Two months pregnant and my body hadn't changed yet—at least I didn't think so. And back in that bathroom, he'd been close enough to count my eyelashes. If he hadn't recognized me then... well, those two years of sleeping together would've been a complete waste.
"I wouldn't know. I don't pay attention to that stuff." I glanced at Emma, hoping she'd jump in and kill thisconversation. But Emma clearly wasn't picking up my signals. She probably wanted me to talk to Richard even more.
"Really?" He laughed softly. "Maybe their tactics weren't sophisticated enough to catch your eye. Or," he paused, a note of amusement creeping in, "you already have a boyfriend, so you don't care about those admirers."
Jesus. Was Richard trying to figure out if I'd found someone new after leaving him? Thanks to him, I'd probably never love anyone else again.
"No," I said flatly. "I'm not planning on being with anyone."
Richard's voice gave nothing away. "That's a shame. A woman like you should be treated well by a man."
I stared at his eyes in the rearview mirror, disbelieving. I never imagined Richard, Mr. Straight-Laced himself, would say something that bordered on flirting.
The car rounded a corner, streetlight washing over Richard's profile. That sharp jawline, the straight nose, lips pressed into a thin line. Even from behind, the man was infuriatingly handsome, especially when you knew what kind of arrogant, controlling, cheating bastard lived inside that pretty package.
"What do you like to do in your spare time?" he asked again.
God, would this ever end? If Emma weren't here—I didn't want her knowing about Richard and me—I'd rip off this mask right now and end this stupid charade.
I met his eyes in the mirror. "Singing, writing songs, painting sometimes."
"Painting? What style?"
Damn it, how long was this going to go on? But more than the endless questions, what really pissed me off was that in our two years of marriage, he'd never asked me any of this.
He only cared what I wore to galas, whether I smiled appropriately at charity dinners, whether I'd embarrassed theWinston family in front of those society matrons. But he never cared what I actually liked.
And now? Playing the attentive gentleman for a stranger in a mask.
The irony was suffocating.
"Mr. Winston, do you always interrogate women you just met?" My voice could've frozen the entire car. "Is this how you like to flirt with strangers?"
Emma gasped beside me, nearly dropping her phone.
He went quiet for two seconds, then I heard a low laugh.
"No," he said. "You're special."
Richard turned to look at me. That look—I knew it too well. The same one he used when he wanted to strip me naked and take me to bed.
After a moment, he spoke again. "If I wanted to reach you, could I get your number?"
"No." I didn't hesitate.
Richard raised an eyebrow. "No? What about your manager then?"
"Absolutely!" Emma's enthusiasm was painful. "Mr. Winston, Nightingale is the most talented artist I've ever worked with! Someone as successful as you would have so much in common with her!" As she babbled, she rattled off my phone number without missing a digit, then fished a gold-embossed business card from her bag and passed it forward. "Mr. Winston, here's my contact info. If you ever want to collaborate with Nightingale, call anytime. I'm available twenty-four seven."
Richard kept one hand on the wheel, pulled out his phone with the other, and entered my number.
Emma, the traitor.
I didn't say another word for the rest of the drive. Neither did Richard.
When the car finally stopped at the hotel, I bolted out. I couldn't stand another second in there with him.
Back in the room, door closed, I leaned against the cold wood, that burning anger still churning inside.
