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“We’refriends,right?”
I shove the chocolate lava cake out of my fork’s reach and cradle my stomach. It’s the final dish of an eight-course dinner, and if I eat another mouthful, the zipper on my dress is going to give up trying.
“Sure.” Matt says it in a dull tone that suggests he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. He’s too busy staring at his crush, who I now know to be called Anna. She’s sitting three tables down with a group of friends, and none of them have touched a single course. “Okay, how about this. When she goes to the bathroom, you go too. And then pretend to be on the phone and talk about how big my cock is or something.”
I give him a few seconds to smile or laugh, anything that shows he’s joking. It doesn’t come.
“Do you think that’ll get you the girl?”
His gaze slants. “Girls like big dicks, right?”
“Jesus Christ, Matt.” I tug the cake toward me again. Just one more bite. “Why don’t you just go and talk to her?”
“Have you smacked your head? She’ll think I’m a weirdo.”
I choose another mouthful of gooey goodness over pointing out the obvious. Chocolate tastes better than the truth. Hell, sometimes rat poison tastes better than the truth.
Darkness arrived somewhere between the scallops and the lamb: now tiki torches, red heat lamps, and the warmth of a love story cast a hazy glow over the clearing. The low, easy beat of the mini orchestra has picked up tempo and introduced a saxophone. As shiny stilettos move onto the dance floor and reluctant leather loafers follow, the night crackles with a good time.
A server refills my champagne. I turn to thank him, but my eyes are drawn to a dark figure over his shoulder. Raphael Visconti is leaning against the bar, yet another woman buzzing around him like a fly on shit. They’ve been coming and going all evening—different dresses, different hairstyles, but the same bone-cringing behavior.
Like all the women before her, her gestures are large and her laugh is loud. In contrast, Raphael is still and suave. He cocks his head to listen to her monologue; runs a thumb over a well-mannered smile.
Raphael Visconti is the perfect gentleman.
He’s also the perfect liar.
The word liar buzzes on the tip of my tongue like sour candy. Call it instinct, or call it common sense; my gut knows that gentlemanly act is nothing but smoke and mirrors.
As if he can suddenly feel the venom in my thoughts, Raphael’s gaze lifts up from the floor and locks onto mine. It flashes with dark amusement, and the way he says Penelope, by stretching out all four vowels in a cashmere drawl, whispers in the wind.
Heart racing, I spin around in my chair in an attempt to save face. I’ve really got to stop looking at him, because he’ll start to think I’m jealous, or something. And I’m definitely not jealous.
I focus on a couple doing a drunk waltz on the dance floor. “Hey”—I kick Matt under the table to get his attention—“tell me what you know about Raphael Visconti. Asshole, right?”
He frowns, then glances over my shoulder. I know he sees a handsome man talking to a woman under a romantic glow, because his face melts into a shit-eating grin. “You gonna try your luck?”
“No.” I pop the top button of my coat and Matt’s gaze drops to the opening.
“Thought you were cold?”
I swat him with my purse. “Answer the question. Tell me what you know about Raphael Visconti, or else I’ll tell Anna you’ve got crabs.”
My threat doesn’t dent his glee, because he parrots my earlier advice in a squeaky voice, which I assume is meant to mimic mine. “Why don’t you just go and talk to him?”
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Matt about Rafe’s rudeness earlier. I guess it’s for the same reason I didn’t tell Nico about us having met before; I’d then have to explain the whole swindling thing. Matt doesn’t know anything about that, and as my only friend on the Coast, I’m going to keep it that way.
Besides, for some odd reason, I like being the only one to know Raphael’s secret.
Before I can tell my friend I’d rather jump off the top of Devil’s Dip cliff when the tide is out, the scrape of a chair makes his head snap to a ninety-degree angle. Both our eyes trail Anna as she gets to her feet, smooths down her dress, and totters in heeled boots over the dance floor toward the bar.
I can’t explain why my throat gets tighter with every sultry sway of her hip.
Matt’s tone drops the humor and picks up panic. “No, seriously. Go talk to him.”
As if timed to precision, Anna slips into the gap beside Raphael, half a second after the other girl vacates it.
My hand curls into a fist around a chocolate-stained napkin. “Why? Worried he’ll steal your girl?”
