Jenna piles in the limo behind us.
Sable crosses her legs at her ankles.
Jenna’s got her big bag on her lap, her feet set apart, and Truman is panting over the side of the bag.
“I think,” Sable says in a throaty purr, “that it’s wonderful that you’re trying to be more involved in the charitable scene.”
I grunt.
Truman’s trying to eat whatever snacks Jenna’s packed in the tote bag. It’s black, I notice—to match her outfit, maybe?—not the quilted pink one.
Jenna scolds the dog, who is unrepentant.
“…animal lover?”
“What?” Truman makes a gagging noise, and I yank the plastic bag out of his mouth.
“The Evergreen Trust raises money to distribute to local animal charities,” Sable says.
My lip curls.
“Behave,” Jenna says sharply.
Make me.
The doorman at the hotel opens the limo door.
I crawl over Jenna, cupping her tits briefly through the dress and making it look like an accident, then I offer a hand out… to Sable—and slam the door in Jenna’s face.
“Don’t think you’re just going to disappear, McCarthy,” Jenna rages, throwing the door open.
“You’re in the photo, Jenna,” I whisper, putting my arm around Sable, who smiles and poses prettily next to me as the photographer the charity hired snaps away. That’s money they probably could have spent buying dog food, but what do I know? I only run an international multibillion-dollar company.
I don’t have to be in PR to know that Sable and I are a beautiful couple. I want to needle Jenna about it, but she’shuddled with the rest of the PR people and assistants all along a wall, holding their laptop cases and their bosses’ coats and extra makeup bags.
Sable leads me over to the chairwoman of the Evergreen Trust, greeting her with air kisses and big fake smiles.
I’m gearing up for a nasty comment when I see Jenna across the room. She’s talking to someone.
I know that man. Rex Montague, from Vortex Industries.
Cocksucker.
Why the hell is Jenna talking to him?
I need a closer look.
“Yes, of course,” I say to the chairwoman. “You can count on my support.”
The older woman beams at me.
“I suppose all you needed was a woman’s touch to tame the beast.” She’s drunk, reeking of expensive rosé.
Sable simpers.
I tug her. “Another drink, darling?”
Jenna’s near the bar, behind an oversized flower arrangement. I hear her PR voice, strained but still bubbly.
