Page 14 of A Man of Wealth

“He’s a real sweetheart,” I state as I get in the fast lane and head back toward Conner’s house.

“Why do I feel like this isn’t your first high-speed chase?” Conner asks.

I laugh as I look over at him. “Let’s just say the one time I snuck out as a teenager, I couldn’t exactly get a speeding ticket or I’d have been screwed, so…no, not my first time. But it is my second time escaping.”

He shakes his head, and I see him smile as he looks out the passenger window. “Something makes me think that you are going to be a real handful, Vivienne Westerly,” he says to himself.

“You wouldn’t be the first man to say that,” I reply under my breath.

He chuckles. “Now that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

I give him a saccharine smile. “Whatever do you mean?”

His laugh intensifies. “I’ll give it to you, you don’t lack personality.”

“It’s my charm, isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “It’s something.”

“See what you’ve been missing all these years? And to think, you’ve spent all this time hating me.”

On that comment, his smile fades, and he looks away again. Maybe I pressed the wrong button with that comment?

He looks back at me with a serious face. “You’re still on my shit list.”

Shit. He’s not wrong. While our “mortal enemies” status might have ended, it seems it was only downgraded to regular enemies.

Chapter7

Conner

I lookout at the city. This hotel always keeps a room available for my father, who seldom uses it, so I have decided to finally take advantage of something from being his son. I straighten my bow tie as I assess myself in the reflection of the window, the Washington Monument cutting my image in half. Touché, Washington D.C., touché. I turn and head to the bar to wait for Vivienne, who insisted she just meet me here. But for appearances, we have to enter the gala as a couple. I can’t believe I agreed to this. I contemplate my momentary lapse of intelligence as I ride the elevator down to the lobby. Who am I kidding? From the moment she talked me into meeting privately with her, all my judgment flew right out the fucking window.

I look around as I walk into the bar, but she’s not here yet. So, I take a seat and wait for the bartender. He comes over and begins to ask for my drink order but stops mid-question and looks across the room. His eyes widen a little and then he immediately finishes asking me if I want their signature bacon in my bourbon, to which I say no. He quickly turns and walks away to get my drink. I swivel to see what has him so flustered. As my eyes survey the room, they find the source of his gaze.

Fucking hell. Vivienne Westerly is gorgeous on a bad day, but this woman before me is a fucking piece of art. She belongs on my wall next to my Picassos and Renoirs. She’s wearing a black cocktail dress that has one strap. It’s tasteful and elegant and accentuates every curve of her frame. Her hair is pulled up into some sort of twisted knot on the top of her head. My dirty mind immediately envisions gripping it as I slam my cock between those red lips of hers. Her makeup looks to be professionally done. I’ve seen former model girlfriends have their makeup artists spend two hours on their faces before we attend events. Yet, somehow, I don’t think Vivienne called a professional. I think Vivienneisa professional. She has on dangling diamond earrings and a matching diamond-studded tennis bracelet. It surprises me that a woman so beautiful decided to become a journalist and not a model or an actress. She could sell a pool to a man who can’t swim with the way she looks right now. And that sharp tongue of hers…let’s just say I’d like to feel it more than I want to hear it right now.

I try to adjust myself discreetly as I turn to stand and pull out a chair for her.

“Good evening,” I state as I motion for her to sit.

She looks me up and down and I don’t miss her lips curving into a smirk. That little siren thinks she’s won this battle. I’ll let her live in her make-believe world…for now.

“Hi, Brett,” she says with a warm smile to the bartender.

“You look lovely this evening, Vivienne. The usual?” he asks.

“Yes, please.” She turns to me, and I cock my head to one side. How does she know everyone in this town? Do they not see through her yet? Do they not see that she’s using them for her gain? My momentary lust turns to anger as I remember the unkind words she wrote about my mother all those years ago. No one should ever speak ill of the dead.

“What?” she asks, her eyes trained on me as if she can read me. I scoff at that. I’ve worked for years at masking my feelings. No one knows what I’m thinking, ever, and that’s how I like it.

“Nothing.” I’m saved from further conversation when Brett sets a glass of white wine in front of her.

“Why always white wine?” I ask, motioning to her glass.

She raises an eyebrow. “Why always bourbon or whiskey?” she retorts.

I slowly sip my drink and smirk when I see her gaze drop for a millisecond to watch me swallow it. She’s affected by me, and I can work with that to my advantage.

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