Page 31 of The Ruin
“I am,” I tell her. “I paid for another martini, so that’s on the way if you want it. Otherwise, see you on set tomorrow and have a lovely night.”
As I turn away, she grabs my sleeve, tugging me back.
“Luka, wait,” she says, her tone oozing seduction. “There’s one more thing. I seem to have…misplaced my panties.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, beyond exhausted with the sexpot shenanigans she’s made me put up with all week, I say, “I don’t think I can help you with that.”
She nibbles a fingernail, eyes rolling down my body. “So you haven’t found them yet?”
I haven’t found…
Oh, fuck.
It finally hits me. When Monica was all touchy feely with me over dinner, she must have slipped her underwear in my jacket pocket. She’d been pawing at me all night, so it’s no wonder I didn’t notice when it happened. Brooklyn must have picked up my jacket when I was in the shower. I’ll bet she was devastated to find them in my pocket. No wonder she locked me out.
What a douche she must think I am.
“Monica, we’ve known each other for a long time. I’ve always considered us friends,” I say, my voice dropping to a low, steely register. “And although you can be difficult to work with, I’m happy to maintain a relationship with you—on aprofessional basis.
“But it’s obvious I wasn’t clear enough with you before. So now I’m setting a boundary. From now on, you and I will communicate about business matters exclusively. I will be cordial and respectful and you will offer me the same courtesy. My personal life is off limits.”
“Why are you dancing around me like this?” she asks, frowning. “Are you playing hard to get? You know I won’t tell anyone. Brooklyn never has to know.”
My jaw clenches. The only reason I’m exercising restraint right now is because she’s a client. And the bar is full. The last thing I need is for pictures of us in a verbal brawl to explode all over the celebrity gossip sites and social media.
“You are not a good person,” I finally grind out.
With that, I stride out of the bar.
Once I’m out on the casino floor, I make a beeline for the nearest bank of elevators and punch the call button over and over again with impatience. As I ride the car up twenty-plus floors, I try to imagine the conversation that awaits me back in the room. How do you explain something like this without it sounding like a flat-out lie? When your wife was already uneasy about the person in question?
I hope it’s not too late to set this right.
Brooklyn
Chapter 14
Iwake to the sound of the bedroom door cracking open.
Startled, my eyes fly open, and I see Luka’s outline in the doorway. The room is barely dim, thanks to all the flashing LED screens and casino lights on full display out the windows. Even lying in bed, I can easily make out the Strip’s most recognizable landmarks, from the Vegas versions of the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty to the dancing Bellagio fountains.
“What do you want,” I ask, my voice ragged.
My eyes feel puffy and raw, and I’m still in this stupid spandex dress. I must have fallen asleep crying earlier.
“Can I come in?” he says.
I scowl. “How’d you get the door open?”
He holds up his Amex sheepishly. “Used my credit card. Oldest trick in the book.”
“Right. Guess you might as well, then.” With a dramatic sigh, I push myself up to a seated position and click on the bedside lamp.
My husband walks into the room in one of his nice shirts, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of slim-cut pants that look like they were tailored to his body (and probably were). I hate that he gets to stand there looking so good while I probably look like death warmed over.
As he moves to sit on the end of the bed, I catch a whiff of whiskey—and underneath that, a scent of strong perfume, something sugary-sweet. Oh, hell no. I flash him a scowl.
“Why aren’t you on the couch where I sent you?” I ask accusingly. “Are you drunk?”
