Steven Serranto is in his mid-thirties, handsome enough I suppose, if going to seed. He smiles too easily for my liking, and it never seems to reach his eyes. He’s thirty feet away, standing near a sculpture that offers more depth and conceptual tension than most of the pieces in here, and he’s not even looking at it. Instead, he’s conversing with another man.
The contrast between them is striking.
If Serranto is a leech, drawn to Lucy and her inheritance, the man he’s standing with is a predator in an entirely different class. He doesn’t lounge, he looms, and six feet of lean physique has never looked like so much. His tuxedo is perfectly tailored, his jacket open to reveal a white dress shirt that clings to a flat stomach and hard chest. He appears to be in his late thirties, just enough silver in his dark hair to hint he’d be experienced. I can’t see a ring, but he’s undoubtedly married, yet he hasn’t let himself go soft at the edges, but stayed sharp. With the money in this room, that might merely suggest narcissism.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped to stare until Serranto calls my name.
“Amelia. I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
His voice is loud enough to travel, and several pairs of eyes swing first to him, and then to the direction of his gaze: me.
I swiftly close the gap between us, if only to avoid Serranto including the whole room in our conversation. “I wasn’t,” I say as I approach, owning the admission. “I took her invitation. Unfortunately, she can’t make it.”Because I told her what I know, and she finally agreed not to come.
“Oh, that’s disappointing.” Serranto’s tone doesn’t match his words. Instead, he eyes me like I’m a suitable replacement, the sister he hasn’t yet fucked, like that was ever on the cards.
It makes my skin crawl.
The man next to us regards me with steady steel-grey eyes, like he’s assessing me in an instant and finding me wanting. His gaze takes in my ill-suited dress, pauses on my throat for reasons I can’t possibly explain but still sends a shiver through me, then settles on my face. His top lip twitches as though he wants to curl it in a sneer, like my existence is beneath him.
He’s undeniably handsome, but I go for more than just looks. Personality, for example, and not one that finds the whole world wanting or considers Serranto to be a worthy conversation partner.
Still, I can’t help but appreciate fine art in all its forms, and that body suggests it’s been sculpted by a master.
Serranto sees the direction of my gaze, and gestures with one hand. “This is Lukas Van Wyk, Amelia. He’s… uh…associatedwith Northbridge Capital, our hosts tonight.”
Presumably there’s some hidden meaning to his emphasis on that word, but I don’t care, I’m not planning to stay long enough to find out. As soon as I’ve delivered my message, I’ll be gone.
But before I can open my mouth, Van Wyk speaks. “If you weren’t on the guest list, why are you here?”
His voice carries an edge, but despite that, it’s deep and surprisingly melodious, the kind of sound I want to record and play back when I can’t sleep at night, wrapping myself in the comfort of it. Maybe I’ve misjudged him; anyone with a voice like that can’t be a complete asshole.
It’s not just his voice that’s distracting, but the way he’s looking at me. Like he hasn’t decided if he wants to call security or throw me out himself, just for the excuse of getting his hands on me. There’s a hunger in his eyes that is quite disconcerting.
It takes an effort to find my words, and I look away from him, at Steven. That helps my focus return. “I came to talk with you.”
“Oh?” Serranto cocks a smug eyebrow, like he thinks I’m about to proposition him.
I’d rather sleep with the sculpture we’re standing next to, despite the numerous sharp edges and spikes the artist has used.
“Let’s find a quiet corner.” I only make that suggestion with Lucy’s interests in mind, not caring to sparehisblushes.
Serranto smiles easily, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lukas is a friend, he won’t mind whatever you’d like to confess to me.”
I can’t help it; I laugh at that ridiculous phrase. As if I’d come to him for any such reason.
Van Wyk watches the whole exchange with growing interest.
“An ironic choice of words,Serranto,” I begin. “It’s you with confessions to make.”
Serranto glances at Van Wyk, as if to sayhow amusing this woman is, and his smile takes on a condescending edge.“How so?”
“I did some digging on you,” I say. “It’s amazing what a private investigator can uncover.”
“Sounds like you’re in trouble now,” Van Wyk says to Serranto, tone bored, like this is all a joke.
Serranto tries to laugh it off in response, but it’s strained. “What would Lucy say if she knew you’d been intruding?”
“She does know,” I reply coolly. “She also knows about your ex-wife in Tennessee, and the size of your alimony payments.”
