Page 13 of Blackmail
I turn to leave, ignoring the pinch of my toes in my too-tight dress shoes. Whatever this is about, I don’t care.
I’m not one to turn down a date. Money is money, after all, and the sooner I’ve paid Brennan, the sooner I can get far away from Belle Argo. But being a tug-toy between a married couple is where I draw the line. Brennan always tells us that staying allergic to drama will keep us out of trouble. So I’m leaving before I break out in hives.
My steps are quick as I leave the restaurant—enough to ensure nobody makes the mistake of getting in my way or asking if I need help finding anything, but hopefully not fast enough to draw negative attention. Clinking tableware and murmured conversations filter around me, barely white noise over the thudding in my chest and the rushing in my ears. Part of me feels like Angry Husband is right on my heels. Part of me insists there’s no way he’d bother to follow. I’m not sure which option I want to be correct.
Just as I’m through the front door and gasping for fresh evening air, a hand wraps around my upper arm. Firm, but gentler than the last time. “Simon. Wait.”
He’s far too close when I turn back around. If I took a deep breath and held it, my chest would touch his abs. What are the odds he’s got a set of visible ridges hiding under that button-up shirt? Judging by the straining biceps and pectorals I can make out under the fabric, I’d say they’re decent. Honestly, I’m a little tempted to try and find out.
I make the mistake of looking into his face, and his storm-cloud eyes suddenly have me trapped. His chest heaves, and the masseter muscle jumps in his jaw. I’m not sure if I need to get out of here before he punches me or revisit that fantasy about him throwing me up against a wall.
Probably the first one.
Right?
“How did you manage to get a date with me? Your husband’s on the banned list. Brennan doesn’t like drama.”
He smiles slightly. “I’m not banned. And I had an acquaintance make the call for me.”
An acquaintance. A world in which you can call a person you only sort of know and get a date with a five-hundred-dollars-an-hour escort is so far from the one I grew up in, it blows my mind. Then again, equally mind-blowing is the world where the pleasure of my perky ass and sparkling company commands those prices. If my parents could see me now, they’d be horrified.
It’s a good thing my father can’t die of a heart attack twice.
“What? So you were just like, ‘Hey, bro, remember me? I bumped into you at Muffy and Miffy’s Baby Sprinkle. I was the guy who kept launching the kids right out of the bouncy castle right before I ate all of the crab puffs. Funny story, I happened to catch hubby balls deep in a divine piece of ass last week, and I just had to get a taste, but the silly wench scurried out before I could get his pimp’s phone number. What say you put me in touch, hmm?’”
“Uncanny. Except I don’t actually like crab.” Maybe it’s how the sunset frames his face, but I could swear I see a spark of humor in his eyes.
“No shit?”
“Also…” He leans in. Holy hell, he smells fantastic. Like…woodsy, and spicy, and rich as fuck. “‘Divine’ is not the word I used to describe you.”
No fucking doubt. He probably called me trash. Most people have. Even to my face. Even my own family.
The funny thing, though, is me being trash doesn’t seem to keep those rich-ass married assholes from wanting to fuck me. It doesn’t seem to be stopping Sebastian. This guy’s throwing out more signals than a train relay. Jesus.
He tilts his head to the side. “How would you know what a sprinkle is? You don’t seem old enough to have kids.”
I roll my eyes. Sebastian doesn’t look much older than I am. “They weren’t big on teaching biology where I come from, but I’m old enough to know people with kids.” Not that I want to have any of my own. The idea makes me ill. “A friend of mine is a single dad. He had one.”
“And what was your contribution?”
“We didn’t know each other then. I just know he had one. Why the fuck do you care?” Those steel eyes are studying me a little too closely. What the hell is this guy’s deal?
“Getting to know each other is what people do on dates.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes again. It’s immature as hell, but it’s also my favorite way to be an asshole now that I’m no longer in a position where I’ll be whipped or made to do push-ups if I’m a disrespectful shit. Turns out, I like being a disrespectful shit. And I don’t need this guy’s money that badly.
“Why am I here? You don’t strike me as a guy who needs to pay for a dinner date.”
That muscle jumps in his jaw again. “Tony’s refusing to sign off on the divorce. I need someone to state in court that Tony was cheating, so I can invoke the infidelity clause in our prenup. Otherwise, the whole thing could drag out for months, even a year. He could wind up with half of everything, including the consulting business I started while we were married.”
At least I’ve got to respect that the man got straight to the point. “Why not just kill him? Then he gets nothing.”
I expected a laugh or maybe an eye roll, but I get a cold, flat expression instead. He reaches forward and strokes a finger along my jaw and for some reason I let him. “Let’s call that plan C.”
A funny shiver rushes up and down my spine. I tell myself it’s the breeze picking up as the sky darkens. The thick clouds tell me there’s a storm brewing overhead.
“Right. Well. Usually, people don’t ask me to help take their husbands to the cleaners on dates, so you’ve already broken protocol. I can’t help you. And you don’t need to know anything about me. So how about you fuck off, huh?”
