Page 176 of Wicked Proposal
“Let’s go.”
He gets out of the car, then holds out his hand for me to take. Like he’s asking me to dance.
And, like all the times before, I take it.
55
MIA
Fifteen minutes into the event, I lose sight of Yulian.
It’s not my fault. Or, well—it’s notcompletelymy fault. It’s just that there are so many donors, all elbowing each other for a word with the head honcho, and at one point, his suit melts into the sea of white shirts and black ties.
Seeing as StarTech’s rooftop is practically a small European village, finding my way back to him soon proves to be more than my Louboutins can handle.
But there’s another reason I don’t mingle again. Another reason I keep myself on the edge of it all, elbows against the railing, eyes vigilant, scanning every face I see.
Because I’m afraid the next will be Brad’s.
It isn’t unthinkable. He’s already snuck in once. He could do it again.
“Fancy a tart?”
I nearly jump. I’m so nervous, I didn’t even notice anyone approach. “What?”
“Tarts.” The woman who just spoke holds up a perfect circle of puff pastry with a fat, round shrimp curled in its center. “I’m kind of off solids for now. Doctor’s orders, apparently.”
Finally, the dots connect.
Green almond eyes. Porcelain skin. Black hair cropped into a short, homemade pixie cut, something that looks like the lovechild of kitchen scissors and a stolen electric razor, but somehow still manages to give off a stylish vibe.
And a black dress that’s practically hanging off her too-thin figure.
“Relax,malyshka.” Nikita winks. “I left my knives at coat check.”
“That’s… good?”
“I’d hope so. Unless they’re serving steak, in which case, it might prove to be a colossal lapse in judgment.” She waves the pastry in my face again. “Anyway, tart?”
I want to say no, but that’s when my stomach decides to chip in with a growl.
Nikita looks encouraged. “It’s got a cute little shrimp in it,” she says, like she’s trying to convince a little kid to eat her veggies. “C’mon. Take it off my hands. You don’t want me to break my liquid diet and choke, do you?”
It’s a pretty persuasive argument.
I take the pastry. It’s savory, with a crunchy and airy texture that you really can’t get out of store-bought dough. Not for the firsttime, I realize how filthy rich Yulian is. This single appetizer is probably worth more than a full day’s pay at the hospital, isn’t it?
Not that I’m gonna go back there any time soon.
“Good, right?” Nikita sighs wistfully. “I used to crash these charity things all the time. The open bar is todiefor.” She shoots a mournful glance at the waiters carrying trays of delicacies all over the rooftop. “Too bad I missed your presentation dinner. I heard the chef went all out.”
It strikes me as odd, how easygoing she’s being. Last night, she was practically feral. Dosed to hell and back, unable to stand, to focus her gaze beyond the knife in her hands. She’s wearing makeup today, but I can still see the faint shadow of the dark circles under her eyes. God only knows what she went through to earn those.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask, suddenly filled with concern. “Being here? Walking around?”
“Yeah, so long as I sit down every now and then.” She gives a careless shrug, like her brush with death is not that big a deal. “Yuli threatened me with crutches, but I told him where I’d shove ‘em if he bought a pair.”
Yuli.Such a familiar form of address. It fills my heart with ache all at once, dull and throbbing like a bad tooth.
