Getting Even

“I don’t think you’re the man to talk to me about marriage failures when you’ve never actually made it to the altar.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“It could be...the day hell freezes over.”

“Maybe that’s just as well, given the three and a half years you had with me lasted longer than both your marriages combined. Marriage obviously doesn’t agree with you. I wonder why...?”

She laughed—a long, fake peal of it. “How about you explore my marriages in your next book?”

He smiled, left it hanging there for a heartbeat and then said, “What do you mean my next book?”

He saw her chest rise with the breath she slowly drew in, then fall as she let it out. Oh, she’d definitely learned some methods to maintain her self-control over the years. A pity.

“So you’ve skewered them already, have you?” she said, and he might have believed she was bored if not for the scalding heat in her eyes.

“You tell me.”

Another of those peals of fake laughter. “I don’t see how I can since I haven’t read your books.”

Okay, that threw him. Enough that he had to actively work to keep his face impassive. His books had both been number one New York Times bestsellers, and she was an editor at Johnson/Charles—one of the most prestigious midsize publishers in America. Those two facts should have guaranteed a read for both books, even without their personal history. “Can I assume that means you’re still blocking me? After all these years? A more egotistical man might think you weren’t over him.”

The flare of anger, the tamping down, the slow breath. “Tell you what—” pulling her cell phone out of her purse “—how about I download them now? Old times’ sake and all that. You were always so particular about how I spent my money, but I assume you have no objection to me slinging you a few bucks this way.”

“By all means sling away, since it’s money I’ve earned,” he said smoothly, admiring her nerve while simultaneously wanting to shake it out of her. “Maybe we can get together sometime and you can tell me what you think.”

“Sure,” she said—but her eyes told him he could drop dead. “Can you give me the titles?”

He bit back a laugh at the sheer arrogance of her. “The first one is called Catch, Tag, Release.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, tapping away at her phone. “As in hooking some poor fish, whacking an invasive tag through its fin, then throwing it back in the sea.”

“My second book—Liar, Liar if you’re really clicking—looks at what that fish does when it gets its new lease on life.”

“How uplifting that sounds—Liar, Liar.”

“I’m sure you’ll find both books...instructive.”

“Oh joy!” she said, and rolled her eyes, which had him vowing to make her eyes roll all the way back in her head for him before the night was over. “Just what I look for in a novel—to be instructed!” She put her cell phone away. “Right. All set. Now, I’m sure you’re anxious to return to Felicity—must have been painful, unjoining yourself from her hip!”

Oh God, it was so hard not to laugh. “Jealous, Veronica?”

“Jealous? Please!” She spluttered that out. “I assure you, you have my permission to fuck whomever you want to fuck.”

He stepped in close, crowding into her space, and the vanilla scent of her flooded his senses. She dabbed that special oil everywhere, even between her legs—and the taste memory of licking it from her was so vivid, he had to swallow because his mouth had flooded with saliva. “You sure about that?”

“Most certainly.”

“Then that is very good to know.”

“If that’s all, I have husband number three waiting in the wings for me at the reception.”

He took her left hand in his, rubbed his thumb along her ring finger without taking his eyes from her face, found nothing there. Good. The photos he’d seen of her with her husbands, the massive diamond engagement rings they’d given her flashing in the camera lights, had caused him to break two expensive cell phones throwing them against the wall. Time for her to pay for what seeing those rings had done to him.

He smiled at her—made it as chillingly seductive as he could. “I know you came on your own, Veronica, and I can make a good guess as to why.”

She snatched her hand back. “Husband number three is a work in progress but it’s going to happen, I promise you that.”

“Then I look forward to being introduced to him.”

“And I look forward to meeting your conjoined twin just as soon as you’ve reattached yourself,” she said, and stalked past him.

Veronica stormed her way across the lawn, furious with herself.

So much for coming on her own—he’d seen right through her.

So much for her rehearsed lines—he’d gotten in first about the books.

So much for being charming and sweet—she’d been snide and venomous.

So much for her intimidating eyebrows—he’d looked ready to lick them back down into place.

And, oh God, her entire traitorous body was in eruption mode. She wanted to stab him and...and kiss him, damn it! Taste him once more. Touch him. Feel something.

So much for closure, then!

Third husband? Where was she going to get one of those? Out of her ass?

She’d just have to hope there was a single man at the reception she could attach herself to. A single man who wasn’t going to trip over his tongue when Veronica dragged him into Felicity’s orbit.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” she muttered as she tramped through gardens and across more lawns en route to what was known as Tremenhill Hall but was really a repurposed mansion.

Okay, time to dust off the catastrophe scale. She needed something brutally dystopian if she was to emerge from her next encounter with Rafael with any dignity. Too bad nothing sprang readily to mind.

She should have gone for the damn knife, screw the DNA evidence! Her mother could have shipped her off to a country that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States. Like...she didn’t know...did India have one? She could go and live on an ashram. Now there wasa catastrophe she could get behind! Telling her mother she was gifting her trust fund to an ashram in India.

“Yeah, no thanks,” she said, and giggled suddenly as the marquee set up for welcome drinks outside the hall came into view. Like...giggled! Well, who knew? The catastrophe scale actually worked!

She whooshed out what felt like her first normal breath of the day as she crossed yet another lawn toward what was a very bridal confection. Garlands of white blooms not only festooned the marquee’s upper edge but also anchored billowing swathes of silky white fabric around the support poles. She looked down at her hot-pink dress, feeling every bit as conspicuous as she had during that “Oh fuck” moment in the chapel. But after her dare-you encounter with Rafael at the mausoleum, she was okay with that.

Or she would be, just as soon as she made sure she wasn’t on Table Two with Rafael and Felicity, because that would be taking the whole zero fucks mantra too far. Not that she really believed Romy and Matt would put her in that awkward position, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. And if she was on Table Two? Well, the bride and groom would be the first victims of the ensuing bloodbath, that’s all. It would be her Carrie moment!

She’d been to enough gala events to predict the seating plans would be at the hall entrance, so she walked straight through the marquee—and bingo! Two gold easels were set up alongside potted plants on either side of a center set of double doors. She headed for one of the easels and scanned the list for Table Two.

Brief close of her eyes—relief!—to find Rafael and Felicity listed but not her, before locating her name on Table Seven.

The room layout pinned below the table lists showed Tables Two and Seven were on opposite sides of the dance floor, but she decided she’d feel more confident of her ability to keep it together if she went inside and got the picture in 3D.

Through the full-height Palladian windows on either side of the entrance, she could see staff tweaking table settings. She hoped they wouldn’t shoo her out when she barged in early or she might lose her shit, but figured if she walked in like she owned the place—channeling her smiling-assassin mother and crossing that with the intimidating countenance so often worn by the headmistress of the Koller Finishing School in Switzerland—nobody would dare.