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“If you were bad at your job, you might.”
I pass the second glass to her. “I’m not bad at anything.”
“I hate that I actually believe you.” She tastes the drink and winces. “I also hate cognac.”
“That’s a three-hundred-dollar bottle.”
“Ah. Well, in that case, it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” She pastes on a big, fake smile. “Better?”
I’m sure I’ll never see her again after tonight, so what the hell? Marriage is looming, and after everything that happened with Konstantin and Katerina Sokolov, I’m positive it will be an absolute fucking hellscape. Might as well enjoy myself while I still have the chance.
I clink my glass against the edge of hers in a toast to wherever this night is going to take us. “Much better.”
6
CORA
The draft in this jacket is unbearable. It’s made even worse by the bedroom eyes the owner of the jacket keeps tossing my way.
Come to think of it, those bedroom eyes are exactlywhythe draft is so unbearable. No underwear, arousal, a draft—it’s a bad combo.
As I see them, the problems are several-fold. One, I’m butt-naked in a borrowed suit jacket. This is not what we in the female empowerment business like to call “the command position.”
Two, I don’t know this man. He could be head of security, he could be a clown out of costume, he could be a spy on a secret mission from the Kremlin. Who knows? Not me.
Third, and most importantly, I am butt-naked in a borrowed suit jacket. I think that point bears repeating.
My brain keeps drifting to how much Francia’s Vera Wang must’ve cost. Every time it does, I make myself take another sip of disgusting, expensive cognac and wonder how on earth I’m going to pay her back.
“More?”
The man’s huge hand is already halfway around the glass when I realize what he’s asking. His fingers brush mine and I jerk my arm back like I’ve been electrocuted. The only reason the glass doesn’t crash to the floor is because the man has Superman-like reflexes and snatches it out of mid-air.
“No, that’s okay.” I shake my head, cheeks burning. “Thanks, though. For the drink. The first one.”
And for sending my groper off with his tail between his legs.And for the jacket. And for not kicking me out the door in my birthday suit.
The debts between us are piling up. I should thank him for everything he’s done, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Because I could have gotten myself out of this mess.
Ishouldhave, anyway. Sitting back and letting a man swoop in to rescue me is so not my story anymore. No Prince Charmings. No Happily Ever Afters.
Admittedly, I do have one too many evil stepparents, but that’s as far as the similarities go.
Prince Testosterone is tinkering around behind me at the bar as I step over the destroyed dress and further out onto the balcony. The evening air is warm and balmy. A babble of cross-talking voices rises straight up from the crowd below.
“Where is he? I heard he might be watching in from the security cameras. Do I look okay?”
“I haven’t seen Ivan once since I got here. I doubt he’s even here. Men like him never come to their own parties.”
“Portia got her boobs done. As ifthatis why Ivan has never looked twice at her. Forget her horse teeth and beige personality; she thinks it was the boobs. Get fucking real.”
The Ivan talk is really blowing my mind. It’s like he could snap his fingers and give every female on the property an instant G-spot orgasm. I’ve been around plenty of pompous, overstuffed peacocks in my time, but none of them have ever drawnthiskind of devotion.
Maybe I should stick around and find out who this guy is.
No sooner does the thought cross my mind than do I see a man separate from the crowd below. He steps out, then cranes his neck to look up at the string lights hanging overhead.
“Boris must be hoping he can liquor Ivan up enough to convince him to marry. Why else would there be endless trays of champagne without a bite to eat in sight?”
