Page 12 of Deal with the Devil
“It’s Chuck, doll,” he answers with a short laugh. “And miss the Dominion Honors Gala? Never in a million years.”
“This is my first time attending.”
He gives an enthusiastic nod between sips of his champagne. “Right, he told me you’re taking Barry’s spot. Well, what do you think?”
“Uh…” I stammer, thinking quickly. “It’s… uh, well put together.”
Apparently, this is a hilarious comment to make. Chuck Whitmore slaps his thigh as he roars with laughter, some of his champagne swishing over the side of his flute.
“Joe was right about you!” he says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re refreshing. Must be that Newport background. But you’re right—itiswell put together. Do you understand why, Portia?”
“Most galas are…”
“More than most galas.” He sidles closer, eliminating the space between us that I created. His voice drops a level ’til thebuzz of conversation almost drowns him out. “We have interests to protect. Once you reach a certain level, you have to play by certain rules. You get it, don’t you?”
“Actually, I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I say bluntly, leaning away from him. “Our job is to report the news.”
He laughs again, then slops down more champagne. “Right. Within reason, of course. Can’t have certain people looking bad. It might have been different in Newport, but you’re in the major leagues now. We’ve seen your work—some charming little pieces you reported on.”
“I reported on more thancharming little pieces. I was investigating important matters like the organized crime in our city!”
“Sure you did, doll,” he says. “And it was real impressive how hard you tried. But that’s behind you now. ANC has no interest in that kind of fodder. We’re much… bigger picture.”
“It wasn’t fodder!” I snap, heat flushing to my face. “It was real world events! Real crime families trying to take over Newport and hurting innocent citizens.”
“You misunderstand what I’m saying.” He extends his hand to pat my shoulder, but I promptly smack it away and take a wide step back.
“I heard exactly what you said! You’ve basically admitted you’re curating the content ANC reports on!”
Chuck glances around as several people within earshot notice our conversation’s grown heated. The wide grin he’s worn drops from his face and he says, “Lower your voice, doll. No. Need to get angry and cause a scene.”
“I’ll cause a scene if it means drawing attention to the fact you just told me you cover up organized crime. Tell me,Chuck, which crime family has you in their back pocket?” I ask in a sharp tone. “Actually, don’t tell me. I’m sure if I dug around enough, I could find out myself. And if you call me doll one moretime, you’re getting a knee to the groin! It might be time to find a replacement for Barry’s replacement. I’m out of here!”
Pivoting on my stiletto heel, I stride off toward the double doors of the ballroom. Several more people have stopped in the middle of their conversations to aim scandalized looks at me, gaping with wide-eyed blinks and slack jaws, like they’ve never seen someone so uncouth.
But I don’t give a damn. Even if it means I’m fired. Even if it means I’ll never work in an official capacity in media again.
I’d rather walk barefoot on glass than ever stomach another condescending, demeaning conversation with Chuck Whitmore or anyone else like him.
I’m turning the corner into the hall outside the ballroom when I collide with someone much taller and sturdier than I am. My balance is wiped out as I teeter in my heels, about to fall flat on my ass. But then large, strong hands clamp shut around my arms and hold me steady.
Familiar notes of a spicy, woody cologne inundate me all at once. A scent I’ve smelled dozens of times.
My eyes flick up to meet the dark, penetrative gaze of a man I’m more than just familiar with. It’s the same man I’d started to envision a future with; the same man I’d started to fall for in a way I didn’t think was possible after Lincoln…
Rafael Calderone stares down at me, as handsome and polished as ever in his all-black suit and tie, appearing out of nowhere like a ghost from my not-so-distant past.
My heart practically stops beating inside my chest as we hold each other’s gaze and I question whether I’m dreaming.
“Hello, dolcezza.”
A few seconds go by where I’m flustered, trapped in Rafael’s arms.
Rafael Calderone—the man who broke my heart and stomped it into tiny, bite-sized pieces only a few months ago—has me in his arms.
I scramble to tug myself free of his grip, so desperate I only tip over in the opposite direction. Every breath I draw is difficult, my eyes wide and mouth agape.
He pockets both hands in his pants. “I have to be honest, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
