As I walk over, it strikes me that I’m already dabbling in the waters of “infidelity” by even feeling this way about her. I think of Zora Petrinksa, and the blood running through my veins turns lukewarm at best. Nothing like the heat that raises my body temperature as I near Vanessa.
Her head of fluffy curls is pushed to one side with a comb stuck firmly in the right side. She’s wearing a pair of black billowy pants that vaguely remind me of M.C. Hammer. There’s a name for the style, but I’m not metrosexual enough to know what it is. Her top is another white blouse through which I can just barely see the hint of a black bra against her dark brown skin.
“Are we having fun yet?” I ask, interjecting myself into the duo.
She twists around in surprise, and I’m close enough to watch her pupils dilate as they land on me.
That’ll do.
The man she was talking with has a similar sort of reaction, perhaps even a bit more carnal, which answers the question as to which side of the fence he falls in terms of sexual orientation.
“Just waiting for your girlfriend to arrive,” she says with a mildly sarcastic undertone that’s so subtle, it makes me think maybe she’s still opposed to this sham. Or perhaps something even deeper. Jealousy?
Or maybe that’s just my own wishful thinking.
“Oh my God, it’s her,” the man she was talking to exhales, looking past my shoulder as he presses his hand to his chest in awe.
I turn to find Zora waltzing through the door with three members of her entourage. She’s in a simple black dress and black heels that have that mix of sex appeal and polish that make her seemingly perfect for the role. All complemented by a string of pearls and two diamond studs in her ear.
I have to give it to Gene, he knows how to pick them, image-wise at any rate.
Zora’s eyes make a pass around the cafe, assessing every individual until they land on yours truly.
And then the woman standing next to me.
Talk about a death stare.
Not one to be either intimidated or outshined, she makes a beeline directly toward us.
“Dylan,” she says in an overly familiar, overly possessive, overly seductive, and more to the point, overly warning tone as she drapes one arm around my neck. Her fingers dance across my shoulder as she shoots daggers toward Vanessa.
“And you are?” she inquires. I notice that the Ukrainian accent is slightly thicker now, making me think of a Russian femme fatale.
“The photographer,” Vanessa says, pure professionalism. Now that I think about her day job, I’m not surprised; she’s probably used to egos the size of New York.
Zora’s eyes scan her up and down—then pause as a pained look comes over her face.
It lasts long enough for Vanessa to speak up.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her brow wrinkling with concern.
“Zora,” one of the members of her entourage utters, rushing forward to place a hand on her back and whispering something in a foreign language in a way that is surprisingly…unsurprised.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, wondering what’s up.
Another member of her group comes forward with a bright smile. “It’s fine. She’s just been having some stomach—”
“Ohh!”
The cry of pain erupting from Zora’s lips has everyone focused on her.
“Maybe we should get you to the hospital or something,” Vanessa offers.
“No,” Zora says through gritted teeth. “I’m—” the rest of her sentence is cut off by another grunt of pain as she grabs her midriff and practically crumples to the floor.
That’s when someone who practically screams “administrative official” comes forward and takes over. I vaguely recognize him as one of David’s legal minions, obviously here to make sure things go according to contractually obligated plan.
“We’re getting you to the hospital,” he says.
* * *
Appendicitis.
This means Zora Petrinksa is officially out of commission for the next couple of weeks.
As the “doting boyfriend,” I’m at the hospital to check in on her once she’s out of surgery. Her entourage is sitting on the other side of the special waiting room for VIP visitors.
David’s drone is in one corner on his phone with an expression that’s both grim and animated. I can only imagine the shit show that must be going on back in headquarters.
I’m surprised to find Vanessa has joined the convoy. She’ll get paid either way, so there’s really no reason for her to play a part in this fiasco any longer, at least for the time being.
She settles next to me with a paper cup of what I’ve learned the hard way is tepid coffee that tastes like liquid dirt. Hers at least appears to have some of that white powder that passes as creamer to hopefully make it digestible.
“So…does this make things better or worse for your image?”
“You’re the expert on keeping it real. You tell me,” I say with a wry grin.
She laughs softly then goes quiet, looking off to the side thoughtfully. “Honestly, this is reality. This is what a relationship is. Life throws you a curveball, and you swing as best you can. People get sick. They have accidents. Fate takes all your perfectly plotted plans and rips them right down the middle. The fact that you’re here says something. Or at least it does as far as your top-secret cover goes.”
“I guess I missed my calling as an undercover agent,” I say, shooting her a half-smile.
“You joke, but…” She considers me for a moment, her beautiful face studying mine, “I think you’d be good at it—you certainly had most people fooled.”
Something about that thought rubs me the wrong way. “Well, at least now you can’t accuse me of not being myself.”
“That depends. Did you come here because you’re worried about Zora or because you need to maintain the facade?”
“Well, at least I know how lowly you think of me,” I say in a disgruntled tone.
She laughs and slaps my arm. “I know you’re not getting pouty on me,” she says, then leans in with a conspiratorial smirk and whispers, “We know too many of each other’s secrets to play pretend.”
I consider her for a moment. She’s right, we do know a lot about each other. Vanessa has never been some enigma waiting to be deciphered. She’s played her cards fair and square from day one, letting me know exactly how she felt about everything, without any ulterior motive.
Which is refreshing.
And she hasn’t gone running for the hills yet.
I assess her and think about all I’ve learned in what little interaction we’ve had so far. I have a strong feeling Vanessa Paige is the kind of woman who can handle whatever shit you throw her way, the kind who would stick by your side no matter what.
But my baggage is a little heavier than the carry-on minimum allowance.
My baggage is Zora Petrinksa, who may have to postpone her contractual obligations thanks to one pointless organ.
My baggage is Mallory Serafin, the “mother” who gave new meaning to the term negligent.
And lately, my baggage is Lionel Johnson, who is about to open a whole new can of worms.
I push that latter thought firmly to the back burner of my mind. I know it’s something I should deal with sooner rather than later, but…when one has gone this far in their career riding the wave of a lie, it becomes increasingly difficult to shift gears.
Chapter Fourteen
Vanessa
The best-laid plans.
Poor Zora.
Poor Dylan.
Even though I totally felt the negative vibe radiating from her, which basically indicated I wasn’t her favorite person in the world, I wouldn’t wish a hospital on anyone.
“I was actually looking forward to shooting this. Bad Boy Breaking Good,” I say with a smile. “Certainly a far cry from the Two Girls, One Guy of the other night.”
Dylan coughs out a laugh, then pauses to consider me. “What if I told you we s
at in an empty hotel room playing gin rummy?”
My smile fades as I read him to see if he’s telling the truth. “I’d say you’re full of shit.”
He just gives me an ambiguous shrug.
I feel a half-smile come to one side of my mouth. “Really?”
Dylan’s eyebrows rise while the sides of his mouth turn down as if to say, who knows?
I slap the side of his arm. “Is this some new facade strictly for yours truly?”
He laughs. “Someone thinks mighty highly of herself.”
My smile fades as I contemplate what he’s confessed. “So…why even tell me?”
“Well, you’re still under that airtight NDA,” he shrugs again with a hint of a smile on his face, “so why not?”
“And now the real reason,” I say, mostly teasing.
His eyes, which have been dancing up till now, despite the circumstances, suddenly find focus. Just like that first night, I find myself arrested by their emerald-green hold on me.
I feel that warm flow fill my veins as I stupidly fall under his spell yet again. I want his truth, and I’m not sure if it’s because I want to know the real him, the one that no one else knows, or because I just want him to entrust me with that secret part of him.
Before he can say anything, the moment is interrupted.
“I will not!”
Both our heads snap up toward the door, through which walks an irate man. His hair is blonde and so short that it’s almost a buzzcut, all framing a face that’s good looking in a sinister sort of way. The aesthetic is enhanced by the leather jacket, dark jeans, and black motorcycle boots.
He’s followed by a frazzled nurse. “Sir! You can’t just—”
He slams the door shut in her face. Pale eyes scan the room, filled with venom, rage, and frenzy. “Where is she?”
His accent is thick, with a tinge of something only slightly different from that of the patient we’re all waiting on.
“Zobrov!” one of Zola’s entourage exclaims, standing up in surprise.
That’s when everything switches to something other than English.
Dylan and I are planted in our seats, absolutely mesmerized by the scene.
Zobrov shouts at the woman, who doesn’t even back down. The other two women join in, one more hesitantly than the other. She seems to be the only one realizing they have an audience as she gives us the occasional apologetic smile.
Even the suit in the corner who’s been on his phone this whole time has lowered it to observe this showdown, slightly open-mouthed. I recognize him from my initial meeting at Sexton Enterprises and feel a tiny ripple of satisfied amusement as I watch him sink deeper and deeper in over his head, based on the way his eyes gradually widen.
The one woman who has been giving Dylan and me the occasional surreptitious glance finally bites her lip and breaks away to approach us.
“So sorry,” she says with a tight smile. “Zobrov is…he is Zola’s brother.”
“Brother,” Dylan repeats, as though absorbing this bit of news. I fight the smile that wants to come. This whirlwind romance is turning into more of a tornado, probably category 5 at this point. If this is the brother, what is the rest of the family like?
The three of us turn our attention back to the other three who are still at it. Even though they’re still at the point of shouting over each other, I can feel the threat level beginning to rise. I’m honestly not sure who I should be most worried about in this scenario. The two women look like they could fight pretty dirty.
“He seems pretty heated for a brother. What’s he upset about?” Dylan asks with one eyebrow raised skeptically.
“He is just upset.”
“Yeah, no shit. But—”
Suddenly Zobrov turns his attention to us. One finger snaps out, pointed directly at Dylan. “You!”
The other woman and I flinch back in surprise and trepidation. Dylan instinctively stands up, subtly blocking the man’s path as he stalks over. Dylan curls one side of his mouth up in amusement and crosses his arms over his broad chest as Zobrov reaches us, not as some sign of aggression, but as more of a “let’s see how this thing plays out” stance.
Zobrav’s hands are balled into fists. “You are liar! You do not deserve her!”
“Okay,” Dylan says slowly, still with the half-smirk on his face. His eyes slide back toward the woman that approached us. “I guess her brother doesn’t approve of my dating Zora?”
She blinks rapidly, suddenly looking fearful.
“Brother? Brother?” Zobrov spits out, then exhales a vicious laugh. He lifts his chin with indignation, practically challenging Dylan to a fight. “I am not brother, I am husband of Zora. Zobrav and Zora!”
The silence that follows that quaint little catchphrase is like biting into a cold popsicle with sensitive teeth; a brief moment of nothing before reality hits home with merciless impact. The kind that causes everything else in your world to narrow down to that single pinpoint of shock.
And I’m only a secondary character.
I can’t even imagine what Dylan—or worse, the attorney in the corner by the looks of things—must be feeling or thinking.
“Your…wife?”
“Is no lie,” he spits, still itching for a fight.
“Did you say…your wife?” This time it’s the attorney, who’s completely forgotten about his phone. This is obviously more important than whoever is on the other end.
“Taip,” Zobrov confirms (at least I assume so), sneering as if this new intruder is beneath him. He spins around the room, eyeing each of us in turn with a dark look.
“This—this lie is over. I am done sharing Zora with world,” he focuses his icy blue gaze on Dylan, “and now with other man? No!”
Now, all three women set on him. It’s a cacophony in some foreign language, which may or may not be Russian. Still, I don’t need Rosetta Stone to figure out that the general consensus on both sides is: no.
As in no, don’t you dare interfere with Zora’s substantial payday.
As in no, don’t even try and stop me.
“Enough! I will go to her now.” Zobrov says before cutting each of them down with his frightening eyes. He takes his leave, escaping through the same door where he first made his grand entrance. The three of them follow in a panic.
This time the silence is more of a relief than a shock, settling the air in the room, which still seems to be alive with the energy built up by the recent storm.
“What the fuck was that?” the lawyer asks, staring after them with his mouth open.
“That,” Dylan says next to me with mild amusement touching his lips, “was the notice that I’m single again.”
Chapter Fifteen
Dylan
“So much for your vetting process. You were too busy focused on public image that you failed to investigate Zora’s private life.”
This time the meeting was called by yours truly. I have one ultimate goal. Actually, I have two, the first of which is reading the riot act to everyone who had a part in this farce.
Thank God it ended before it even began.
Zora came out of the surgery okay, at least physically. Having not been in the room when she was greeted by her obviously quite devoted husband, I can’t speak to her emotional state. But it couldn’t have been all that bad since she had enough sense to insist on the million-dollar payment despite everything.
I’m inclined to tell her exactly where she can stick it.
“We did our due diligence,” David says tersely, though he is tactful enough to have a mildly sheepish look, at least as sheepish as a wolf can muster.
“And you somehow missed a marriage license? Considering what she was hired for, I’d think that would be the priority.” I lean back in my seat at the head of the long table with my palms humbly faced up in the air. “But what do I know? I’m just the president who started this damn company.”
“Dylan, this is unproductive,” Gene says wearily, pinching the skin of his fo
rehead between his thumb and index finger.
“On the contrary, I think it’s quite productive,” I say, completely straight-faced. The last thing I need is anyone in the room thinking I’m not serious about what I fully intend on getting. “I think it’s important to investigate where we went wrong here.”
David, to his credit, doesn’t back down. “As I said, within the time constraints we had, mind you, we did our due diligence. Of course, we looked up marital records for both the U.S. and Ukraine, as well as Canada, Mexico, and any other English-speaking country, just for good measure. How the hell were we to know she’d skipped off to Lithuania of all places to get hitched in some secret wedding when she was only eighteen? Thank goodness her people are just as interested in keeping this under wraps as we are, so there’s some silver lining here.”
Gene recovers and speaks up. “Well, now that we’ve established the issue with Zora, we can work on a replacement—”
“Actually,” I interject, waiting until I’ve commanded the attention of everyone in the room. “I think I’ll be taking the reins from here on out. It is my love-life we’re talking about after all, and I do recall you stating that I would get my pick of women?”
There’s a pause as they take a moment to consider that. Then both David and Gene speak at once.
“Now, Mr. Sexton, I realize we dropped the ball here, but—”
“And just who did you have in mind for this supposed—”
“Vanessa Paige.”
That earns me another calm before the storm.
“The photographer from the Sexton Spring Fling?” Gene asks with a mildly incredulous look on his face?
“I’m afraid that might open us up to a number of liabilities,” David adds, wrinkling his brow in disapproval.
“Such as?” I ask, eyebrows raised questioningly.
“Well, first of all, we did almost sue the woman. Then there’s the fact that she knows all the sordid details about…unfortunate events that took place that night.” Now the look of disapproval is practically etched on his face.
Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance Page 7
