Chapter 7
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was transformed. towering floral arrangements, endless champagne, the flashing lights of the paparazzi. Angelina smiled until her jaw ached. She held onto Brittain's arm, a perfect accessory in red silk.
They were seated at a prime table. When Angelina saw the place cards, a chill ran down her spine. Harrison Juarez. Placed directly to her right. This was no accident. The seating chart was a declaration of war, and Harrison had fired the first shot.
He was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. He didn't look at her when they sat down. He was talking to a senator, charming and dangerous.
Dinner was served. Brittain was droning on about his yacht. Angelina kept her hands in her lap, staring at her salad.
"Mrs. Kane," Harrison said suddenly.
She looked up. He was holding a bread basket. "Roll?"
"No, thank you," she said.
"You should eat," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "You need your strength."
Under the table, something brushed against her knee.
Angelina jumped slightly. Brittain looked at her. "What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Static."
Harrison took a sip of his wine, his face a mask of polite disinterest. But under the long tablecloth, his hand moved. It slid up her calf, warm and rough against her skin. His fingers hooked around the back of her knee.
Angelina stopped breathing. They were surrounded by hundreds of people. Brittain was right there.
Harrison's hand moved higher, his thumb tracing circles on the inside of her thigh.
"So, Brittain," Harrison said, his voice smooth, "how is the merger going?"
Brittain launched into a monologue. Harrison nodded, pretending to listen, while his hand inched higher, teasing the hem of her dress.
Angelina gripped her fork so hard it bent. She couldn't move. If she pulled away, she'd make a scene.
Harrison squeezed her thigh firmly, once, then withdrew his hand.
He raised his glass to her. A silent toast.
Angelina grabbed her water glass and drained it. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might pass out. This wasn't just revenge. This was madness.
Chapter 8
"Harry!"
A woman in a silver sequined dress descended on their table. Bianca Sterling.
Harrison sighed, audible only to Angelina. He didn't stand up.
"Bianca," he nodded.
She put a hand on his shoulder, staking her claim. Then she looked at the Kanes. "Brittain! And... Angelina, right?"
"Hello, Bianca," Angelina said.
Bianca froze. Her head snapped toward Angelina. Her eyes narrowed. "Say that again."
"Excuse me?"
"That..." Bianca said slowly, her eyes scanning Angelina's face, searching. "It's not your voice. It's... the pause. That sharp, impatient little hiss of breath you take right before you speak. I heard it. On the phone that morning, right before the line went dead." She trailed off, looking from Angelina to Harrison. The gears were turning. "Harry, who was that woman who answered your phone the other morning?"
The table went silent. Brittain looked confused. "What woman?"
"Harrison had a woman in his hotel room," Bianca said, her eyes accusing. "And whatever she did, she sounded just as condescending as your wife."
Angelina's blood turned to ice. Brittain was looking at her now, a frown creasing his forehead.
"That's ridiculous," Brittain said. "Angelina was at the spa."
"Was she?" Bianca challenged. "Harrison?"
Harrison swirled his wine. "Bianca, you're making a scene."
"I want to know!" Bianca's voice rose. People at nearby tables were looking.
Angelina saw the suspicion growing in Brittain's eyes. She had to stop this. Now.
She reached for the pitcher of ice water on the table. With a clumsy, jerking motion, she knocked it over.
The water cascaded directly onto Bianca's silver dress.
"Oh my god!" Angelina shrieked. "I am so clumsy! I am so sorry!"
Bianca screamed. "My dress! You idiot! This is vintage Dior!"
Chaos erupted. Waiters rushed over with napkins. Brittain was apologizing profusely. Bianca was hysterical about water stains.
In the mayhem, Harrison caught Angelina's eye. He winked.
You may also like
