Fake Empire(48)

“Here on business?”

“Always,” I reply cooly, watching his gaze sweep up and down the white eyelet dress I’m wearing. It’s modest, with capped sleeves and falling to my calves, but Richard’s eyes are heated by the time they arrive at my signature red lips. His bottom lip curls as his gaze moves to the left hand holding the glass. And the large diamond resting on my ring finger.

“So the rumors are true. You got married.”

“Rumors? You don’t trust the hundreds of papers that reported on it?”

Richard’s eyes fill with annoyance. “I have more important things to do with my time than troll the society pages.”

The merging of the Ellsworth and Kensington families made it into plenty of respectable European papers, as Richard well knows. Kensington Consolidated and Ellsworth Enterprises both have international holdings.

I could have ignored my father’s wishes and married Richard. He wouldn’t have contributed as much to my net worth and I find him irksome and boring, but he would have been better for my sanity than Crew Kensington.

Because if Richard Cavendish had spent the last half an hour talking to a pretty blonde tennis player, I would feel relieved not to have to engage in a bothersome exchange of words with him. Crew choosing to do so has left me marinating in a mixture of rage and jealousy.

This is why you shouldn’t marry for love.

Not that I love Crew. I just find him mildly entertaining and annoyingly attractive. And after he made me come in seconds, I might have strong feelings toward his tongue.

“Your husband seems to be enjoying the match,” Richard comments, following my gaze.

I don’t reply. I turn back to watch the green ball get smashed over the net, and I wish I also had something to hit right now.

“Is Kensington here on business too?” Richard needles.

A possessive hand slides to the small of my back. Even before the scent of his expensive cologne reaches me, I know it’s Crew. A trail of heat lingers behind the pressure of his palm, and I suppress a shiver by taking yet another sip. At this rate, I’ll need a refill soon. Which would probably be a bad idea, since, as was just established, I’m here on business.

Not pleasure.

“Nope. All pleasure, Cavendish.” Crew’s deep voice rumbles from behind me. “At some point, you should sit back and enjoy the spoils, don’t you agree?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Richard replies. I know his agreeable tone means he thinks the opposite. “But I find it disheartening you’re ready to sit back so soon. You wouldn’t want anyone to think you only got the job because of your father. Are you planning to live off your wife?”

I feel Crew’s hand flex against my spine, but his voice is smooth as butter when he replies. “I must have missed you becoming a self-made billionaire, Cavendish. Must be because the papers you own don’t really talk about you at all.”

Richard’s face turns an ugly shade of puce. “Scarlett, lovely to see you, as always. My condolences on your choice of groom.”

He stalks off in the direction of the private bar. I turn my gaze back to the tennis match. Crew’s hand remains on my back, searing through the thin material.

“Interesting choice in conversationalist.”

“I could say the same to you,” I reply loftily.

I can hear a smile in Crew’s voice. “She approached me.”

For some stupid reason, I feel obligated to respond. “So did he.”

“I know. I saw.”

“You were watching?”

“Always, Red.”

He can’t see my face, so I don’t bother to hide my smile.





After the tennis match ends, I promise Jacqueline I’ll meet her for breakfast tomorrow morning. She spent most of the match flirting with Henriq Popov, who is the odds-on favorite to win the French Open, instead of discussing business.

“Where to next?” Crew asks as we leave the private box.

“Um…” Truthfully, I don’t have anything definitive planned until dinner with Jacques tonight. Admitting that feels like a weakness, as stupid as that sounds. I rely on looking busy around Crew. Work is always an excuse, something I know he’ll respect. “I have nothing planned until dinner,” I admit.

“Dinner with who?”

“Jacques. He’s—”

“The super in-demand guy you skipped our wedding night for. Yeah, I remember.”

He sounds jealous. “You can come, if you want.”

“I don’t want to get in the way.”

I smile. “If anyone will be in the way, it’s me.”

His brow creases with confusion, interrupting his previously bored expression.

“Jacques is gay, Crew. If you come to dinner, I guarantee he’ll hit on you.”

Jacques’s sexual orientation is a pointless clarification, one I only make because I still feel guilty for lying to him about my pretend lover. His only response is to walk toward the exit. I scurry after him a few seconds later.

Crew weaves through the crowds without so much as a jostle. Even among people who have no clue who he is, he’s not the sort of guy you mow over.

He halts when we reach the sidewalk, leaning down to talk to a driver of one of the many cabs lining the street. After a minute, he stands and beckons me over.