Page 54 of Dirty Husband
I help Jasmine into her chair. Then take mine.
Ian shoots me awell donelook. I wave him away. Yes, I invited him here for his assistance. But the whole cocky charm thing—it's not helping.
"A drink?" Ian offers as the waiter passes. "Another round," he says to the waiter. "And for the lady?"
"Mineral water." Her eyes shift to my glass. "Thanks."
"That isn't necessary," I say.
"Even so." She nods athank youto the waiter. Turns her attention to Ian. "Is this a social dinner or business?"
"I'm not sure your fiancé has social dinners. Not anymore." He refers to my reputation for romancing women.
Jasmine just barely frowns. "Yes. I suppose I've taken all that time."
"It's not hard to see why." He takes another sip. "Beautiful, smart, acquainted with helicopter rides. The total package."
She laughs. "What makes you think I'm smart?"
"Your dress," he says.
"Really? This dress." Her expression gets curious. "That's not the reaction I expected."
"Don't worry. I'm thoroughly distracted. And Mr. Pace will be as distracted. You understand why Shep invited you to this dinner. You're using your assets to your advantage in a way that won't threaten the fragile male ego." He holds up his glass, toasting to her. "Smart."
This time her laugh is deeper. Enough, it makes her tits shake. Somehow, the fabric of her dress stays glued to her skin. "I suppose that's one way to put it."
"If you were engaged to someone a bit more tolerable, then you'd really be a genius," he says. "At least someone who prefers tea."
"Not everyone can see the light." She turns to the waiter as he drops off our second round. Another bottle of Perrier. Another bourbon for Ian.
And Jeff Pace's drink. "White wine." The waiter motions to the entrance as Mr. Pace steps inside.
He's an older man. He wears it well, but not in a silver fox way (at least, not according to Key). More a distinguished grandfather way. Neat grey hair, smooth suit almost hiding his belly, stern expression.
He's not a saint, but he's no sinner either. I should know. I had Ian look for dirt on everyone on the panel. There was plenty of the usual—affairs, secret children with maids, apartments for the other woman, teens in rehab—but nothing worth using.
Not with the risk of that bastard discovering my blackmail and releasing those pictures. If he's caught, he'll be ousted from any respectable community, thrown in jail, forever an embarrassment.
But the pictures will be out there. Everyone will know the ugly truth. They'll look at me with pity. Whisper about the awful things I've been through.
That can't happen.
Besides, I know how the world works. He'll find a way to release the pictures without outing himself. He'll find a way to dishonor my mother's memory, fuck over my brother, and ruin my life.
Again.
He's the gift that never stops giving. He really is.
My eyes flit to Ian's bourbon. The white wine. Jasmine. She's still more interesting than the drink.
And I still want her more than I want alcohol. But I want too much. Not just her sweet lips against mine. Her dress at her waist, her hands tied behind her back, her eyes filled with submissive desire.
She wants that too. I'm not sure if she realizes it, but she does.
"Mr. Marlowe, Mr. Hunt, always a pleasure." He offers his hand. Ian and I stand to shake, then Jeff looks to Jasmine. To her tits, though it's hard to blame him. "You must be the future Mrs. Marlowe."
"I must." She stands. Offers her hand.
