Page 63 of Dirty Little Secrets
I rein in a grin. “Thank you, Miss Jones.”
“Anytime, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
“One more question…” The reporter swallows. “Mr. Cavanaugh, what can you tell us about VenCore LLC?”
My face pales. How does he know about that? No one should—Quinton. That fucker. If he wants a war, I’ll give it to him.
“VenCore?” I ask coolly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name before.”
“But—”
“Let’s go.” I gently grab Emery’s elbow and lead her away from the media. “I hate reporters. Bunch of opportunistic scum.”
“What’s VenCore?” she asks softly, continuing to smile for the cameras as we quicken our pace up the stairs toward the entrance. “Damon?”
“Nothing,” I grunt, nodding at the attendant as he ushers us inside the gala. “After you.”
“Wow,” Emery hums, fiddling with her necklace as we’re greeted with the sound of clinking glasses and murmured conversations. “He really goes all out.”
I scowl at the sheer grandeur of the ballroom. Quinton in a nutshell. Intricate crystal chandeliers adorn the high ceilings, casting a soft, warm glow over the room. Floor-to-ceiling black velour curtains drapefrom the walls. In the center of the room is a massive white marble dance floor, a full orchestra perched on the grand stage. The smell of freshly cut flowers fills the air, large arrangements of white roses and lilies scattered throughout the room, the scent almost sickeningly sweet.
“Damon! Is that you?” I turn my head to the sound of a familiar voice. Ophelia Myers, a friend of my parents, waves at me, her husband in tow. “What a surprise! We didn’t know if you’d be here or not.” She stops in front of us, tilting her blonde head as she gives Emery a slow once-over. “I’m Ophelia, Ophelia Myers. This is my husband, Fred.”
“Emery Jones.” She holds out her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Ophelia says, pursing her lips. Her attention shifts to me. “So, how have you been, Damon? I feel like we haven’t seen you since the funeral.”
“I’ve been fine,” I say, dreading the small talk. “And you?”
“Well, you know how it is?—”
Emery leans over, whispering in my ear, “I’m going to get a drink. Be right back.”
My jaw clenches as I nod, watching her walk away, the heads of every man she passes turning in her direction. As Ophelia drones on about her latest European vacation, I keep my gaze locked on Emery as she waits for a flute of champagne.
Like a vulture, a goddamn scavenger, I sense Quinton’s presence. Emery does too. He smirks at her, and Iwant nothing more than to wipe it off his fucking face. He says something to her. Something that makes her laugh. She never laughs when she’s with me.
“It’s this charming little villa near?—”
“Please excuse me,” I say, marching through the throngs of guests toward Quinton and Emery.
I know I’m losing it. I know that whatever spell she’s casted over me has turned me into a neurotic predator, possessive and jealous. But I can’t think straight when I see them together. I can’t control the primal urge to rip his fucking head off for looking at her the way he does.
He’s using her to settle the score, to get revenge after all these years. I wouldn’t break a sweat if it were another man. But Quinton and I have one thing in common—we don’t mind playing dirty.
“Ah, if it isn’t the warden,” Quinton chirps as I approach them. He casts me a hawkish grin. “What took you so long? Little Emery and I almost managed to finish a whole sentence uninterrupted.”
My body vibrates, his pompous tone damn near tearing my fragile facade in half.
“Quin was just telling me that he’s already raised thirty million dollars for the Children’s Hospital,” Emery says. “Isn’t that remarkable?”
I clench my fist as Emery tries to ease the tension between us. But her efforts are in vain. There is nothing she can say to defuse the bomb inside my chest, waiting to explode.
“Yes, it’s truly remarkable the length people will go for a tax write-off,” I seethe. The champagne inEmery's hand glimmers under the light of the obnoxious chandeliers. “I thought you didn't drink.”
“One glass won’t kill me,” she says in a clipped tone, defenses rising like a fortress around her.
“Let the young lady live her life, Cavanaugh,” Quin coos, clinking his glass against Emery’s, his gaze burrowing into her crinkled green eyes before shifting down to her necklace. He perks up a brow. “A Harry Winston. You’ve got expensive taste.”
