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Who had sent it?
A memory of her voice came back to him. If you’re just going to ignore me, I’m taking Jett back to New York. To be with friends.
Friends? A trickle of ice went down his spine. Friends like Sergei Morozov?
Why would the man propose if he’s never even slept with you? His question echoed in his memory, along with her answer.
Because he thinks it’s the only way he can have me.
It’s nothing, Rodrigo told himself firmly. She hasn’t been in contact with Morozov. I know she hasn’t.
So why did he feel so suddenly on edge?
He interrupted the director in the middle of the man’s sentence. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.” The director looked shocked, as if no one had dared to be rude to him for a long time. Leaving without a glance, Rodrigo strode past the side lights and cameras to the edge of the set.
“Hello,” he said shortly to Pia Ramirez, who had been married to another man for eight years now. They had three children, none of whom he’d met, but he knew about them, in the way that everyone knew everything in the insular world of television and film production.
The Spanish actress sobered. “Hello.” She smiled at Lola. “I just met your new wife.”
“I see that.” He looked at Lola. “What have you been talking about?”
Her lovely face was blank. “Nothing in particular.”
But Rodrigo thought Lola had a guilty expression. What was she hiding? He didn’t like it.
He ground his teeth into a smile. “I’m done here. Shall we go?”
“Sure.” Her voice was overly casual as she turned to tuck a blanket around their baby in the stroller. “Jett is hungry, anyhow.”
“So am I,” he said.
She fed the baby in their waiting Rolls-Royce, then they decided to have lunch at his favorite tapas bar in Salamanca, on the Calle de Serrano. Afterward, sending away the Rolls-Royce and driver, they walked home down the lovely, boutique-lined street, pushing the sleeping baby in his stroller on the beautiful, though chilly, November day.
As they walked, they spoke of inconsequential things, such as the recent nominees for Best Picture and Best Director, and the speech Rodrigo intended to make during tomorrow night’s International Studio Guild awards ceremony. But as he tried to tell himself he was being paranoid, because he’d already decided he could trust her, he found himself growing increasingly on edge as he heard pings from her coat pocket, indicating she was getting more messages on her phone.
Messages she studiously ignored.
Messages she obviously did not want to read in front of him.
Trying to reason away his sudden irrational fear, he reminded himself about the prenuptial agreement. Lola would never cheat on him. She’d lose everything.
But the more pings he heard from her pocket, the more his nerves felt scraped raw.
At Rodrigo’s suggestion, they stopped in a designer boutique so Lola could find a new dress for the awards ceremony. As she went to the private dressing room with an armful of gowns, he waited in a private sitting area, next to their sleeping baby, calming his nerves with a glass of good champagne given to him by the solicitous salesgirl. He was already anticipating seeing Lola in the gowns.
Then he heard the noises from her nearby dressing room.
The pings coming fast and furious from behind the curtain.
And he realized, with a sickening lurch, that Lola was secretly, frantically sending messages back to the person who’d made her smile.
Rising from the comfortable white leather sofa, he crossed four steps to her dressing room. Scowling, he yanked open the velvet curtain.
Turning, Lola gasped, instinctively covering her half-naked body with her arms. He had a swift glimpse of her full breasts barely covered by a lacy black bra, and flimsy black panties. Instantly his breathing was hard, and so was everything else.
Then he saw the phone in her hand.
