I stop, transfixed despite myself.
She dances like she’s alone in the room, eyes half-closed, arms lifted overhead.
The seafoam cover-up slides from her shoulders, leaving her in just the bikini. Her body undulates to the music, fluid and responsive to every beat.
It’s nothing scandalous by Saint-Tropez standards—women dance on tables at Caroline every day. But it’s Bix. My fake girlfriend. Dancing for another man.
Camera flashes pop in my peripheral vision. Of course. The same photographers Sterling invited to document our “romance” are now capturing this.
I leap to my feet, reacting before my mind can catch up. I stride toward the DJ booth, driven by something primal I don’t care to examine.
The crowd parts as I approach, whispers following in my wake. “Isn’t that Slayer?TheSlayer?”
But I only have eyes for Bix, swaying atop the table to the pulsing beat.
A guy from the next table comes close to her, a sly grin on his face as he drinks in the sight of her long legs.
White-hot jealousy surges through me. I reach the table in a few long strides. “Bix,” I say firmly, holding out my hand. “Stop.”
She turns to me, a lilt in her words. “Slayer! Come dance with me!”
“Bix.” My voice cuts through the music. “Time to go.”
Her eyes widen, surprise giving way to defiance. “I’m dancing.”
“I can see that. So can everyone else.”
She ignores my hand, turning instead to continue dancing, hips swaying provocatively. Another flash—another photo for tomorrow’s tabloids.
“Bix.” I say in the tone that makes sound engineers jump. “Now.”
Her eyes meet mine, green fire against ice. “You were busy with Valentina. I found my own entertainment.”
Without further discussion, I snatch her fallen cover-up and step closer, lifting her down from the table. She gasps, her body warm as it slides against mine.
The crowd whoops and cheers.
Instead of walking her back to our table, I carry her out to the beach, where we can have a modicum of privacy.
“Put me down,” she hisses, but there’s something in her voice beneath the anger.
I set her on her feet but keep my arm around her waist. “We’re leaving.”
“The hell we are,” she says, trying to pull away. “I was having fun for the first time since we got here.”
“This isn’t about fun. It’s about the contract.”
Her eyes narrow. “Everything’s about the contract with you, isn’t it? Just business.”
“You knew what this was when you signed up.”
“Right. I’m just playing a part.” Her chin lifts defiantly. “Slayer’s adoring girlfriend. Isn’t that what Sterling’s paying me for?”
Though I thought we were alone, a camera flash catches us—the perfect tabloid moment of lovers’ tension.
“Not this kind of attention,” I say, lowering my voice. “Let’s go.”
For a moment, I think she’ll refuse. Then something shifts in her expression.
