"£20,000," I toss back more of the whiskey. It burns a path down my gullet, and sets off a burn in my stomach, "but who’s counting?"
"Trouble in paradise, I take it?"
"Fuck off," I growl.
"It’s only your goddamn wedding we’re here to celebrate," he smirks.
"Fake wedding, douchebag."
"This is exactly how Sinner started out... Now look at him," he jerks his chin.
I follow his gaze to where the wanker stands in a corner, arms around Summer. The two are engaged in intense eye-fucking… The kind I indulged in with Gigi. No, that was real fucking… Fuck that… It was some intense shit. The harder I took her, the more she gave me. The more I pushed her, the deeper her resistance grew. Hell, I’d intended to punish her…maybe myself, when I’d taken her against the wall. Couldn’t stop myself from tearing the dress off of her—the beautiful dress I’d imagined her in when I’d bought it.
I should have blown off this entire fucking party and simply stayed in my suite with her. Hell, she deserves more than this impersonal hotel space. She deserves a home… A real one, with furniture and curtains that she’s picked out, and all that shit that women seem to thrive on. Not that Gigi is like other females. She is fucking stronger than she seems. A sultry seductress whose call I can’t resist. One glance at her and I lose myself. She only has to be in my vicinity for my dick to take notice…and other parts of me…especially that offending feeling in my chest that has assailed me since the first time I’d kissed her, "Fuck."
I raise the bottle to my lips and glug down some more of the liquid.
"That’s the economy of a third world country you’re drinking down, by the way."
I wipe the back of my hand over my lips, "I am not going to apologize for being born into wealth." I slap the bottle back on the corner, "Not that it helped when we were kidnapped."
"Money’s overrated," he rubs the back of his neck.
"But it’s a necessary evil," I counter.
"Sometimes I do wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed with Doctors without Borders… Would I have been less of a douche then?"
"No," I shake my head.
"Touché." He frowns, "And your glowering Romeo mood is catching."
"Not glowering," I growl, "not a Romeo." The hair at the nape of my neck rises; electricity flickers across my nerves. She’s here.
"Here comes your Juliet," Weston confirms.
I brace my shoulders. Since when have I needed Dutch courage to face a woman? Since when have I made a habit of drinking enough to layer on a veneer of indifference before facing a room full of people? Since that bloody beautiful, dark-haired witch had gotten under my skin.
"She still in mourning?" Weston frowns.
"What? Of course, not," I shake my head. "That piece of shit husband of hers was one only in name."
"Sure doesn’t look that way, given what she’s wearing."
"She didn’t..." I pivot, take in her slender figure poised at the entrance. She’s draped in black. The dress clings to her curves, covers every inch of her torso, and ends above her knees. It is far from the seductive gown she’d worn earlier… Just the opposite.
The high collar grazes the tip of her chin—not a sliver of skin on show. The full-length sleeves drape over her wrists to cover her palms, leaving only her fingertips exposed. She’s wearing high, over-the-knee boots that come to mid-thigh.
The six—or is that eight?—inch heels boost her legs so they seemed to go on and on. Slender yet muscled, perfect to coil around my waist. She takes a step forward and a slim band of skin peeks out between her dress and boots. I’m instantly hard—Okay, harder. By any standards, her dress is more than demure… And that’s the issue, because the flash of skin is almost obscene, given every other inch of her is covered in black. She raises a hand to flip down the veil attached to the jaunty hair accessory attached to her sleek hair. The thick strands are caught up and tied at the nape of her neck in a demure bun—that screams for a man’s hands to rip out the pins and drape the waterfall of dark desire about her shoulders. The slash of red across her lips highlights her full, pouty lips. The overall effect is part widow-part slut.
"Fuck," I squeeze my fingers into fists.
Next to me, Weston grimaces, "She’s doing it on purpose, to get a response out of you."
"No shit," I growl.
"She wants you to lose your shit in front of all of the guests," he warns.
"The fuck I care?"
"She’s baiting you, Saint."
"She fucking succeeded." I take a step toward her.
"You don’t want to do this," he grips my shoulder.
I shake him off, "Oh, but I do." I pause, shoot him a sideways glance, "Can you ensure that all the paparazzi have their cameras on us?"
He frowns, "You sure about this?"
"A hundred fucking percent." I stalk toward her.
A guest steps in my path. "Fuck off," I growl at the man clad in an ill-fitted suit.
He pales, then draws himself up, "I didn’t come here to be insulted."
"Too fucking bad, you just were."
"You’ll pay for this." He holds up his phone, snaps what is, no doubt, a shot that’s going to be all over the internet.
"Knock yourself out, tosser." He’s confirmed that it had been the right decision to invite every piece of shit news reporter and key influencer in town.
I walk toward her as men and women step aside, their gazes tracking my progress. Good. She takes a few steps forward, her gaze fixed on me.
I thrust out my chest.
She tips up her chin.
I look her up and down. She props a palm on her hip, angles her body. She strikes a pose, ensuring I take in every detail of how the fabric clings to the slope of her shoulders, the thrust of her
