Page 156 of Double or Nothing

And then comes the slam of the apartment door. The jangle of Alice’s keys.

“Jack?!” she shouts. “Where are you?”

“In the bedroom,” Jack shouts back. “Fisting Bryce’s asshole. Come take a look at the wreckage.”

Wreckage. What an apt word.

I barely have time to register Alice’s footsteps before the bedroom door flies open. I’m still braced on all fours, on full display as the woman I adore comes charging in to join us.

My darling Alice stands there with her blonde hair windswept and her coat hanging open. She has her phone clenched in her hand, staring at it like it’s an alien device. She looks flushed, frantic, and so bloody alive that every thought in my head scatters.

She looks so shocked that I wonder… I wonder what’s been happening on her phone.

Her eyes sweep over us. The bed. Our filthy position. My undoubtedly wrecked appearance.

Then she laughs.

Not embarrassed.

Not hesitant.

Triumphant.

“Camilla Stour emailed me. From the Hammersmith auction house,” she says. “She’s asked about the paintings! Oh my God, guys! She wants the paintings! Can you believe it?!”

Soul Girl jumps up and down on the spot, eyes beaming in wonderful disbelief.

But of course I can believe it.

I believe in her, and her paintings, and the master player no doubt playing the scene in the background.

It was him pulling those strings.

Of course it was.

I don’t need to see his face to see the smirk on it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ALICE

I’m so high up in the clouds, it takes me a moment to register the scene before me.

Oh my God, what a sight.

Bryce is on the bed, braced on all fours with a composure that screams ass on fire while Jack lounges beside him with an easy grin. Such casual satisfaction, as though the master of the universe has just rearranged the flow of the world with his bare hands.

I guess he has.

I snap back to the news in my hand, holding up my phone with shaking fingers. My heart has been trying to escape through my throat since the email arrived. It’s still computing, still sinking in, still… argh. I don’t even have the words for it.

“Fill us in again,” Jack says, propping himself up on his elbow. “They want your paintings? What did this Camilla woman say?”

I take a breath.

“She said she’s received an enquiry about three new works of mine. She wants information, photographs, sizes, provenance, all of it. She asked whether I would consider placing them in the Hammersmith auction.”

Bryce has his eyes on me, open wide, but Jack simply nods.