't lie. He frames me so squarely, I can't believe I had this dress picked with the soft-serve Luca in mind. Ryan is perfect for this cut and this shade of red. This man's perfect for me.

Ryan lingers in front of the mirror to practice his smile. The devout expression replaces the alert one after only a couple of tries. To match it, I tilt my head, parting my lips a little, lifting my brows. I gaze deep into his eyes and visualize chocolate. Rich, creamy chocolate coating my tongue. The sweetest thing I've tasted.

Ryan brings my gloved hands to his lips for a kiss, left then right, without breaking the gaze.

I hope he's not envisioning his beloved pickled, steamed, roasted, or deep-fried fish... well, so long as he's just imagining eating it and looks at me like that, we're good.

He is perfect.

I've chosen the only man who could waltz into this winter ball as my husband and walk out alive.

We can only win.

We will win.

We will.

With a sigh, I nudge him toward the important-looking usher and push the invitation card in his hand. Miss Nazarevich and a guest, it says in the gold-embossed font.

I give the usher a dazzling smile once he checks the card against the list. My voice pitches to the exhilarated squeal, but I also stuff a bill into his sleeve for insurance.

"Please, announce us as Ryan Lee and Kamila Nazarevich-Lee. We've just got married!"

We debated this announcement to death. Ryan argued that Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Lee would be enough to make a splash. I wanted to leave it at Kamila Nazarevich and a guest, and let the visual do the trick.

In the end, we compromised on a multisyllabic concoction, with my name hyphenated like I'm a real princess.

The usher grins, either happy with the sudden windfall, or genuinely. Some people can't help but smile when they perceive newlywed's or lovers' bliss. It does him credit if it's the former, it's good for us if it's latter. If we can fool this stranger, we can fool those who matter.

I almost feel guilty that Papa is among those we aim to deceive, but he acted like a donkey's ass, so he deserves it. They all deserve what's coming for them, I think vehemently.

By a lovely coincidence, music stops just then to some scattered applause and shushed laughter. The couples drift to-and-fro on the dance floor.

The usher seizes his opportunity to maximize the drama.

"Mr. Ryan Lee and Mrs. Kamila Nazarevich-Lee," he booms into the relative silence of the ballroom.

I shut my eyes, take a deep breath and step into the lights.

The effect of our grand entrance is better than I dared to hope for.

Papa, Ilya and Luca, as well as ancient Paulie Tangorello, his father, stand together on a VIP dais. Luca's latest guardian angel, one Matteo Scali, is a step behind him. The two men are first cousins, but you wouldn't guess that. They're almost comically opposite where the brain vs brawn is concerned. Also, where their relationships with women are concerned. Scali's so blindly loyal to his girlfriend, men make fun of it. Behind his back, of course.

Once the announcement sinks in, four heads turn to behold Ryan and me. Scali doesn't bother looking. His eyes scan the perimeter around Luca, plus dart to his girl, Bryn (naturally). I'm almost offended by his lack of interest, but Scali isn't my enemy, and Bryn's hovering over a platter of very appealing hors d'oeuvres.

Ilya, the only person who knew my plan, salutes me with his Champagne flute. His eyes are bright from alcohol already, and a devilish smile curls his lips.

Papa and my prospective father-in-law squint. Then their faces freeze to almost identical stony expressions. They were bosses for too long to waste their time on puzzles. They jump right to solutions.

Luca, on the other hand, looks like he's about to stroke.

"Oh, no, no..." I whisper into Ryan's ear, "no, no, no... that's what they're thinking right now. It's not a mistake, it's fucking bullshit, that's what it is."

The musicians strike up the new tune, a languid waltz this time. Ryan snuggles my waist, drawing me toward the dance floor. I snag my own glass of Champagne from a passing waiter's tray and drink.

"Oh no, no, they're thinking..." He picks the flute and the thread of the imaginings from me. "The unwritten agreement is that Lee gets to live if he loses his credibility. We can't just kill him."

"This SOB gets the girl!" I throw my head back, unable to contain a peel of laughter.

"Sweetie, language! We're in a classy company here." He finishes our glass of Champagne and gets rid of it.

I tickle his neck with my nails just above the collar. "You're a colossal jerk, Ryan, but you are my jerk."

He swirls me, sending my skirts into a crimson wave around our ankles. Tango, the unfolding drama demands tango, but I would take a waltz. Plus, waltzing is Ryan's hidden talent, as our hasty dance classes had revealed.

"Naz! Let me lead."

After a second of hesitation, I give myself to the intoxicating, breathless flow of the music and his strong hands. The dress opens in a hibiscus' blossom and my heart opens after it, lured by the sensation of freedom.

Yes, I feel the heavy glances burrowing into me.

Yes, I'm aware of the tap of many feet, the perfume of the women, the rustle of their clothes, the sways of their hair, and their laughter and chatter. I can almost hear their thoughts too. And yes, yes, I know that a dangerous conversation is brewing among the three men who wish to rule my life. That at some point tonight this brew will spill into a goblet I must share with Ryan.

I know. I know. I know!

But I free my heart of worries to enjoy my waltz with Ryan. Let him maneuver us around the room, let the concerns wash away by the speed and the turns, let him lift me light as a feather. The music rushes to celebrate joy and just for a moment my feet leave the floor. I hover.

My heart beats, my breath is gone from my chest, replaced by captive butterflies spiraling from it into my throat.

I no longer taste that sip of Champagne. My lips taste Ryan from memory. More butterflies flutter in my chest. The critters must have a nest there, there're so many of them. A veritable winged tornado vortexes up my esophagus.

The swirling part of the dance is done. My feet are planted firmly on the ground. Now they follow Ryan's through the remaining steps with drilled-in precision. But my mind is elsewhere. In the glow and the thrill of the night, I daydream of Ryan's arms holding me until the end of time.

My eyes close against the dizziness until the music stops. And when it stops, I both expect his kiss and I'm startled by it.

I expect it because, naturally, we're in cahoots to show off our fake love.

It startles me because his lips taste like Champagne this time. Their touch makes me lightheaded as if I'm drinking. Tiny bubbles fizzle behind my eyes. They make me happy, just like in the old song.

"Ryan," I whisper, opening my eyes to see his face still hovering over mine. Calling his name is completely unnecessary for conspiracy purposes. I don't know what I want to say to him. His attention is already completely consumed by me. But I say his name again in a breathy whisper. "Ryan."

"This is too heavy for your neck." His finger traces the garnet collar with a ruby pendant until he lifts the dangling gem out of the hollow between my breasts. His touch instead of the cold, cut crystal. Which one pleases me more?

"Would you prefer me to accessorize with a noose, husband?"

A spasm goes through his hand, setting off a tremor against my skin. The gem drops back into its place, a tiny bump. "That's not... no."

"Steady hands are a must in our line of work," I chide him.

His lips curl. "You didn't complain when we were dancing."

I hum through pinched lips to pretend it was inadequate. Hardly the pinnacle of wit, but I must have lost my head for Champagne. Clever repartees are slow in coming. Plus, teasing him doesn't have the same appeal as before. I wish I could relax in his company for once. Relax and see what happens.

Ryan furrows his brows. "Can't you give me a shred of..."

I never learn a shred of what exactly he wants from me, because the magnetic pull between his lips and mine reaches its maximum. The mysterious force tilts his head forward. Then back. Forward again—and we double the number of kisses we've shared to date.

A kiss in New York.

A kiss in Vegas.

Two kisses in L.A..

Would it be so bad to triple it? Quadruple? My hand, still resting on his shoulder, succumbs to the trembling affliction he had when he was fondling the ruby. Luckily, before he takes notice and points it out, the music starts again.

"Cut out your abominable humming, Naz, or I'll do something drastic," Ryan says with a chuckle.

"Something more drastic than marrying me?"

"You're right, everything else pales in comparison, but clutch your pearls just in case." Ryan charges into the midst of the dancers, leading me along. That was something we agreed upon beforehand as well. We want to wait for Papa or the Tangorellos to approach us. So, let them stew while we dance.

To my greatest surprise, the laughter that bubbles up on my lips, doesn't quiver with nerves. It hides nothing, implies nothing, asks for nothing. It's born simply of the carefree pleasure of his lithe steps and speed, his lips and his fingers, all the moving parts of this sum.

"You have a beautiful laugh, when you're not self-conscious," he says.

I bristle at the surprise evident in his voice. "You haven't heard the best of it yet,"  I tease him, and the sensual vibe I was going for comes easy. If he wasn't who he is, if I wasn't who I am, I might have fallen in love with my husband. But we are who we are. Unfortunately.