I decide not to comment. She’ll find out soon enough anyway. “If you hate Elizabeth so much and want everyone to know what kind of…whore she is, why don’t you make the deal public? Then she won’t have a chance with Nate. Men don’t like being used.”
“Oh, I have my reasons. And I know I’m right. Why else would her brothers Ryder and Elliot marry? They’re, like, the most notorious playboys, ever, screwing women left and right even up to a few weeks ago. But suddenly—like, overnight—they’re in love and in a rush to marry? I don’t think so.”
I think about it. Maybe they fell for somebody in that lightning-strike fifth of a second. I know it’s possible.
I don’t tell Annabelle, though. She wouldn’t understand—she’s only ever fallen for money.
“This isn’t just about control and embarrassment. There’s the money angle to it, too.” She rubs her hands together like a fly sitting on a pile of shit. “Do you know those paintings are great investments? Just look how artworks appreciate over the years. My husband bought a few in an auction, and…”
She launches into a long, boring story about her husband’s art collection and how much it’s worth now, but my mind is on other matters. If people like Elizabeth and her brothers are getting married to get their hands on these paintings, they must be worth something enormous, even more than what Annabelle’s claiming.
I declared my intention to strip Elizabeth bare because I recognize her reputation is what matters most to her. At the time, however, I didn’t know how.
Now I do.
A pressure point. How will she react if I get the paintings?
She struck my most vulnerable spot after causing me to believe she loved me as I loved her. This will be the least I can do to even the score.
Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth
After the charity reception, I don’t go home to McLean, Virginia like I want to. I don’t go to Ryder’s fancy Hollywood mansion either, where I’ve been crashing since Dad came up with his insane marriage demands.
Instead I check into a hotel in L.A. And currently I’m sitting in an armchair in a pink silk dressing gown, my long, thick hair finally dry after a late bath, nursing a vodka. My eyes are free of the contacts I wear to change my eye color from gray to a warmer, more approachable brown.
What wouldn’t I give to be back in Virginia. But I can’t go, not now.
Damn Wife Number Six.
She wheedled and whined and cried until Dad agreed to buy a large property next to mine. If that weren’t bad enough, she’s decided that her status as Dad’s latest trophy wife gives her the right to mother me.
The little brat. She was in diapers when I was doing arithmetic.
I haven’t needed a mother since…forever. Staying in Virginia would end with me cutting Number Six down—leaving her in tears, assuming she has enough IQ points to understand what I was saying.
Probably not. Any word over two syllables is beyond her, unless it’s on a fashion label.
I tense, suddenly sensing another person in the suite, then relax when I hear Tolyan’s voice.
“It’s five a.m. Why aren’t you asleep?” he says.
“It’s five a.m. Why are you still up?”
“I got up half an hour ago.” Tolyan stands in a black suit, a crisp white dress shirt, no tie and a watch with a com
pass and probably a lot of other cool features I don’t know about. His shoes have a perfect spit-shine as usual.
“Didn’t it cross your mind maybe I got up half an hour ago, too?” I ask.
He gives me a mildly exasperated look. I smile in return. Sometimes I forget he’s not an ordinary man.
And I also forget from time to time that his loyalty isn’t absolute. One day somebody’s going to offer him something I can’t give, and he’ll switch. Just like he did before with Grandma.
“You haven’t slept since you left the Sterling mansion two days ago.”
I scowl at Tolyan’s blatant violation of my privacy, knowing my displeasure won’t matter. He doesn’t believe in such inconvenient things. He does whatever he thinks is best. If you disagree, you’re wrong.