Page 65 of Filthy Promises

Vince steps even closer, and I back up until I hit the wall. He plants one hand on the wall beside my head, caging me in. The world shrinks down to just those two dark pupils, swallowing me up without so much as a chance to scream.

“Careful, Rowan,” he says softly. “You’re overstepping.”

My heart hammers in my chest. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. So close that if I leaned forward just an inch, my lips would brush against his.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

His eyes drop to my mouth. “Are you?”

No. Yes. I don’t know.

“When is the first… meeting?” I ask instead of answering his question.

“Tomorrow night. Dinner at Per Se with Irina Petrov.” His fingers come up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “Wear something nice.”

I try to ignore the sting of his words, the casual way he’s informing me I’ll be watching him court another woman. “Define ‘nice.’”

“Like the dress from the gala.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Green suits you.”

“I can’t wear the same dress,” I protest. “It’s too formal for a dinner, anyway.”

He waves a hand as if the mere thought of repeating an outfit is offensive to someone of his tax bracket. “I’ll have something delivered in the morning.”

Of course he will. Because I’m just a doll he can dress up and parade around, a prop in whatever game he’s playing with his father.

Let’s all pretend that I don’t like the sound of being an object for Vince to use.

“Fine,” I say, ducking under his arm to escape his proximity. “What time should I be ready?”

“Seven. Car will pick you up here.” He watches me retreat, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

Vince nods, then moves toward the door. But he pauses with his hand on the knob. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“These women—they’re from families like mine. Connected. Powerful.” His back is to me, but his voice has an edge I haven’t heard before. “Be careful what you say around them.”

“I always am.”

He turns, profile illuminated by the dim light of my apartment. “And Rowan? Remember who you work for.”

“You,” I say softly. “I work for you.”

His lips melt into that lethal half-smile. “That’s a very good girl.”

Then he’s gone, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of his cologne and the devastating knowledge that I’m going to spend tomorrow night watching the man I’m hopelessly attracted to woo someone else.

I slide down the wall to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. “What are you doing, Row?” I whisper to myself. “What the hell are you doing?”

But I already know. I’m playing with fire. Dancing too close to a flame that’s already scorched me once, scorched me twice, and has shone zero hesitation in doing it again.

Tomorrow, I get to watch that flame burn even brighter for someone else.

Someone worthy of him in a way I’ll never be.

20

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