* * * *
My high heels were snug on my feet instead of planted up Reardon’s fine posterior when I exited the elevator Saturday night. Fearing I’d mistake the soup spoon for the dessert spoon, have another
Pretty Woman
moment with Slaughter, and not at all happy about Augie being in on my secret, I tried to squelch my nerves.
At least I looked fabulous. Having successfully fended off Momma’s shopping trip to the Maxx for a knock-off dress, I wore a made-to-order, citron colored gown, which had caused cliquey bitchiness amidst the other lesser dresses in my closet.
I looked up from fiddling with my rings, and there he was, waiting for me outside the penthouse. In a tux. Eat your heart out, Scarlett O’Whora.
Creamy white jacket and shirt offsetting the tan of his skin and the blue of his eyes, midnight trousers the color of his hair, Reardon rested his shoulders against the wall and stroked a slim cigarillo between his fingertips. He allayed all my worries because frankly, the stroking motion combined with the visual of him in formal attire put my brain on a permanent leave of absence.
His eyes clung to my gown, which clung to my cleavage.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Thank you for the gown, and the unmentionables.” The buttery silk corset, garters, stockings, and panties truly were unmentionable. “And the shoes.” Shoes were an understatement. Three inches of sexy strappy heels I’d already trilled and cooed over.
Taking me in his arms, he pressed a short sexy kiss to my mouth. “You look unbelievable, Shay.”
I displayed the curve of my leg. “You chose everything yourself?”
“Mm hmm.”
“Sure you’re not gay?”
“At the time I was thinking about taking the clothes off you, especially the unmentionables. Not dressing you.”
Ooh. Definitely not gay
.
“There’s more.” From his inside pocket, he presented a dark blue box.
I had enough smarts to know the delicate gold choker looped with spears of dianthus colored coral wasn’t from the strip mall jewelers.
He clasped the necklace around my neck, kissing my shoulder. “The color of the sunrise. They reminded me of you, darlin’.”
“But–”
“No questions.” He replayed what I’d said the other day. Except now we were talking lustrous jewelry, not lap dances.
Reardon kissed me again, his tongue lashing in and out of my mouth, and I moaned for more.
I was breathless when he took the crook of my arm. “The press is here, so I’ll have to be on my best behavior.”
Inside, the cocktail party-slash-gala shindig was in full swing for the up and coming Gibbes Museum artist. A string quartet played from one corner of the main room and a hundred plus people milled about. Their glances shot to us, then skittered away.
Temp held the reins from the sidelines of the room transformed from its usual luxe living space to an elegant ballroom in deep orange, black, and white, the giant leafy fans replaced by chandeliers dripping in crystals. She’d even hired a crew of fastidiously turned out wait-staff.
Everyone was chillingly elegant and in their element.
I tried not to trip on my hem.
A hint of devil-may-care caroused with Reardon’s normal composure while he guided me inside the festooned room.
And, oh my fucking fuck
.
“Jane?” I warbled.
Reardon’s trademark grin dissolved from his face.
She turned a funny color that didn’t sit well with her tangerine empire waist or something-or-other gown.
Oh good God. She couldn’t be one of his former mistresses.
Good breeding taking over, Reardon dipped his head. “Shay, I’d like you to meet my sister, Jane Sloane.” He cursed under his breath. “Though it seems you two have already met.”
I hugged her loosely, the earlier nerves spiking inside me.
“Shay,” she sighed, glaring beyond me to Reardon.
Remembering her phone call from the restaurant, I cringed. “So, your brother? The other day?”
“Yeah. And the text? Reardon, huh?”
Oh, so outted
.
I was horrified. “Please don’t think–”
“Sshh
.
It doesn’t matter, so long as he doesn’t–”
He cut between us. “That’s enough.”
“Reardon, don’t you even–”
“We’re not speaking about this tonight.” Turning me into his chest, he presented Jane with his back. “You okay?”
I swallowed and nodded.
“She your newfound friend?”
“Yeah.” I dared to look at him. “What if she…” Shit, this sounded so high school, but I didn’t have many new people in my life. “What if she thinks I’m easy?”
“Jane’s my baby sister, a real little brat sometimes.” His lips fell to my ear. “But she’s good people, she’ll know it’s not just about sex, you’re more than…”
Unconvinced, I peeked at her. Instead of the narrowed glare of disapproving kin, she stared in open-mouthed awe.
A heavy hand hitting Reardon on the shoulder cast a shudder through me. I followed the arm up and up. The colossus gave me a guileless smile and Reardon an impish wink. A deep crescent scar punctuated the corner of his right eye; his hawkish nose and angular features were topped by umber eyes, all lending raw appeal to his face. A slant of brown hair slapped across his forehead, and suddenly Jane was propped under his arm.
“Shay Greer, Cash Sloane, my brother-in-law.”
“Honor, Miss Greer.” Cash’s mustache tickled my fingers briefly.
“Cash Sloane? Sounds like–”
“A used car dealer, I know. I blame the folks for cursing me from birth.”
Ignoring the waist-high tension whirling around us, I asked, “So you’re?”
The scar across his eyelid crinkled. “A car dealer.”
“Savannah Used Auto Mile?”
He laughed. “No, ma’am, foreign imports.”
“Have I got a trade-in for you.” Then I reconsidered. My poor Honda would cry tears of humiliation sitting on a lot next to a Saab or some such shit. I was ready to rescind my wheeling and dealing when everyone’s amused murmurs died away.
Shepperd Slaughter was in the building. “Ah, the ubiquitous getting to know you conversation.” He glanced around. “And pray, do tell, Mrs
.
Greer, what is your profession?”
“Shut your mouth right now, Slaughter.” Reardon’s unfinished threat hung in the air, a noose around his partner’s neck.
The awkward intros continued. Everyone strained to be polite and barely held it together, finally ending with Slaughter’s companion, the tall towhead who was skinny as a ho–whoops, I meant hoe. Tastefully draped in a strapless affair, she was a flaxen-haired scarecrow. No, not a scarecrow.
I reconsidered with the cruel tilt of her lips, an albino viper.
“Jane.” She nodded to Reardon’s sister.
“Leila,” Jane contemptuously replied.
“Slaughter.” Cash clapped his hand, then shook it off as if sliminess was contagious.
“Cash, Jane, pleasure.” Shepperd Slaughter grinned as color heightened his cheeks from the mere floridity of too many drinks to the flush of rotten pleasure.
Reardon shunted in front of me, addressing Leila. “You weren’t invited.”
“I’m Shepperd’s plus one, darlin’,” she drawled. “And who’s yours?”
“Shay Greer.” I put out my hand.
She recoiled as if I were a piece of ABC gum stuck to the sole of her Manolo Whatsit’s. Her hand was limp as a lettuce leaf left out of the crisper, palm down, presumably for me to genuflect over.
“How utterly charming
.
” She sounded anything but charmed, turning to Reardon. “This your flavor of the month?”
I broke into a cold sweat and hauled my hand back. Damn sure I wouldn’t kiss her skinny ass. More like kick it.
Reardon wore the same emotionless expression as when I’d asked him about children. He shook his head. “Don’t.”
She sneered. “Leila Boone, dear.”
I flicked between Jane and Reardon.
“No, Mrs
.
Greer, I’m not their sister.” She grew more spiteful as she spurned his hand around my waist. “I’m Reardon’s wife.”
Blood pounded through my ears, deafening me.
“Ex-wife.” He squeezed my hip. “And you don’t use my name anymore.”
“Only when it’s convenient, darlin’
.
”
“I see nothing’s changed.”
Even though I felt like a blousy blow-up doll next to Her Royal Heinousness, I raised my chin, gratified I reigned over her by at least a solid two inches. That, and I was pretty damn sure I could take her in a fight, go all Laila Ali on Leila’s pin-weight ass.
“Now, now.” I looked at the vexing ex and wolfish Slaughter. “Let’s say we pretend we like each other for one night? Come tomorrow, you two snakes can go back to...what is it y’all do anyway?” I tapped my lip. “Oh yeah, conjure new ways to be conniving, by all appearances.”
Grabbing a glass of champagne, I drained it. “Have a drink, lighten up. Don’t worry, I’m certain y’all’s crypts will still be there at dawn. And I’ll be right where I’m supposed to be.”
I’d done the sting-like-a-bee thing, now it was time to float like a social butterfly. Holding myself impeccably, I waltzed off, leaving open-mouthed gapes and Reardon’s approving smile behind me.
I met scores of arty-farty types, handfuls of pastel-dressed pairs undeniably as moneyed as my man. I nodded in all the right places, held my own with well-aimed witticisms, and got to feeling pretty comfortable.
An hour into the event, Reardon lightly touched my waist, hooking me with heavy bedroom eyes. “I like seeing you in action.”
“I bet you do.”
“You’re getting a lot of attention.”
“Blame it on the dress.”
His hand roaming up the silk, he stopped at the underside of my breast. “I blame it on your personality.” His thumb snuck across my nipple while he muttered, “Nothing to do with your garments.” He dragged his hand from me. “Everyone being polite?”
“’Course. Butter wouldn’t melt and all that. Besides, I’m a big girl.”
“Best part about you. Big heart.” Positioned behind me, he snuggled my rear, giving it a small spank. “Big in all the right places.”
“Down, boy. Keepin’ your distance, remember?”
“I’m going. To keep up appearances. But I can’t wait for this damn thing to end.”
I stared after his retreating form.
Keepin’ up appearances.
Right.
So screwed.
After a round of tasty hors-d’oeuvres, I spied Reardon on the terrace, closing in on Leila. They pressed together in a heated conversation beyond the French windows. All those fancy tidbits threatened my throat as my gut lurched. When he grabbed her elbow, I turned away, directly into Slaughter.
“They look cozy, don’t they? Years of marriage will do that. But you know all about marriage, don’t you, Mrs. Greer?” Every time one of them called out my married status, my ring finger twitched like a trigger.
“What’s your angle?”
Asshole
was implied.
“Just looking after my buddy,” Slaughter slurred, lifting his three-inch-deep single malt.
“Maybe you should watch your own back instead.”
He scoffed. “Oh, I am really going to enjoy this.”
“What?”
“Watching you crumble when he casts you aside like all the others.”
“He won’t.” My voice was steady, my insides roiling.
“Come now, don’t play coy with me.”
“I certainly am not bein’ coy. I’m simply uninterested in anything you’re sellin’.”
I held onto my courage the same way I clutched my drink. Make that Dutch courage.
Slaughter sat down, his meaty thighs spread. “You think he doesn’t talk about you?”