Page 100 of Sins of a King
“So what did you do?” I asked, completely enraptured by her story.
“When John, Sr. left the party to take a walk on the beach, I slipped away too. It was so easy. Too easy. He wasn’t even surprised when I came up next to him on the beach. We watched the surf for a few moments and without taking his eyes off the waves he said, ‘I think about you.’ I turned to him and let him kiss me. When we were back in the city, he called to ask me to lunch. We went to a beautiful hotel, and I fucked my fiancé’s father on three-hundred-thread-count sheets.”
Ash’s eyes got a dreamy, faraway look as she remembered. “I thought I’d feel shameful and dirty. But I didn’t. I felt powerful and alive. We met every day that we could, all the while I was planning my wedding to his son. It was sick. But I wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Then we all went to Monaco to visit Mrs. Witherington’s parents. On a day we were supposed to go sightseeing, I claimed to have a headache and John, Sr. said he needed to make some business calls. After we were together, he told me he was going to leave his wife. For me. I didn’t want that. I told him it was the end, it had to be the end. I wanted to sever ties with the entire family, break off my engagement. I had plans to do it when I got back home.
“I tried to get out of bed, but he grabbed me and kissed me, not in a way that I was at all worried for my safety, but in passionate desperation. John came back early, found us in bed together, and then I got on a plane home. John, Sr. called nonstop for those first few weeks I was back. I blocked his number. And then he went back to his wife.”
My heart beat in a rapid staccato, and my palms had started to sweat. I dropped her hand but made no move to stand. She didn’t look at all upset after unburdening herself. In fact, she looked strangely free.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” she said
“No, you should have,” I protested. “I’m glad you did. I’m just having a hard time—”
“Do you hate me?”
“Of course not.”
“But you don’t understand me.”
“No,” I admitted. “I don’t.”
“That’s okay. I don’t understand me either,” she said with a pained smile.
I hugged her, lending her my support. “You’re still my best friend, through and through. Good people do bad things. Doesn’t mean you’re a horrible person.”
She let out a huff of air. “I needed to hear that.”
“And I need to find the restroom,” I said. “Meet you back in there?”
She nodded. “I’ll tell Flynn where you went.”
“Thanks.”
I searched for the restroom, wanting a quiet moment to myself to think about all that had occurred in the last hour. I sat down on a white couch and closed my eyes.
Hearing the rustle of fabric, my eyes flipped open. Lana Struthers loomed before me, looking like a beautiful, avenging harpy.
Chapter 29
Lana’s cold gaze raked over me before she turned to the mirror to gauge her appearance. She reapplied her already perfect red lipstick. After tucking the tube into her tiny clutch, she smoothed down her nonexistent, errant hairs.
She was the kind of woman who applied a full face of makeup before going to meet with her personal trainer. I wondered how she looked in the morning and if she ever let her lovers see her less than perfect. Had Flynn seen her that way? Had they ever spent a full night together? Did she know how it felt to sleep in his arms?
Jealousy—an emotion I rarely felt—blasted through me like a tornado.
I met her eyes in the mirror, and a little smirk appeared on her lacquered lips. She’d read me well; the expression on my face was obvious.
Sizing her up, my gaze drifted down her tall, slender form. I wouldn’t underestimate her to say nasty things to me. She was a vindictive, spurned female who hadn’t gotten what she wanted.
I sauntered to the sink next to her, washed my hands, and dried them on a laundered linen towel. Tossing it in the basket, I then took a step back and surveyed her, wanting to throw gasoline on the fire.
“Flynn’s opening a hotel in London next year. He asked me to go with him.”
“How lovely for you,” she spat. “But he won’t marry you.”
I smiled, showing a lot of teeth.
“Flynn Campbell is not the marrying kind,” she insisted.
