“Why Namibia?”
Why ask her more questions?
“I once saw a picture of the Namibian desert in a journal. The yellow dunes looked like velvet. I became obsessed with lying on one of those perfect dunes and looking up at the sun. It looked like the height of being alive. So poignant. So pure.”
So stupid.
She had the good sense to blush.
I turned back to the view zipping through the window, having heard enough about her previous relationship.
“We had a good run.”
An unfamiliar needle pricked my chest. Maybe I was having a heart attack. Spending a night in the ER would still beat Arrowsmith drooling over my wife like a horny tenth grader publicly.
“A man named Andrew Arrowsmith is going to be at the charity ball. He’s the one filing a lawsuit against Royal Pipelines.” I changed the subject.
“I know him from TV. He does morning shows and environmental panels.”
“I expect you to be on your best behavior. He’ll examine us closely, look for cracks in the façade.”
She flashed me a curious look. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this story than a lawsuit?”
“We go back. We grew up together, went to the same schools for a while. His late father worked for mine.”
“I’m guessing his departure didn’t include any employee of the year awards.”
“Athair made him do the walk of shame and blacklisted him from working at any reputable company on the East Coast. Arrowsmith Senior had a knack for embezzling.”
Persephone crossed her legs. “So this lawsuit is personal?”
I offered her a curt nod. “Arrowsmith Senior died recently.”
“Which opened the old wound, making Andrew take the job at Green Living.”
She caught up quickly. Flower Girl had been a lot smarter than I gave her credit for before I asked her to marry me.
“How come the media hasn’t picked up on it?” She readjusted my tie. This time, I didn’t move her hand away. “His hidden agenda, I mean. He’s a highly public figure.”
“I haven’t leaked it yet.”
“Why?”
“Arrowsmith’s got something on me, too. We’re hanging our sins over each other’s head, waiting to see who blinks first.”
“Let’s make him flinch then, hubs.”
“There isn’t a we in this operation. You worry about giving me heirs, and I’ll worry about Arrowsmith.”
She studied me; her blue eyes tranquil. I could tell she was no longer fearful of me, but I wasn’t sure if that satisfied or annoyed me.
“I mean it, Flower Girl. Don’t butt into my business.”
She was still smiling.
“What are you looking at?” I glowered.
“You held my hand in yours the entire length of the drive. Since you took the contract from me.”
Dropping my gaze, I immediately withdrew from her.
“Haven’t noticed.”
“You’re handsome when flustered.”
“I swear, Persephone, I’m going to relocate you to your precious Namibia if you don’t stop grating on my nerves.”
“So now I annoy you constantly.” Her blue eyes shone. “That’s one, steady emotion. Twenty-six more to go!”
There were twenty-seven emotions? That seemed completely unmanageable. No wonder most humans were categorically useless.
The driver opened the back door. I slid out first, taking my wife’s delicate hand in mine as the cameras clicked, devouring us, wanting more from the woman who had decided to lock her fate with The Villain.
I tucked my wife behind me and marched past them, blocking the blinding flashes with my body so she wouldn’t trip and embarrass me.
It was showtime.
The charity ball reminded me why I didn’t do people.
Out of the bedroom, anyway.
A rancid cloud of perfume hung over carefully sprayed hairdos. The checked marble floor of the nineteenth century hotel twinkled, and the aristocrats immortalized on the paintings framing the ballroom glared at the guests disapprovingly.
Everything about the event was fake, from the conversation, to the veneer teeth and crocodile tears over what we were raising money for—clowns for kittens? Ant sanctuary? Whatever it was, I knew I stood out like a sober guy at a frat party.
I led Persephone inside, ignoring the few people who were dumb enough to approach me.
That was the beauty in being Boston’s most hated businessman. I didn’t need to pretend I gave a damn. I wanted a private word with the man who was suing my company, so I came here with a check the organizers couldn’t refuse. But my willingness to socialize or play the game was below zero.
I snatched a flute of champagne from a waitress’s tray for Persephone and a cognac for myself, snubbing a hedge fund manager who came to introduce himself with a boring-looking woman I assumed was his wife.
Something fast and hard bumped into my leg. It stumbled backward, landing at my wife’s feet in a tangle of pudgy limbs.
Persephone lost her grip on the champagne, spilling her drink all over her dress. She let out a breath while I grabbed the stupid thing and scooped it in the air. It was kicking and screaming.