Page 44 of Ruthless King
He cocks a dark brow. “One of many.”
“How extra noble then.” I slant him a cheeky smile. I can’t believe how much our relationship has changed in the short span of a week. “Do these lovely, charitable men and women know you keep hostages in your penthouse?”
“Of course not,” he grits out.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Stella…,” he growls.
“I know, I know. It’s an agreement, a business deal and that’s it. I promise to be your gracious arm candy all night.”
“Thank you.”
Before long, the limo slows and spotlights dance across the tinted windows. Despite my bravado, my pulse skyrockets at the sight. The New York Public Library is aglow with lights, spotlights, flashlights, and camera lights flickering through the darkness. Mickey opens the car door and I freeze, a deer trapped in headlights. The click-click of cameras and bulbs flashing has me on the verge of a panic attack. I reach for my purse but find warm fingers instead. Luca’s hand wraps around mine, and he guides me out of the backseat, grabbing my clutch with his free hand. He leads me between the iconic stone lions and up the red-carpeted marble steps, effortlessly weaving me through the mob of guests and paparazzi.
Holy cannoli.
So, this is how the other half lives?
I stare up at the imposing marble columns and ornate details of the national landmark. As a born and bred New Yorker, I hate to admit it, but I’ve never actually been inside. A travesty really.
“Mr. Valentino!”
“Over here, Luca!”
“A quick picture, please.”
The paparazzi call out his name, but the C.E.O. of King Industries doesn’t bat an eye. His hold on my hand only tightens as he steers me through the real-life pages of Society Magazine.
“Luca, come on, remember you owe me one. ForThe New Yorker?” A female voice cuts through the onslaught, and my escort pauses. From the corner of his eye, he scans the woman in a fitted red pantsuit.
“Just one picture, Kerry.”
“One good picture,” she counters, “and the name of your date.”
With a frustrated sigh, he wraps his arm around my waist and turns us toward the camera. “Stella Esposito,” he grits out.
The sound of my full name on his lips makes my stomach somersault. And the fact that he used my mother’s maiden name instead of my asshole father’s loosens the tightness in my chest. I take in a lungful of air and plaster a smile on my face.
“That’s my good girl,” Luca whispers, his warm breath skating over the shell of my ear. A delicious tingle races up my spine, and a genuine smile parts my lips. His grin reflects my own, and an inexplicable giddiness fills my chest.
“Got it!” The reporter gives us an enthusiastic thumbs up as she glances down at the camera. “It’s areallygood one. The smile even looks genuine, Mr. Valentino.”
With a grunt, Luca rushes us away from the crowd. He leads me up the final steps through the archway, my head tilted back, completely absorbed by the endless beauty. We stop at the foot of the ballroom, and I barely suppress a gasp. Every corner is exquisitely decorated from the finest linens to sparkling chandeliers and gilded centerpieces twinkling with candlelight.
“It’s something, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, unable to take it all in fast enough. “Do you attend a lot of these events?”
He nods. “I’ve got three more this month.”
For an instant, I’m sad there aren’t more. Clara bought me dozens of beautiful gowns. What would become of them all? A devastating thought spears me in the heart. What if he’s done this before? What if there are other women with whom he’s made arrangements like these? Maybe the next one would inherit my dresses.
Logically, I shouldn’t care. I should be happy when this twisted bargain is over.
Luca hands a cream envelope to a smiling female standing behind a podium. The blonde doesn’t even open it, batting long fake lashes at my escort. “Of course, Mr. Valentino and guest, please come this way,” she croons.
And guest? Seriously?
