Page 173 of Sexting His Assistant

That stops her.

Her anger falters, just for a second.

I keep my eyes on the road because if I look at her too long, I’ll turn the car around.

The venue lights appear ahead.

Nina sits up straighter, smoothing her dress with shaking hands.

I check the mirror one last time.

I lower my voice. “Ready?”

She exhales slowly. “No.”

I glance at her.

Her cheeks are still flushed. Her eyes are clear now, though, and when she lifts her chin, she looks exactly like the woman I wanted beside me tonight.

“Good,” I say. “Then stay close.”

19

NINA

The gala’s being held at the old conservatory wing of the Royal Meridian, which is exactly the kind of place rich people choose when they want to look good giving away to poor.

The driveway curves through gardens lit with low golden lamps, and by the time Luka stops the car at the entrance, I can see the glass roof glowing above the building like a greenhouse full of chandeliers. A red carpet runs from the covered drop-off to the front doors. Photographers stand behind a velvet rope. Women in jewel-toned gowns move through the light with champagne smiles. Men in black suits shake hands with the kind of seriousness that suggests all of them are pretending not to notice each other’s wives.

I sit very still in the passenger seat.

My body has finally stopped shaking from what he did to me in the car, but my nerves are still a complete mess, and now I have to step out in front of cameras beside Luka Kazan as if I’m a normal employee attending a normal event and not someone whose underwear he adjusted under my dress ten minutes ago.

Luka comes around and opens my door himself, one hand resting on the top of the door, jacket sitting perfectly on his shoulders despite the wound underneath, face calm as photographers begin turning toward him.

He looks unreal in a black tuxedo.

Not just handsome in the easy way younger men are handsome, with charm and nothing behind the eyes. Luka looks expensive, controlled, and slightly dangerous even when he is standing under warm lights at a charity gala. The silver at his temples is more visible tonight, his jaw freshly shaved, his bow tie impeccable, his mouth unreadable. There is no sign of the man who kissed me in my apartment, no trace of the man who put one hand between my thighs while driving like he was merely adjusting the climate control.

He holds out his hand.

I take it.

The moment I step out, the cameras start clicking.

My grip tightens around his fingers.

His thumb moves once over the back of my hand, quick enough that nobody else can see it, steady enough that I know it is meant for me.

“Breathe,” he says under his breath.

“I’m breathing.”

“Barely,” he murmurs. “You look so beautiful, Nina.”

My face warms, and I turn slightly toward the entrance, hoping the photographers catch my better side and not the side currently losing an argument with my heart.

Luka’s hand moves to the small of my back as we start walking. It’s a light touch, controlled and appropriate, but my body remembers every version of that hand that wasn’t appropriate at all. I feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my dress and force myself to keep my chin up.