HAVING SEX WITH YOUR MORTAL enemy was exhausting. Weight pulled on my muscles as I walked down the hall toward my apartment. I unlocked the door and kicked off my heels, though just as I reached for the light switch, a cold awareness touched my skin, and I froze.
“Well, well, well . . . you show up at the party in one man’s jacket and come home in another’s?”
My gaze drifted to Richard II, proud manager of The Playhouse, which featured the sleaziest strippers in New York. It was the only reliable place to get a fifty-dollar blowie in town.
He was one stepson I would never have to worry about falling into bed with, and it wasn’t because he was twenty years older than me. He was merely off-putting in every way.
“Yes, well, us women can’t make ourselves too available, now, can we?”
The curtains were open, filling the room with natural light, yet he’d managed to find the darkest corner, where he leaned against the wall. I imagined he’d skittered there like a roach. The bugs were odious little bottom-feeders, but always easy to squish.
“Did you suck Allister’s cock?”
I sighed. “And here comes the vulgarity, right on cue. Can’t you mix it up for once, Dick?”
I headed toward the kitchen, tensing as I felt him walk up behind me. He grabbed my arm and spun me around.
He was always finely dressed—today, in a pinstripe dress shirt and black pants—but the smell of cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and stripper sweat clung to him, just like the greasy hair gel barely holding his combover in place.
His fingers dug into my skin. “I followed you out of the club earlier. How long have you been fucking him?”
Always, always, plead the fifth.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You have a hickey on your neck, you little slut.”
Dammit. That asshole . . .
His meaty finger traced the bodice of my dress. “If you wanted to fuck an icicle, I could have helped you out.”
“Honestly, Dick, it’s the Lord’s day. Let’s keep the penetration talk to a minimum.”
“If you make it up to me, I might forget about all this.” His thumb rubbed the hickey on my neck, and my skin crawled.
“Fortunately, I don’t sleep with my stepsons anymore.” I patted his chest. “Drink?”
“You think I’m going to let him make a fool of my father?” he asked, as I headed to the cupboard.
“What about me? Don’t tell me I’ve grounded myself for a week for nothing?”
He examined a stain on his tie. “Whores will be whores. But Allister crossed a fucking line. I won’t let my father die a laughingstock.”
Translation: he loved a good whore and couldn’t find the will to punish her for being easy. It would be a little counterproductive, considering his career choice and all.
I filled my glass from the faucet. “Well, I doubt Allister will be in for confession anytime soon. Better go make him pay, Dicky.”
Hesitation flickered across his face, and amusement rose in me.
“Aww,” I cooed. “Does the dirty fed scare you?”
He scoffed.
“I don’t blame you. The man is too comfortable around a gun.” I leaned against the counter. “I’m assuming you snuck out of that meeting like the little cockroach you are and nobody else saw this afternoon’s, ah . . . tête-à-tête?”
His eyes narrowed—he didn’t like bugs—but he nodded.
“Well, then, there’s no need to avenge anyone’s honor, is there?”
He rubbed his cheek in thought. “It’s the principle, though.”
“Principles are stupid. Not to mention, I don’t remember you piping up today when that Abelli talked crap about me and your papà.”
“Harmless locker-room talk. Nobody jammed their dick in my father’s wife.” He glared.
“Oh, please. You’re assuming—nothing more. I’d bet you didn’t stick around long enough to see a thing.”
He sniffed, proving that theory correct.
Never thought I could appreciate the fact the dirty fed was a cold-hearted, terrifying bastard until now.
“So, are you going to tell me why you were following me around earlier?” I asked.
“Yeah. You need to get your shit out of this apartment, that’s why.”
I frowned.
“You probably haven’t noticed your husband’s dying, being Allister’s whore and all. The doctor says he’s got a week, tops. So, all this shit?” He made a circle in the air with his forefinger. “Needs to be gone by yesterday.”
“Well, Dicky, that isn’t very hospitable.”
“This place is in my father’s name, which will make it mine very shortly. Stay if you want, but I’ll expect payment.” His beady eyes dropped to my breasts.
“Tempting, but I’ll pass. The maintenance here sucks; my washer’s been broken for a week.”
“Don’t expect a dime from his will.”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t want any of Richard’s money. I have plenty of Antonio’s left.”
He let out a sarcastic noise. “Right. Call me if you change your mind about staying here. I’d give it to you easier than I bet Allister does.” He shut the door behind him.
I looked around my apartment, at the shelf crammed with books and knickknacks, the paintings—from a cheap Marilyn Monroe portrait to an authentic Picasso—my Singer sewing machine and bags of fabric and thread, the haphazard stacks of magazines with circled fashion ideas in ballpoint bell, and way too many decorative pillows. If I was being conservative, I’d say it was cluttered. If I were Allister, I’d say it was a nightmare.
Regardless of that issue, I hated moving with a passion as fiery as the cover of any of my old bodice rippers.
I banged my head against the cupboard.
I didn’t make dinner that night. I ate a bowl of Cap’n Crunch while watching one of my cheesy TV shows in Spanish. Magdalena changed the language a while ago, and I hadn’t yet figured out how to change it back.
My washer really was broken, and all my dirty laundry could rival the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I walked past the pile in a dreamy, restless state. My body was exhausted, but my mind kept finding things about this afternoon to obsess over. It’d been so long since I’d slept with anyone, and my skin was still charged with an excited, breathless electricity.
The faucet let out a squeak when I turned it off with my toes. The bathwater was hot—almost too hot—but I needed something strong to soothe the ache. I was sore, and more than just between my legs. The asshole had left little marks all over me, including that stupid hickey on my neck.
Minus the whole he’s-a-giant-prick thing, there had been something undeniably perfect about sleeping with him. The rough and greedy way he’d touched me. The sound of his voice in my ear. The feeling of him inside me.
A flush drifted down my body.
I dropped my head against the tub. Turned the faucet on with a squeak and let the water run until it threatened to tip over the sides.
What a shame it was that Christian had to be the one to reintroduce me to the world of sex. Because now that I was so close to being a single woman, I didn’t think I’d be leaving again anytime soon, and it was going to be near impossible to find someone who touched me as good as he did.
Me: Tell your husband I have to be out of my place soon, but he doesn’t need to worry. I’m taking care of it all!
I knew Ace would be annoyed if I just upped and moved without telling anyone, and I was already on his shit-list. I’d decided to go through his wife so I didn’t have to face him regarding that silly club incident yesterday.
Elena: He said, “Don’t think you’re getting out of yesterday by going through my wife.”
Elena: What did you do?
Me: Daddy issues.
Elena: We’re about to board our plane, but the strangest expression just crossed his face . . .
Me: What kind of ‘strange’? Joyful? Brooding? Devious?
Elena: Definitely leaning toward devious . . .
Me: Dammit.
Elena: He just said, “I’ve got a place.”
Me: Definitely not necessary.
Me: In any way.
Me: Shape or form.
Me: At all.
Me: Ever.
Elena: He says a few men will be over to help you move . . .
Me: Will I get out of this alive?
Elena: He just smiled to himself.
Me: Pray for me.
I spent the next week packing my precious possessions into boxes, though, admittedly, grew distracted more than once while blowing the dust off my old books and magazines. I’d often end up on my divan, burying my face in some long-forgotten fashion journal or a novel with enough drama to put Jersey Shore to shame.
On Saturday, my laundry had gotten so out of hand, I decided to bite the bull and head to the laundromat. I was watching my reds whirl around in soap bubbles when my phone dinged.
Valentina: You know how I have this obsession for anything Aleksandra Popova?
Me: Indeed.
Whatever the Russian fashion model wore one week, Val was wearing the next.
Valentina: Well, I think it’s turned into jealousy.
She’d attached an article captioned: Can we talk about what Aleksandra was wearing last night? And we don’t mean her Polka Siena evening dress . . .
Probably a real muskrat shawl with the head still attached. Russians were so rustic two thousand two.
I had zero interest in the model and was in the middle of plucking a piece of lint from my maxi dress as I opened the article. I stilled.
The photo showed the gorgeous blonde at last night’s Broadway debut, and on her arm was no one other than a dirty blue-eyed fed.
My chest tightened.
He had a hand on her hip, and she had a hand on his arm—the one I’d run my nails down just last week. They looked comfortable together—perfect, really—like two connecting puzzle pieces.
He wasn’t looking at the camera but at some point in the distance. He appeared handsome and elusive, like some carnal fantasy you could only dream about but never touch. She wore her usual smolder—slightly pursed lips and cat eyes—and, with skyscraper-long legs and stilettos, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. They probably had all kinds of crazy positions to try out without such a large height difference.
I rarely lost a bet, and I would put a lot of money down on the fact this woman was the one he would finally marry.
My pulse missed its next beat.
I was sure Aleksandra didn’t have mental breakdowns after sex. Something bitter spread through me as the thoughts kept whirling in my head. They probably had romantic conversations in Russian. Probably fed each other sips of vodka.
My heart was beating so hard and erratically it hurt. I put a hand over it, growing seriously concerned about a potential heart murmur.
A woman in a pink sweat suit smacking her gum pulled me back to reality. “You going to sit there all day or what, honey? We all got clothes to wash here.”
I sent Valentina a quick text before swapping out my laundry.
Me: Twenty grand says he marries her.
Valentina: Lol . . . you’re on.
