Page 40 of Red Hot Harmony

The conversation didn’t go any further, because Greg’s wife showed up. I knew her well from the photos I used to stalk online. She was a typical platinum blond trophy wife with fake boobs and injected lips who came from old Hollywood money. Even after all these years, I couldn’t understand why he’d chosen her over me. Besides, of course, for her family connections in the movie business, which had made Greg who he was now. A very successful, critically-acclaimed producer.

“Hey, honey.” She glued herself to his arm, oblivious to the fact that he was talking to someone. “They’re auctioning off a three-day trip to Hawaii.”

Greg patted her knuckles, his face hard as a stone and unreadable. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Looking at them both, I wondered if he’d actually told his wife about his indiscretion or his illegitimate child or the hefty sum of money he’d been giving me every month for the past fifteen years.

It sucked being swept under the rug, even after all this time.

The woman finally acknowledged my presence. “Hi. I’m Mindy, Greg’s wife.” She had to say it, didn’t she? “Nice to meet you.”

“Camille.”

“What do you do, Camille?”

Oh no. I wasn’t going to stand here and pretend we were girlfriends. My mind was working up an excuse to get away when Dante’s voice entered the conversation.

He introduced himself. Shook Greg’s hand. Let poor, starstruck Mindy all but lick and sniff his fingers. I almost laughed because, at that moment, she reminded me of a curious Snowflake. Or a bitch in heat.

Then, somehow, things developed so fast that before I realized it, we were discussing Greg’s new project. He was in town for only a couple of days before he was off to Africa to shoot a nonprofit. Eventually, the conversation veered to Dante. I had no idea what kind of music Greg listened to except for one hazy memory from our mistake of a one-night-stand when he hummed to whatever top 40 tune was playing in the house as we made ourselves scarce in a spare bedroom. It could have been Christina Aguilera or Eminem.

Now he was exhibiting a very commendable knowledge of the rock scene—something Ally would probably consider cool and acceptable—by asking Dante intensely profound questions about his career.

I was disturbed by how well the two seemed to bounce off each other.

“My dad had a stroke three years ago,” Mindy was saying, still clinging to Greg’s arm like a baby kangaroo would cling to his mother’s pouch. “He’s back to skiing and golfing.” Her face became sugary sweet. “These things take time, but you’re still young. I, for one, am looking forward to seeing you back on stage. I’ve always been a huge fan.”

Dante’s palm came around my waist, resting right above my hip bone, a gesture that didn’t escape Greg’s sharp gaze.

“Honey.” Mindy had the decency to stop ogling my date and look at her husband for all of two seconds. “Didn’t we play some of their songs at our wedding?”

“Yes, we actually did.” Greg nodded, then suddenly looking all busy and anxious as the vein that sliced through his forehead thumped, he hastily added, “Well, it was very nice to meet you.” My wife and I should get back.” His thumb pointed at the empty space behind him.

More handshaking occurred.

I watched the crowd swallow them to ensure they were gone before turning to face Dante.

“They’re exhausting.” His smile drooped a little.

“Especially Mindy.” I rolled my eyes.

He arched a brow. “I had no idea you knew Greg Huffman.”

His eyes were locked on mine, and for some reason, I couldn’t look away. For some reason, it felt like my entire life had led to this one, singular moment of truth. Brush it off or tell him?

Ultimately, however, I realized I’d underestimated Dante Martinez. He wasn’t just a handsome devil to stare at. He was too smart for his own good and sensed the whirlpool of emotions that were running through me.

“Wait a fucking second.” His voice came out in a low rasp, barely discernible in the tangle of lounge noise. “Is he—”

“Yes,” I blurted through gritted teeth before he could finish the sentence.

“He’s a fucking tool.”

I’d expected to hear many things about the fact that Greg Huffman was my daughter’s biological father. Just not that. “I know. Why do you think we're not together?”

I was obviously oversimplifying the entire situation.

“Shit, mama.” Dante pulled me into his chest. His lips touched the shell of my ear and my chin was tucked against his silk-clad shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

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