Page 13 of Cruel Existence

I exhaled.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded. “You have no idea.”

“I think I probably do.”

“Oh, right. Must be hard being the royal family of New Orleans.” Did he sense my playful sarcasm? I was terrible at hiding it.

“Are you mocking me?” I saw the sexy smirk on his face.

“Absolutely not,” I giggled.

“Mikhail and I have ditched bodyguards since we were kids. It takes skill and practice.”

“You say that as if I should be better at it.” He didn’t know how hard it was when there were no distractions. Ciro had laser focus on only one target—me.

He shrugged. “You’re free. That’s what matters.”

I settled into the seat. “Free.” I glanced at him. “Who is Mikhail?”

“An old friend. Shit. I didn’t tell him I was leaving the party.”

I smiled, satisfied I had identified the friend as a guy. “Should we call him?” I suggested.

“Hell no. He’ll understand. We ran for a reason, and I know exactly where we can go to celebrate.”

“Tell me there’s lots of champagne, and I don’t care.”

He laughed. It was a rich beautiful laugh. It made my core quiver and my breasts tingle. Just who was this man?

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

“I’m twenty-one.” My brow furrowed.

He nodded. “Barely old enough to do much.”

I eyed him across the gear shift. “Is there going to be champagne or not?”

We stopped at a red light and I felt the heat of his stare burning my cheeks. “I will make sure there is the most expensive decadent champagne you have ever tasted, Amara.” His grin was as sinful as it was inebriating.

I tugged on the hem of my dress. It seemed to creep up inches every time the car turned on a new street.

“Good. It’s the one thing I like about New Orleans.”

I thought I saw a look of shock on Luka’s face. “One thing? You only like one thing? It looks like I have my work cut out for me tonight.”

“I guess you do.”

“Ididn’t know dive bars carried expensive champagne,” I teased Luka from the corner of the restaurant.

“My favorites do,” he answered. “Besides, it’s a French bar, not a dive bar. Its owner would disagree with you. Ahh, here she is.”

We had been met at the door by a woman who seemed close to ninety. Her hair was tied with a scarf that matched the one draped around her shoulders. There was only candlelight. I hadn’t spotted a single lightbulb. A man played the piano quietly across the room.

“Thank you, Marguerite.” Luka nodded at the hostess before she walked away.

“How did you find this place?” The walls were chipped, and the paint peeled in long slow strips. The bar’s countertop looked as if it was original, but I couldn’t put a date on it. Maybe early 1800s. It was clear Luka loved this place.

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