Page 83 of Outcast’s Vow

Baptiste leans over to kiss my neck as his fingers reach my panties.

I’m wet.

God, I’m so, so wet.

His fingers tease a shiver out of me that crawls up through the space between my legs.

“Other people might see us... you...”

A waiter passes our table.

All it would take would be to look down and...

“No one can,” Baptiste replies in his deep baritone that penetrates my soul. “And besides, you are my wife. And you need to be taken care of. You are mine everywhere, Highness.”

“Everywhere?” I whimper, pressing my thigh into his hand.

His fingers curl.

I let out a gasp as he starts to untangle me, and I collapse into the deep liquid heat of his voice...

“Everywhere. Even here.”

31

SYLVIE

I am under no illusion that this is going to be one of the most important meetings of my life. Sure, some could consider what I’m about to do as being very unethical, and they might be right. And some could also consider it not exactly a meeting but more of a surprise ambush. And they might also be right.

But I’m going to do this anyway. Because I know it’s the correct thing to do.

I’m at the famous Escoffier Gallery. I’ve graced this art gallery before but today is different. Today, it’s hosting an exhibition of Juniper Wren. It’s where I plan to ambush Eleanor Whitmore, socialite, philanthropist, and, most importantly, the wife of US Senator Benjamin Whitmore. The man currently blocking Baptiste’s government contract.

My reliable sources in elite circles have told me she’ll be here.

She’d better be here.

For my suit of armor, I’ve decided not to go for a loud look. I stood in Baptiste’s bedroom and thought long and hard about what I would wear. A wool trench coat hangs over my sleeveless cream midi dress. Not much jewelry. Modest in a stylish way. Eleanor is a woman who will judge me by my outfit, I know.

The gallery is small. Boutique. Exclusive. It doesn’t take me long to find my target, standing at the other end of the room.

And I do something I would never usually do, and I stroll quickly past Juniper Wren’s paintings to get to her.

If you were to draw a stereotypical senator’s wife, you’d do a lot worse than Eleanor Whitmore. She’s old-money elegance, with the movements and confidence of someone who’s been at the apex of power for decades. In her late sixties, Eleanor is every bit a matriarch. Her hair is polished and freshly colored, expertly styled. She’s had a few artful Botox injections, but nothing too much to suggest kitsch. Her eyes remain cool and unsoftened. She is used to meeting presidents and kings and matching them in wit and style.

Dominatingly drifting diagonally across the middle of the room like the Queen in chess, a designer Italian dress is perfectly complemented by a cashmere shawl draped over Eleanor’s shoulders. She wears her clothes as if they’re a second skin. Her classic handbag hangs on her fingers like a weapon ready to be used. Her shoes are a pair of modest pumps. She has nothing to prove. She commands respect through her very aura. When you look at her, you know you are looking at someone who considers herself Very Important.

And now she is facing away from me, admiring one of Wren’s paintings.

I take a moment before I step up. My hands are shaking.

One of the most important days of my life...

Screw this up and I might ruin my new husband forever.

Nerves overtake me, but I calm myself and finally go in for the kill.

“Ah, My Soul on the Rocks,” I say as I approach Eleanor’s side, looking at the masterpiece. “One of her most understated works, but one of my favorites. I love how she has painted the stormy landscape of the remote Scottish island she lives on with a wave crashing on a rock but has also smeared the entire thing with a bold charcoal black.”