“Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. Now, if you don’t mind,” she says as she clears her throat. “I need to go and—”
“Find your husband,” I interrupt. “I agree. You really should do that before the reporters get hold of this story.”
I take joy in seeing her jaw clench right before she brushes by me and storms away. The sight of her backside swishing in that perfect dress is just as beautiful as her front. It truly is a shame that all that beauty has been gifted to her. And it’s even more of a shame that my dick doesn’t agree with my mind that this woman is trouble, and I should stay away.
Chapter Three
KATJA
The limo door isn’t closed three seconds before Tristan starts complaining.
“…terrible heartburn. I don’t remember the menu being as spicy last year,” he drones on, trying to fill the three-minute drive to The Whitney as if it might prevent me chewing his ass for embarrassing me.
We’ve only been married for two years, but he can’t honestly think I’m oblivious to his pattern of deflection any time he knows he’s pissed me off. It’s almost as insulting as his behavior.
“Tom Rutherford mentioned it as well,” he continues. “Usually, they do a better job with the menu.”
“And yet, it didn’t prevent you from returning to the dessert table twice for more chocolate. Add the shot of espresso after dinner and you get what you deserve,” I retort in my icy tone normally reserved for enemies.
He deserves worse than heartburn.
“Oh, come on, I only splurge occasionally, and you should too. You didn’t even eat the cheesecake I know you love so much,” he counters.
Clearly my icy warning bounced off his playboy charm.
“Stop overcompensating and trying to pretend you actually know me,” I caution him.
“Don’t I?”
I turn to glare at him just as we pass under a streetlamp. Tristan’s eyes widen when he finally registers my anger, directed squarely at him.
“I asked one thing of you when we made this little arrangement of ours. One fucking thing. Discretion. Is that too damn hard to ask for?”
“Oh please. Don’t lecture me. Did you really think I didn’t notice Cohen hanging around you all night, following you around like a damn puppy dog?”
I know my husband couldn’t care less if I flirt with a hundred other men. He’s only trying to deflect from his own dalliances. But if Tristan noticed Dex tracking me in the crowd, that meant others might have too.
Damn all the men in my life—and yes, that includes my late father.
I push down the lingering resentment that my only parent left me to clean up all the messes he’d made by going into business with the devil.
“Dex is many things, but a puppy isn’t one of them,” I retort, realizing too late that it sounds like I’m defending the asshole.
Tristan loosens his tie, unbuttoning the top button of his tuxedo shirt, and for a brief second, I panic thinking he’s stupid enough to try seduction in a futile attempt at placating me.
“You don’t have any antacids in that tiny purse of yours, do you?” he asks as I notice a small drop of sweat running down his temple.
So, seduction is a hard no. For the first time I believe this may be more than just a ploy to distract me.
“We’re literally thirty seconds from home.”
I leave off the ‘you big baby’ just because I refuse to stoop to his petty level.
I’m saved from further discussion by the car door next to me opening as a familiar hand extends in front of me.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I greet the only man in my life who hasn’t pissed me off today, or more accurately, ever.
“Good evening, Ms. Belov. I hope you had a good time at the Gala.”