Page 39 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
Her eyes flickered to his complaining phone, the screen lighting up his jacket pocket. “It might be your wife.”
Grimacing at her barely concealed distaste for the word, he slipped out his phone and saw that Gena was calling. His screen was crowded with her urgent text messages. “It’s my sister,” he said.
“Take it.”
He wasn’t finished here. “Why do you think my father was assassinated?”
“Talk to your sister.” Her face had gone a cold, stubborn marble. If he’d learned anything from experience, this was no way to get a woman to talk. He didn’t have a taste for what did. He took the call, listening to Gena’s angry breathing and then to her furious tirade: “Now you know what it feels like to have someone following your every move!”
“Gena!” He was through fighting about this bodyguard. “Give the guy a break. It’s his job.” He glanced over at Charisse and saw she was drifting away like smoke, before she’d told him what she knew. “I can’t talk right now.”
“You can’t, huh?” Her annoyance made her voice crack with emotion. It seemed all the women in his life were doing that bitter, crying thing tonight. “Well, maybe you can do this then—stop going off alone with that woman. You don’t even deserve Bris.”
His stomach churned at the reminder, guilt twisting like a knife. “Wait… how do you know that I—that I…?” His gaze snapped to Charisse, who was now studying her manicured nails with feigned disinterest.
“I got a ticket to the charity dinner tonight.”
He was speechless, his throat constricting with fear. Why was she even invited? The thought of Gena coming to these dangerous lands made his blood run cold. Anything could happen to her. “Please tell me you’re not here.”
“I’m not. I gave my ticket to Deedeelicious.”
That might be worse. The social media vulture with her camera phone would be circling the ballroom for content. “You did what?”
“I had to… Chises Mnon needs to learn that he can’t mess with us. We’re going to throw a few obstacles his way. This isn’t over.”
He didn’t doubt it. His eyes traveled over Charisse—her color was higher now, wisps of blonde hair escaping from their elegant confines to curl damply at her temples. If Deedee caught that intimate scene with her tell-all camera phone, he didn’t want to even think about Bris’s wrath… or the damage he was doing to her bid for the crown. “Gena… our lives aren’t our own anymore. Why can’t you understand that?”
“I think you’re the one who can’t accept that.”
He turned silent as the truth of her words slammed into his gut. Deedeelicious’s sudden appearance shouldn’t have made a difference tonight. His behavior should’ve been that of a devoted husband, not a man chasing ghosts and secrets. But what about his father? Didn’t justice matter? “I’ve got to go.” He hung up, cutting off his sister’s sudden apologies, but he’d deal with that later. For now, he was torn between getting out of here and wanting to shake the truth out of Charisse.
She placed her hand over his—her skin soft and warm against his knuckles in a gesture far more tender than her cold gaze from earlier. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant music drifting from the ballroom. “I understand you more than you can imagine.”
What could she possibly mean by that?
Before he could ask, he noticed Bris walk onto the balcony, looking like an ice queen in her white satin dress and hair swept back in that severe bun—well, a few dark strands had come loose, falling around her face in a way he thought was adorable but that she’d hate.
Her stiff smile showed him she wasn’t happy, her full red lips pressed into a tight line that didn’t reach her eyes. Achilles felt his every muscle coiling with guilt and wariness. He couldn’t shake away Charisse’s hand without looking like Bris had caught him doing something wrong. He stepped back instead, the cool metal of the balcony railing pressing against his spine. Hewasn’t sure what was appropriate now that he was stuck in this marriage of convenience, but the accusations in Bris’s golden eyes made his chest tighten.
Her cheeks were flushed like she’d been running, and there was something wild in her usually composed expression. This night was spiraling into disaster for all of them. “Can I steal you for a moment?” Bris asked him, her voice deceptively light.
His eyes went back to Charisse—she still held in her secrets that he’d do anything to dig free. Those would have to wait. No way would his ex talk freely in front of Bris. He forced a smile, every move a balancing act. “Of course, were you missing me, babe?”
“Yes, dear, as a matter of fact,” she said, her tone sweet as poisoned honey. “So many guests are dying to make your acquaintance.”
More like see the idiot who’d been roped into this arrangement. Charisse’s accusations still stung—pawn, minstrel,stupid—well, she hadn’t said that exactly. He nodded, letting Bris slide her hand under his arm to lead him away, her fingers gripping him with surprising strength. But she didn’t lead him inside like he’d first supposed, but further outside, down stone steps worn smooth by centuries of royal feet, into the vast palace gardens.
Moonlight silvered the carefully manicured hedges and cast long shadows from ancient olive trees. The scent of jasmine and night-blooming roses hung heavy in the warm air, almost intoxicating. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked deeper into the maze of pathways, away from the golden light spilling from the ballroom windows.
“What was so pressing that Charisse had to speak to you in the middle of such an important party?” Bris asked as soon as they’d left his ex behind.
He ran his mind over their conversation and wrinkled his nose—nothing that Bris could know about, not without exposing secrets that would clue her father into stopping him from finding answers. “She congratulated me on my nuptials.”
“She couldn’t do that with me there?”
His lips curled without humor. Not with as much drama. His guilt ate at him at how he’d dragged yet another innocent female into his complicated life. “I’m afraid I broke her heart.”
“I’m sorry,” Bris said stiffly. She didn’t sound sorry, only furious, her free hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist. “Is she going to be okay?”
