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It was only then that I realized I had my knee between Francesca’s thighs, and that both women were looking at my knee with eyes wide in shock.
One from the doorway, the other with parted lips, her eyelids heavy.
I took a step back.
Sterling swallowed. “Sir, Mr. Secretary and his wife are here to see you. Should I…should I tell them you’re busy?”
Snorting, I shook my head, scanning Francesca with disdain one last time.
“Never been more bored in my life.”
I supposed dinner went well, considering Francesca and I used our utensils strictly on our poached pears and herbed lamb as opposed to on each other.
Bryan and I sat across from one another, discussing my future plans before we even got to the main course, while my striking, entrancing fiancée—Bryan’s words, not mine—asked his bland wife all about her mind-numbing charity foundations, including her Adopt-a-Clown aid for hospitalized children, and Bros for Hose—hose being literal fire hose—organization.
Bryan was never going to live down the last title his wife chose.
Francesca, however, nodded and smiled even though I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was bored to tears. All she needed was a customary wave to rival Kate Middleton in the etiquette department.
I was strangely—and annoyingly—pleased with her. Especially considering the fact she just managed to ruin the only thing I truly cared about in this whole, expensive, and pointless mansion.
The picture.
I was dismembering my main course now, a lobster, imagining it was my future wife’s limbs, when Galia Hatch perked up from her dish and shot another enthusiastic, borderline-deranged glance at Francesca.
Her hair was bleached and sprayed to a point it clattered in dry chunks atop her head, and her face so plastic, she could pass as a Tupperware container. Not to mention, there was a medieval witch somewhere who wanted her dreadful dress back.
“Oh, my, now I know why you are so familiar! You were leading a charity, too, weren’t you, darling? Back in Europe. France, if I’m not mistaken?” She clicked her fork against her champagne glass, making a grand, idiotic announcement of some sort.
I was about to snort out a dismissal. Nemesis only cared about her horses, garden, and Angelo Bandini. Not necessarily in that order.
My plus one’s ears pinked immediately, and she set her utensils on her half-full plate.
“Switzerland.” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin for nonexistent crumbs of food.
I stopped listening to Bryan gushing about the secretary of state and turned my attention to the ladies’ conversation.
Francesca looked down, and a hint of her cleavage caught my eye. Her milky tits were pressed together in a tight bra.
Looking away was not in my near future.
Dying of blue balls—might be.
“Fascinating charity, it was. I remember there was some gardening involved? You gave us a tour a few years back. I couldn’t stop blabbing for months afterward about the sweet American girl who showed us the gardens,” Galia hooted loudly.
My eyes dragged from my wife’s chest to her face. Her blush deepened; her face so fresh and youthful even under the minimal makeup she applied.
She didn’t want me to know.
I could see no reason she’d withhold the information from me, other than fearing that I’d actually take a liking to her if I knew that she was philanthropic.
No trouble there, darling.
“Did you know your wife is also a patron?” Bryan raised his thick gray eyebrows at me when he realized I wasn’t paying attention to his words.
I did now.
And although she possessed admirable first lady qualities, including her beauty, wits, and ability to entertain women as thick as Galia, who could drive a monkey into alcoholism, I found myself thoroughly aggravated.
