His gaze hardens. “None of that is your business. It’s between your sister and me.”
“And your debts with three different Las Vegas casinos?” I continue. “I can’timaginewhy a woman like my sister would be of interest to you. Would it, by chance, be the one-point-two million we each inherited?”
Serranto glances at Van Wyk again, this time with irritation in his expression. “One more time,” he says to me, his tone harsh, “what I do with Lucy isnone of your concern.”
“My sister’s businessismy concern, Serranto, and I’ll destroy anyone who tries to fuck with us. Stay away from her, and stay away from me.”
“Some might bedrawnto you for that,” Van Wyk mutters.
I do a double take, then focus back on Serranto, the real threat here.
“Or what?” Serranto laughs. “What do you think you can do?” He takes a step closer, intruding into my space. “Look around you,” he says. “All these people are here throughmyconnections. Think what would happen to your budding career with the wrong word in the right ear.”
Howdarehe?
If he was expecting that to be intimidating, he’s going to be disappointed. My anger flares, no longer cold and controlled but surging hot and impulsive. “Is that the game you want to play?” Unlike him I don’t try and keep my voice down. “Then what would your connections—like Mr. Van Wyk here—think of your past dealings with Natasha Rose?”
Serranto jerks like I’ve slapped him.
“A gallery owner in Connecticut,” I say, with a glance to Van Wyk, who’s still watching, but he’s so impassive I can’t be sure of help from that quarter. I plow on anyway. “You thought you’d handled that, didn’t you? But I found her. I have a statement from her, too.”
“You can’t prove anything,” Serranto hisses. His face has turned quite red.
I reach up and tweak a pinch of hairs from his head, and he’s not fast enough to pull back in time. I use the moment to unzip my clutch, juggling my champagne glass as I retrieve the tissue I prepared, carefully wrapping up what I’ve taken. “DNA is proof enough.” I tuck the tissue safely away. “Natasha will beveryinterested in the results of the paternity test. Lucy too, no doubt.”
Van Wyk folds his arms, the action tightening his tuxedo across his biceps. It’s irritating that even in this moment, part of my mind is so very aware of every movement that body makes.
“Youbitch.” Serranto’s face has turned purple, ugly with rage, and his hands clench into fists.
I zip up my clutch. “Like I said, stay away from—”
He grabs my wrist, hard enough that I feel the bones grind, and cry out in surprise and pain. His other hand tries for my clutch, but I’m too fast, pulling it out of his reach. He knocks my champagne glass, and it falls to the floor, smashing on the marble.
Van Wyk does nothing but watch, the bastard. He’s just like Serranto.
“Getoffme!” I’m not trying to keep my voice down now, but while there’s a few concerned glances our way, it doesn’t seem to have any effect.
Why does no one care?
It’s a goddamncharity gala. Rich people ostensibly here to do good things, yet none of them come to my aid? A public presence was my defense for just this eventuality, and no one cares?
Fear swells to join my anger as I realize I may be on my own. Even Van Wyk hasn’t intervened, and he’s heard everything. Instead, he’s watching me like a curious form of entertainment.
“Give me that clutch,” Serranto hisses.
“Get.Off. Me.” I tug my wrist, twisting against his thumb, and the move breaks his grip. My wrist is red where he held me. I step back quickly, glaring at him, at Van Wyk too for his utter dispassion. “You’re bothassholes,” I spit, pain joining my fear and anger, and both of them equally to blame. “Impotent bastards picking on—”
“Excuse me?” Van Wyk cuts through sharply. His lips are pressed thin, his eyes have narrowed. There’s real fire in their depths, but I don’t care.
Serranto laughs cruelly, like I’ve just made my last mistake.
“You heard me,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’re both the same. Men like you, thinking you can just do what you want withoutconsequence. Well, let me tell you—”
Van Wyk steps forward. He’s so damn fast I barely have a chance to register him closing the gap, before his hand finds my arm. His grip is solid, fingers biting into my flesh. “Whatdid you call me?” His voice has dropped an octave, dangerously quiet.
I swallow. “I called you an asshole.”And I’m regretting it now.
“She called you a bastard,” Serranto adds with relish. “And impotent.”
