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Yep. Epic.
Jack snorted and asked the bartender for another round. Good call. Tucker was going to need it.
Sonya put her hands on her hips and thrust those large breasts of hers out until he thought the damn things were going to slip out of her dress and give the patrons something to talk about other than art and money.
“You’ve been busy with a girl. I’ve seen the pictures. Who the hell is she?”
Tucker groaned. Christ. Here we go.
The morning after Abby spent her first night at his place, the paparazzi had caught her leaving The Essex House in the morning. He was pretty damn sure Patrick had tipped them off. The doorman had always rubbed him the wrong way. Always seemed a little too nosy. Not that it mattered, he knew it was going to happen sooner or later and sure enough, over the last few weeks pictures of Tucker Simon’s mystery woman had surfaced in a few of the rags as well as a couple society papers.
The good thing was that Abby hadn’t been weirded out by it, and they’d managed to avoid more pictures by being careful. After the first photo had appeared, he’d called Marley’s parents and while the conversation was awkward—telling them that yes, the woman they’d met in Florida was more than just a friend—he had to let them know. He owed them at least that much. It had been a difficult conversation, and he still felt like a shit about it.
So far no one had gotten a name, but Tucker knew they’d been lucky, and he had a feeling their little bubble was about to burst.
“I’m waiting for an answer,” Sonya said, eyes flashing, chest heaving and her expensive heels tapping the floor like a staccato drum.
Tucker’s jaw clenched and even though his stance was relaxed, there was no mistaking that his anger was stirred. “Sonya, we both know you’re only here because it kills you to think that I find someone more interesting than you. Little secret? Most every woman on the planet is more interesting than you. And since I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual, why don’t we call it even and leave it at that. This isn’t the time or place.”
Anyone with half a brain would have taken the warning and retreated. Tucker Simon was slow to anger, but when roused, his temper was legendary. And the fact that the spoiled heiress ignored the warning signs didn’t bode well for her.
“I will decide the time and place.”
Tucker studied her for a few moments, eyes cold, mouth tight. What the hell had he ever seen in her? There was no warmth. No caring. No connection at all. The sex hadn’t even been all that great. Pretty pathetic, the more he thought about it, but he supposed that’s why their fling had worked. It was easy to do when feelings weren’t involved.
But something had changed for him. Abby had happened.
Movement caught his eye—a woman heading his way. A woman with long, red-brown hair that flowed freely, just the way he liked it. A woman with creamy shoulders. A woman who took his breath away in a burnt orange dress—the perfect foil to all the black that surrounded him—and eyes that hit him like a punch to the gut.
Speak of the devil.
Someone had called in sick, so Abby had worked past her shift until her brother Josh could come in and cover. Up until now, he wasn’t even sure she’d be able to make the benefit. Truthfully, Tucker had been willing to blow the event off and spend the night sitting at the bar with her, but at Abby’s insistence he’d come on his own, and she told him she’d do her best to make it.
Tucker’s heart sped up. The wait was totally worth it.
Abby smiled at a waiter who offered her some champagne, but shook her head politely, eyes moving over the room, looking for him. He took a moment, just to enjoy the sight of her and then frowned.
Dean Kendrick blocked his view as the star Ranger bent close to talk to her. Tucker’s eyes narrowed when Dean put his hand on Abby and said something that made her laugh.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
Sonya’s harsh voice brought his eyes back to her, and he hoped like hell she was done because he was already moving on. He didn’t have time for her crap.
“I’m not doing this,” he said, voice clipped.
And then Sonya swore. She swore like a trucker and turned to him, an ugly red flush creeping up her neck.
“That is the woman you’ve been fucking?” She sounded incredulous.
Her voice was shrill and he winced at her crudeness. “I know her,” Sonya continued. “She’s the bartender from that dump you insisted I go to. Oh my God, Tucker. You’re banging the bartender?”
Someone gasped, although Tucker wasn’t sure who i
t was because he saw red. Hell, he saw every fucking color in the spectrum.
He stepped toward Sonya, his voice low, barely able to hold his shit together. And if they weren’t in the middle of the Terrace Room—if it wasn’t the Simon name on the bill—he wouldn’t have cared. He’d have ripped Sonya Devonish into pieces.
He was that angry.
