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As I settle into my seat at the foot of the catwalk beside a preening Lucia, I steeple my fingers over my vest and settle back against the plush seat. Only then, in the hope of blocking out my surroundings, do I allow my mind to drift.
* * *
“ReturnValentine’sto its former glory, or you’ll be seeing your father sooner than you’d like.”
Lorenzo’s features are horrified when he lifts his head from the letter in his shaking hand.
“What the fuck is this?”
My hand darts out to rip the letter from him so that I can crumple it into a ball and launch it into the waste basket.
He steps closer with concern coloring his words. “That was a death threat, V. You need to do something about it!”
I shrug, walking across my newly decorated office to pour a whisky. “Nah. It’s fine. There’s been dozens of those lately.”
I twist at the waist, holding the decanter up. “You want one?”
My best friend’s forehead is creased in worry, and I silently curse myself for opening my mail in front of him today.
Nolan Fritz, a bottom feeder with a penchant for the seedier side of life, had elevated himself to a man of stature through his involvement with Valentine. And he’s been making my transition to the owner of my newly renamed Rogue much harder than it needs to be. But I’m determined to show them thatIhold the power now. Not him.
And certainly not Valentine fucking Burton.
Placing the decanter back on the drinks table, I face him and try another tactic. “How’s Sara? She must be heading into her third month, right?”
His face alights, and I know I’ve derailed his inquisition for now.
“We are telling our families this weekend.” His chest puffs out in pride, making me grin at his pure fucking cheesiness. “Only six more months until I meet my son!”
I snort a laugh. “You can’t know it’s a boy at this stage, Renzo.”
“I have a feeling, my friend.” He settles himself onto the sofa farthest from me, stretching out so his feet are crossed at the ankles while a shit-eating grin plasters itself to his face.
“Lorenzo Caputo the second. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”
* * *
“She’s fucking exquisite, don’t you think, Burton?”
The unmistakable upper-crust British accent of Oliver Creswell pulls me from my memories, a hint of a smile still tugging at my lips as I turn to face him.
His light brown eyes are blown wide as he stares at whoever has been unfortunate enough to gain his interest.
Feigning an interest of my own, I follow his line of vision toward the curtain leading backstage. It’s slightly open, allowing us to see a petite girl in an electric blue wig, wearing a sheer white negligee that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Of course, Lucia would have ensured that I’d be seated next to the most irritating prick ever to walk the earth. Ollie Creswell, an entitled asshole from jolly old England with memberships both here and atValentine’s, is the only fucker who’s ever had my additional security visit him more than once following a purchase.
There’s always one idiot who needs to take things too far, and I’m in no mood for his shit this evening. I quickly shoot a surreptitious text message to Ford Holloway, manager of my surveillance team.
ME
Creswell is in Ravish tonight. Just a heads up.
The dots flash immediately with his reply.
FORD
Still in Costa Rica. Will handle it.
