Page 10 of Twisted Knight

“No,” I retort. “Don’t you have somewhere else you should be? Someone else you can bore?”

“Nope. I already did my duty for the night.”

“And he got rid of you that quickly after? That’s … embarrassing.”

Her glare is lethal. Good. Maybe she’ll leave me the fuck alone, because the longer she stands here the easier it is to justify the distraction that is wanting her. Wanting a woman who is most definitely off-fucking-limits.

“This is where I return the jab and say if you’re trying to insult me, you’re going to have to try harder.”

“The difference between you and me is you care. I don’t.”

“For the record, it was my brother I was talking about. The duty I had was in regards to him.”

“How cute. You still have to hold his hand to cross the street.”

“No. I have to take up residence anywhere that won’t upstage my perfectly positioned sibling. It’s every woman’s dream, isn’t it?” She motions to one of the servers who is walking around with a tray of martinis and trades her empty for a fresh one. She takes a sip, her eyes meeting mine above the rim.

“I don’t claim to know what every woman’s dream is.” But I can sure as fuck fulfill most of them.

“You should. Here in Westmore—”

“You keep talking like I care, sweetheart. I’m sure there are plenty of people in this room who’ll pat you on the head and give you the attention you’re craving. But it’s not going to be me.”

“Definitely have the classic prick thing down pat.”

I nod and take another sip of my drink. “Yep. Sure do.”

“What charity are we benefiting tonight?” she asks, throwing me for a loop.

“Why?”

“Just trying to figure you out.”

“Figure away.” I tip my glass in her direction. “No doubt another martini will help with that.”

“Don’t mind if I do to both.” Her smile has a chill to it, but even its iciness is hot. “Let’s see, you spent a ridiculous amount on a painting you’re going to destroy. You paid twenty-five thousand for a plate of food from a Michelin-starred chef that you’re not eating. And you’re standing out here enjoying the fact that everyone is talking about you because you get off on it.”

“You don’t know the first thing about what I get off on.”

And Christ if the little smirk on her lips and challenge in her eyes doesn’t reel me in when I need to be taking huge steps back.

“So the question that begs to be answered is: What are you doing here, Holden Knight?”

“Raising money for a charity just like everyone else.”

She studies me, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, as if she’s trying to figure out if she believes the facade I’m putting on. “And that’s where you’re either full of shit or naive as hell if you think anyone here actually cares about the damn charity. They care about themselves. About being seen. About posting on social media that they were here with the who’s who of Westmore, making it known they run in the same circles. Perceptions matter. Optics matter. Status matters.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” I murmur and take a step toward her, the temptation of her way too strong.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Then maybe you should grow a backbone so you do have one.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t. Can you leave me be now so I can drink my scotch in peace and enjoy the view?”

I take another sip, welcoming its burn as it works its way down my throat. As the memories that are always on the periphery move to the forefront of my mind. As the men who cemented them there mill about this room without even knowing it.