I make my way over to him, interrupting his conversation with a beautiful woman. With how he’s looking at her, he wants to make her victim number four.
Not today, fucker.
Stepping in front of her as if she’s not there, I hold out my hand and say, “Mr.Beningfield. It’s an honor.” He’s too much of a gentleman to leave me hanging. “I was hoping I could discuss my charity with you.”
The woman scoffs and puts a soft hand on my arm. “Excuse me, we were talking.”
I peer down at her as if I hadn’t seen her. “I apologize. If you’d like, we can discuss it together. It’s a domestic violence charity.” I look back at Beningfield and see his eyes widen just a fraction. I keep my face blank as I give him my charity’s mission statement and the needs of the shelters I have all across the country.
By the time I’m finished, the woman looks interested and Beningfield looks both guilty and as if he wants me to go the fuck away. But he can’t turn me down in front of his date without looking like a heartless asshole.
A grin stretches my face as he pulls out his checkbook and makes it payable to my foundation.
“Thank you, Mr.Beningfield,” I say, placing my hand over my heart, bowing slightly. “Your generosity is much appreciated. I know it helps many…manywomen. Especially those that can’t speak out.”
He narrows his eyes, anger making his jaw tick. “Of course, mister…” He looks at me pointedly. I know he knows my name. Even the ultra-wealthy know celebrities. But he wants to embarrass me in front of his date.
None of that bothers me. As long as I rattle him, he can say what he wants.
“Grant. Menace Grant.”
“Menace. What kind of name is that?” he sneers.
“A name my father gave me when I terrorized my mother in the womb,” I say with a smile. “He knew I’d be trouble and he wasn’t wrong.”
The woman and I laugh, and Beningfield looks as far from amused as one could get. “Well, if you’ll excuse us,” he says in that uppity tone only the old-money wealthy can perfect.
Before she leaves, I take the woman’s hand and shake it gently. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Leesa. Leesa Buckley. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.Grant. I’ll be sure to get with my financial manager to donate to your charity every quarter.”
“Thank you, Ms.Buckley. Enjoy your night.”
They leave and I keep my eyes on her, hoping I won’t see her in a hospital room.
I subtly watch Beningfield as I check out some of the art positioned around the room. He and Leesa continue to talk and I’m slightly dismayed that he seems to be charming her. I’m hoping against hope that she doesn’t fall for his shit, but Beningfield is a slippery bastard. He’ll spin his web and she’ll get caught in it. The most I can do is plan his death and hope that I off him before he hurts her.
The two of them exit the room, but I stay a little while longer, not wanting to look as if I’m following them. I bid on a few statues, just to give money to a good cause.
As I’m leaving the room, I spot the journalist that caught my eye outside.
I’ve never seen a man like him at an event like this. He looks like he’d belong at a tattoo convention rather than a stuffy party with people that could buy and sell him without batting an eye.
I like how authentic he looks. How, even though there is more money in this room alone than he’ll see in several lifetimes, he looks unimpressed. And it’s not a put on, like he’s trying to play it cool to not look so eager. He really looks like he couldgive a fuck less about the wealth around him and just wants to go home.
That intrigues me.
He’s looking at a painting that a local artist donated. Walking over to him, I stuff my hands in my pockets and study the picture as well. “You know art?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he answers with a quick laugh. “But it’s pretty. Bright colors.”
Glancing down at him, I point to his visible neck tattoo. It’s primarily blue and green, the colors bold and in your face. “You know something about bright colors.”
Smiling, he tips his head back so I can see the entire tattoo. It’s a waterfall so detailed I can almost hear the rushing water.
Reaching out, I lightly brush my fingers down his exposed throat, touching his soft skin. He gasps when I touch him, his mouth open as he pulls in air. “It’s beautiful.”
The journalist swallows roughly when I pull my fingers back and the touches where my fingers just were. “Thank you.” He meets my eyes, the intense brown anchoring me to the spot. “I’m Hill.”
