Page 58 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
Grabbing my hair, I twist it up and pin it. I’m long past caring if I look good these days. I’ve never been one to wear makeup, and I refuse to cover Enrique’s handiwork. Wherever we’re going, let them see him for what he is.
On a sigh, I square my shoulders and tug open the door. In the lobby, Enrique waits, dressed in a tuxedo. He almost looks handsome. Or he would be if he wasn’t so repulsive. He thrusts a pair of shoes at me—strappy, silver, and extremely uncomfortable looking. I take them from him, and he holds out his other hand, producing a silver chain. I glance at it, scowling at the elegant B pendant. Bianchi. Classy. He can’t stamp it on my forehead, so he’s literally putting his name around my neck.
I turn around, allowing him to clasp it. There’s little point in arguing with him, and really, I married the man. What more claim can he put on me than the ring on my finger?
I slip on the shoes and follow him out of the front door. I have no idea where we’re going, and I don’t care. I find more and more that I hand myself over to fate and let the wind blow where it may.
The car pulls up outside another hotel, much farther down the beach. This area is more exclusive, the hotels more expensive, and the clientele always wealthy. Enrique rounds the car and opens my door, guiding me out. Men and women dressed in tuxedos and cocktail dresses all head in the same direction up the stone steps to the revolving front door. We walk across the marble and gold-encrusted lobby and into an elevator that takes us to the third floor.
The doors open onto a glittering dinner party. At least fifty tables are laid out with pristine white tablecloths and elaborate centerpieces. Enrique grabs my hand, placing it in the crook of his arm. So, this is my part tonight—arm candy.
He crosses the room, regularly stopping and talking to people. It all seems fairly normal conversation. How are the kids? How’s business? Have you met my wife? Which of course, they haven’t because I’ve been his prisoner. By the time we make it to our table, I’m eyeing the ice bucket of champagne.
I take a seat, and a waiter pours me a glass. The first crisp sip of the sparkling liquid feels like sheer relief. I just need something to take off the edge so I can deal with this…well, whatever is about to unfold.
Men and women take their seats around us, and I tune out their conversations. A starter is brought out—caviar by the looks of it. I don’t touch it, opting for the alcohol instead.
“You haven’t touched your food.” The woman next to me leans in, brushing her arm against mine.
“Sorry, what?”
She smiles, the lines around her pink painted lips sinking into her face. Her eyes slip from me to Enrique, who is talking to someone else. “Don’t you feel well?” She looks from my face to my stomach then back again, a small smile touching her lips. She thinks…Oh, God no.
“No, I’m not…that.” I point at my stomach, then hold up the champagne glass like a very non-pregnant person.
“It won’t be long.” She grins like that would be the best thing ever, and I feel sick.
I feign a polite smile and chug a large gulp of champagne.
Her husband then decides to lean over her and join in the conversation. “Adelina, I presume?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
“I’m Francois Gourd. I have business dealings with your husband.” Great, just great.
“Nice to meet you.” I try not to sound bored, but really, it’s impossible.
“That’s a nasty bruise you have on your face. Did you walk into a door?” He laughs, as though his joke is hilarious.
“No, Enrique threw a temper tantrum. My face got in the way.”
His laughter cuts off, and both he and his wife don’t seem to know where to look. I can feel the icy tension pouring off Enrique, permeated by his sudden silence. I don’t care.
“If you’ll excuse me. I need to visit the lady’s room.” Pushing to my feet, I stride away from the table and those people. I head toward the bathroom, but as I glance over my shoulder, I realize I’m being tailed by one of Enrique’s men.
When I step inside the bathroom, he follows.
I turn to face him, placing my hands on my hips. “Can you wait outside?”
He stares straight ahead as though he doesn’t know where else to look in a women’s bathroom. “Boss said not to let you out of my sight.”
I snort. “Well, you aren’t watching me pee, and I’m pretty sure there’s a law against you being in here.”
He says nothing, and I head for the farthest stall, slamming the door behind me. It’s only when I turn around that I realize someone is in here. A breath gets stuck in my throat as the figure rushes me, sliding a hand over my mouth. The scent of mint engulfs me as I stare into clear eyes the color of sea ice.
