Page 20 of Ruthless Love

“I’ll just be a moment,” he says with a rough peck on my lips.

His lie is typical. As is his taking the call, walking away, and having immediate amnesia that I was two seconds from letting him fuck me out in the open, for God and three bodyguards to see.

Alexei is still gaping at me as I stand there, clinging to my pride and soaked panties, when I notice a half-naked woman blowing cigarette smoke out the window of Dimitri’s bedroom.

Pissed, I stalk back to my car, frustrated that Dimitri had me so turned around, I completely forgot to break up with the son of a bitch when I had the chance. As soon as I grip the steering wheel, the brilliance of a ten-carat diamond flashes in my face, and by God, it’s not too late. But I can’t interrupt his call. Even I know nothing good can come from that.

Resolute, I climb my ass out of the car, stomping as hard as my enraged legs and five-inch Louboutins will let me, and face my mule head on. “Alexei.”

“Huh?” he asks with wide, curious eyes and an even wider mouth that makes me wonder if it ever closes.

Defiant as all get-out, I yank the ring from my finger, grab his ginormous hand that looks like it’s overinflated with helium, and slam it right into his palm.

Before he can protest, I’m back in my car, circling that beautiful stone fountain, mentally flipping Dimitri the bird, and ignoring Alexei’s thickly accented shouts of wait and stop.

When hell freezes over.

Chapter Eleven

EVIE

After a night of taking out all my frustration on a rolling pin and my KitchenAid mixer, I carry an outrageous amount of baked goods to the twelfth-floor break room of Long Multinational headquarters. The one none of the executives ever frequent.

Not that I’m stingy with some of my best friends in the world, but because the last thing any of us need is the disastrous combination of copious amounts of sugar and addictive carbs.

The professional pink cake box is weighty in my hand, overflowing with my own take on the cinnamon roll, created by adding the slightest bit of orange zest to the dough and booze to the frosting. The additions increase the already astronomical calorie count, but are absolutely worth every ounce of gooey melt-in-your-mouth goodness.

I’ve pre-sliced it, with each piece being just right for a few bites, but not even close to enough for a meal, because some of these people have never heard of sharing and have serious portion control issues.

“More goodies?” a feminine voice behind me sings, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it belongs to. A greedy hand reaches across me straight into the box, snatching up two of the larger pieces.

“You always cut them so small,” Margot grumbles.

When I turn to face her, she’s already shoved one in her mouth. The moaning accompanying each of her bites fills me with a sense of accomplishment, but I scold her nonetheless.

“It’s so everyone has a chance at them before you hog them all.”

“You can’t blame me. This is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth all day.”

I accept her dirty innuendo and counter. “Considering it’s eight in the morning on a Wednesday, that’s saying something.”

As she makes a grab for another, I snap the lid playfully against her manicured fingers. “Seriously, Margot?”

“Cinnamon, cream cheese frosting, still warm and gooey. Placing these in front of a carbaholic is like leaving crack out for an addict with a get it now before it’s gone sign. Next time, bring them to my office and I’ll fire up the Keurig.”

Margot leans in, whispering even though it’s just the two of us in the room. “We’ve always speculated that your baking rampages were a result of ... ahem ... sexual frustration.”

No denying facts.

My eyes narrow on hers as I select and swallow my own perfect piece of blue-ribbon-worthy brioche-style cinnamon roll. “And I always speculated that a man would need two dicks to satisfy your sexual appetite. Which makes me seriously wonder about the men in your life. Or is there just one—a unicorn among men—to quench the insatiable appetite of Margot the Maneater?”

With what I hope is the last word, I head out. Which, of course, I haven’t, as Margot’s elegant $5,000 heels clack their way toward me, catching up in no time.

“Fiancé woes?”

Slowing my pace, I shrug. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Margot lets it go but puts a hand on my shoulder. “Fine. Let’s talk about something else. Didn’t you say you bumped into a delicious distraction the other day?”

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