Page 4 of Handsome Devil
I stared at my English PA as she tipped her head back and laughed at something her boyfriend said heartily. Asshole did not look that fucking funny. Clearly, her standards were low.
She shook her head, giving his chest a playful shove, then scooped her silly neon cocktail, taking a demure sip.
I pulled out my phone—my sleeves and ankles still damp—and texted her.
Tate: Miss Bennett, I asked you a question. Answer me.
Her phone lit up on the table, illuminating her face. She scowled at it, rolling her eyes and flipping it, screen down.
She was ignoring me.
An official invitation to ruin her evening.
Thank you, Gia. I RSVPed.
Her boyfriend shot to his feet and offered her his hand, which she took. They slipped into their coats and emerged out of the arched double doors, carrying their drinks. Outside, they leaned against a beer garden bench. Ashley lit them both cigarettes, passing one to her.
I didn’t know she smoked.
The revelation unsettled me.
Not because I cared. If she wanted to expedite her demise, I was happy to fund her four packs a day habit. The world was grossly overpopulated as it was.
I did not, however, like surprises.
And this was outside the confines of her personality.
My assistant was prim and proper. A smart-mouthed ice queen who was bossily kind. Not easily defined and yet entirely predictable.
She wore sensible clothes with sensible makeup and ate sensible lunches. Her curly, ebony hair was always pulled back tightly in either a high bun or a sleek ponytail. She spoke softly but sternly, like a governess. Always carried useful things in her bag no one below the age of eighty should carry—paracetamol, Q-tips, pens, miniature nut packs, lip balms, tissues, baby wipes, and an extra pair of socks.
Actually, I could use that extra pair right about now.
My fingers drummed on the side of my leg again.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
“Sir, please.” Thierry swallowed audibly, undoubtedly guessing my next move. “She’s—”
I didn’t stick around for him to finish the sentence. I pushed open the back seat door and strode out, plastering on my infamous I-just-pissed-into-your-favorite-sneakers slick smile.
The moment Gia noticed me, she stiffened, her smile dissolving into a frown. The cigarette tumbled from between her fingers onto the pebbled ground.
Ashley—was that the asshole’s name?—wrapped a protective arm over her shoulder. Thinking he could shield her from me was pitiful. Optimism was such an absurd trait.
Though trite and largely dull, Gia Bennett was, regrettably, a stunner.
She had smooth, tan skin, a long, elegant neck, and two prominent dimples. Her naturally curly eyelashes covered sensual amber eyes, almost honey-like in color and consistency.Her soft, luscious mouth had the most distinctive Cupid’s bow, and a pert nose and two graceful arches to call cheekbones adorned her delicate face.
Row and our other friend Rhy claimed Gia resembled Nara Smith, but the truth was she defied category. I didn’t think there was another human attractive enough to compare her to. If God existed, which I seriously doubted as a secular modernist, he must’ve spent extra time on the smallest detail in creating her, because every inch of her was pure perfection.
Her years as a competitive tennis player were present in every arc and bend of her body.
She was lean but firm, with narrow calves, toned arms, and bitable collarbones. She moved with purpose, with the grace of a swan in a still, calm lake.
