Lap of Luxury (Love Don't Cost a Thing)

I adjust the settings on my dating app, upping the age range I’m interested in to sixty-five, and adding, I’m looking for a generous man who knows how to treat a lady. Then I swipe right on every man within a three-mile radius.

All my profile pics are of me doing rich-girl things. Skiing, boating, sipping wine in what looks like Tuscany in the middle of summer. It’s not Tuscany. It’s Surrey on an unseasonably warm March day. The boating could be St. Tropez, but it’s Cornwall, and the skiing was a cheap girl’s trip I took with some other foster girls three winters ago that we scraped together enough money for. Everything about those pictures makes me look richer and happier than I really am.

I put my phone down and turn back to my computer, definitely not still thinking about Damir Ravnikar.

Two hours later I check the app and find that I have thirty matches. I scroll through the profile pictures looking for silver hair and signs of conspicuous wealth. I stop at a man claiming to be fifty-six but definitely looks like he’s in his early sixties. In his profile picture he’s sporting a pinkie ring inlaid with what looks like a ruby, and I recognize the restaurant of an upscale London hotel in the background of one of his photos.

We have a winner. Smiling to myself, I type, Hey, there. You’re so handsome and seem just my kind of gentleman. I’d love to get to know you better.

The reply only takes a minute to come through. You too, baby. Dinner? I’m free tonight if you are. Colin.

Colin could be my ticket out of here to a life that doesn’t involve coming face-to-face with Damir Ravnikar every other day.

“Oh, yes, Colin,” I murmur, tapping out my reply. “I’m as free as a bird.”

Chapter Four

Damir

“Of course, Mr. Ravnikar. The debt will be paid within forty-eight hours.”

I lean back with a satisfied smirk on my face. The Alders’ deaths have had an unforeseen benefit—anyone who owes me money is scrambling to pay it, because they think I had Mr. and Mrs. Alders killed. I enjoy the look of strain in the posh old boy’s face a moment longer, and then rise to my feet.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” I murmur silkily, shaking his clammy hand, and then head out of the bar into the lobby.

Then I spot her. Bethany.

She’s seated in the restaurant in a skin-tight red dress, her eyes wing-linered and her mouth painted a sultry red. She looks like a femme fatale, with just a hint of vulnerability about the way she plays with the stem of her martini glass. She glances up at her dinner date through her lashes and smiles.

Who the fuck is she looking at like that?

I move into the restaurant and see that her companion is a gray-haired man in the most horrendous burgundy pinstripe suit. I actually laugh. This is what she thinks she has to do? If she needs money, why didn’t she tell me?

Bethany’s date is signaling for a waiter when my hand descends, and I push his arm down. I smile my most pointed smile. “Well, isn’t this cozy.”

Her eyes grow as round as a startled rabbit’s. Her breasts are pushed high by her dress. Anger tightens my jaw. I should drag her out of here by her hair for dressing this way for other men.

Grandpa glares at me, and then at Bethany. “Do you know this man?”

Bethany looks coolly up at me. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Oh, she wants to play? I can play. I turn to the man. “I do apologize for intruding. I can see you’re having a lovely time with my wife.”

“Your wife?”

“It’s a little game we play. In about thirty seconds she’s going to start screaming her head off, and so am I. How dare you have an affair? And, Why shouldn’t I when all you do is work? It’s going to be sensational. Everyone’s going to hear us. My wife will shout your name at the top of her lungs. You didn’t tell her your real name, did you?” I ask anxiously.

Grandpa’s face slackens in alarm.

Bethany’s hands are clenched on the napkin in her lap and she’s turning the same shade of red as her dress. I wink at her and turn back to Grandpa. “Then we’re going to go upstairs and have very loud, angry sex. This little game spices up our sex life, though it’s a shame for the men who get caught in her crosshairs. I suggest you leave now so that she throws her drink at me and not you.”

Grandpa stands up from his chair and flees, as fast as his geriatric legs can carry him. I watch him go, and then sit down in his seat and signal for a waiter. “Take these cocktails away and bring us champagne, would you? And some menus.”

Bethany watches her martini disappearing as if she would like to throw it in my face. She moves to get up but my hand descends on her wrist and I hold her in place. “No. Stay.”

Her eyes narrow at my order. “Why did you ruin my date?”

“Why are you dating a piece of gristle?”