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“Ooh, in that case, I wonder how much faster we can blow through these millions.”
“I will never understand your humor, cousin.”
“I wasn’t joking.” Émile cups his hand over his mouth. “I think Christian might have a gambling problem.”
Clifford hurries to excuse himself as I turn big eyes on my … boyfriend? Fiancé? “What did you say that for?”
“Elle and I use nights like this to start as many rumors as possible. You should try it. It’s the only way to get through it and keep your sanity in check.”
“It’s true,” Elle says, converging on us in a massive sweep of cheek kisses and DKNY perfume. “I told Neil I’m thinking of flying to Utah. Mormonism is a fascinating religion.”
I laugh. “You do this all the time? And people still believe you?”
“It’s in the delivery, darling. Say it with enough conviction and people don’t know whether to call you on your shit or not.”
“Watch this.” Émile grasps a man’s arm on the way past, and before the guy can get so much as a word out, he says, “Do you mind finding an attendant for me? I’m not feeling the freshest and I just painted the inside of a toilet bowl. Rotten thing wouldn’t flush, so I’d advise against using the loos—the stench is horrible.”
The man yanks his arm from Émile’s grip with a disgusted snarl, and marches away from us.
Émile turns back and Elle politely applauds him. “Fantastic effort.”
“Let’s see how many people nearly piss themselves because they don’t want to risk the smell.”
“I’ll keep a tally.”
I leave them to their game and wander over to roulette to take a turn that I immediately lose on. When I turn back, the two of them have been swallowed by the crowd. Instead of goingafter them, I head to the bar to grab drinks for us all first, because as amusing as their games are, I can’t see myself joining in the fun. There’s no way I can pull off that kind of dry British humor.
“Christian?”
I fix what I hope is an easy smile and turn toward the voice. Émile’s relatives all know me, even if I have no idea who any of them are.
Except, this person I know.
His mom. Fuck.
Her cold blue eyes run over me. “Do you have a minute?”
“Ah, actually … I was getting drinks, so …” I make a half-assed attempt at indicating over my shoulder, knowing that there’s no way in hell she’s cornered me by myself for anything good.
“Drinks can wait. Follow me please.”
And because I’m a spineless idiot, I follow.
She makes her way into a small back room where there are already two people waiting. Émile’s dad is sitting forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of his mouth, and his gran is standing with her arms crossed.
Both of their attention lands on me the second I walk in.
“Ah, hi …” I say cautiously, even though the clawing in my throat feels like I’m being led to my execution.Why are they all so scary?
“Sit down,” his gran instructs.
My legs fold under me like a card table. Me, in one chair near the door, with his mother just behind me, and his dad and gran in front.
Maybe I was being dramatic about the execution thing before, but … fuck. What if theyactuallykill me?
Anything is legal with enough money.
Please let Émile be looking for me.
