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I feel dirty and used and I hate Desidério Gabriel all over again. In fact, I wish that I could—
Knock, knock, knock.
Inhaling sharply, I whip my head up and eye the door like it’s my enemy. It must be him, realizing he’s forgotten his wallet. I grab it, swiping at my eyes and cheeks as I march to the door. I have half a notion to throw it at him and slam the door in his face, but then again, I’m not the sort of woman who leaves things unsaid.
I whip open the door to find him standing there, a lazy smile on his treacherous lips, his phone in his hand. I give the phone a pointed and unmistakable glare,thenchuck the wallet in his face.
“Give my regards to your fuckingquerida.”
As he stumbles backward into the hallway, I slam the door shut.
CHAPTER 8
Iconsider skippingdinner, but I’m not going to let acheap flingdetermine how I spend my time and where. Screw that. Screw that very, very much.
I shower my body, scrubbing off every last trace of said fling, then dress with more care than ever. I choose a bright pink slip dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, add some high-heeled slingback sandals, do my make-up perfectly and leave half of my glossy onyx curls down, falling over my shoulders.
Eat your heart out, fucker.
Grabbing a clutch, I head out the door of my stateroom, imbuing my walk with all the New Yorkian confidence I’ve gained over a lifetime of living there. I refuse to feel ashamed. I refuse to hide in my room like I did something wrong. I don’t have aqueridowaiting for me or anamoranywhere. I have no reason to feel like I did something wrong because I didn’t.
I enjoyed a very short fling with a very hot man whom I despise very much for making me an accomplice inhisinfidelity. I feel sorry for the woman he’s deceiving, but there’s nothing I can do for her... except to stay away from her man for the remainder of this trip. And that’s precisely what I intend to do.
That... and go home.
A few hours ago, the idea of staying in Manaus was certainly sweetened by the notion that Rio and I could get to know each other better, and—if everything went well—we’d have more time to enjoy one another. But whatever was sweet about Rio has soured now. I think it might be best if I went home and learned how to support my father’s foundation from New York.
Climbing up the staircase to the dining room, my arm is suddenly grabbed, and I’m jerked off the landing and into a dimly-lit hallway. I’m about to scream when my eyes adjust. Rio stands across from me, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips tight.
“What the fuck?” I snarl, putting my hands on my hips.
“My question exactly,” he answers.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Why did you throw my wallet at me?”
