Page 235 of Hateful Games

“I haven’t decided yet.” Pulling her closer by the waist, I ask, “Which one do you like?”

“We’re not buying for me, we’re buying for you.”

“Do you want one?”

“What? No.” She shakes her head. “Just because I know their history, doesn’t mean I’m into them.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I know to admire a beauty when I see one. Besides, I can’t afford them unless I use my father’s money. Which I never will.”

Arching one eyebrow, I demand, “What about your husband’s?”

“I like your sweet and thoughtful gifts much more, Nova,” she confesses with a tender smile. “Besides with the traffic in India, where am I going to drive them?”

Kissing the corner of her mouth, I murmur, “Okay.”

“So how about you look around and I’ll go get a drink?”

“I’ll join you soon.” Before she can leave, I press her phone in her hand. “Unblock me.” When she gives me a bratty grin, I softly say, “In case you sneak off to admire more cars and I can’t find you.”

“You found me in Vegas,” she taunts.

“Rose.”

“Fine. Here, happy?”

“Yes.”

Reluctantly, I let her go and keep my gaze pinned on her until her flaming red hair disappears out of sight. I’m interrupted by a familiar Indian-accented voice and turn to see Mr. Patel. He recently retired after leaving his marketing firm to his oldest son. We’ve run in the same circles.

“Mr. Patel. How are you?” I shake his hand.

“I’m good, son. Fancy seeing you here,” he jovially says. “Was that your wife I saw leaving?”

“Yes. She went to get a drink.”

He smiles knowingly, guessing we’re on our honeymoon. The small talk turns into us going around and connecting over our love for vintage pieces. We put a bid on the ones we like. An hour goes by when I finally excuse myself, with a promise to meet for dinner back home.

My frantic gaze searches for Rosalie. She’s not at the bar. The villa isn’t as crowded with it being a cozy affair with only over fifty or so people invited. Hence, worry sets in when I don’t immediately find her.

I try her cell.

It rings but goes to voicemail.

I know she wouldn’t just escape. We’re in a foreign country but the thought still strikes, dampening my mood. After a few more minutes, I breathe a sigh of relief when I zero in on those leather boots and lean legs. But it is short-lived.

Because standing too close to her is a strange man.

Worse, Rosalie is laughing with him as he whispers to her, leaning closer.

The scum then makes the worst mistake of his life.

Taking her hand in his.

Blinding rage like never before chills my bones and I’m stalking toward them. My vision turns red, even as I outwardly appear calm as a breeze. Rosalie shivers, feeling my body heat as I press behind her, circling her waist possessively.

Silly man still continuing to hold her wrist.

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