Breaking Her (Love is War #2)(79)

~Emily Bront?





PAST





SCARLETT





Hollywood parties were the worst. I hated them, had relegated them to one of the more miserable parts of networking in tinsel town. A necessary evil that had to be borne with a big fake smile and plenty of liquor.

This one was being thrown in one of the trendy new clubs in Hollywood. It was a big space, surprisingly well-lit for a den of iniquity, and it was full to the brim with people I needed to meet.

I was still taking it all in, scoping out the best place to mingle/network. My bored eyes swept across the room for maybe the third time as I tried decide where I wanted to spend my energy and charm, when they landed on a pair of cold eyes that I had not expected to see again.

Eyes that were more familiar even than my own.

I froze, drink halfway to my parted lips.

No. Oh no, please. Not now. I haven't had a moment to pull myself together. It's not fair. He's not allowed to see me first, to catch my initial reaction.

Because it would surely be the most telling.

I blinked, recovered, then took a long drink.

It had been well over a year since I'd seen him, and the things that had occurred since our last parting and now . . . I couldn't even stand to glance at him across a crowded room.

But some part of me, the lovesick, pathetic part that I'd have cut out of myself if it were possible, rejoiced at the sight of him.

And the way he looked then, it was something to behold.

There was a woman clinging to him, a beautiful black-haired woman, and as I studied her, I realized it was an actress. No one terribly famous, more of an up and comer who was talked about often in the industry of late. Her name was dropped in a lot of gossip rags for potential roles, but nothing she'd done had panned out in a big way yet.

Still, she was certainly more famous than I was. No contest. And he'd come here with her. It was clearly the most hurtful scenario he could dream up.

Well, close to. Tiffany would have been the most hurtful, obviously.

Always.

The actress was, of course, young and lovely, wearing a clingy, red Versace dress I could remember ogling in this month's Italian Vogue. She was fashionable and beautiful and would likely be the next 'it' girl, and Dante barely seemed to notice that one of her perky little tits was trying to permanently meld itself into his bicep.

Of course the too good-looking for his own good Durant heir could have any woman he set his sights on. I'd never had any doubts about that.

His eyes were on me, his body stiff, his fists clenched as he watched me like we were the only two people in the room, and just the sight of me had stopped him in his tracks.

I smiled. Maybe there was some fun yet to be had in this misery trip down our f*cked up memory lane.

I could do this. I could suffer through this pain if it was for the sake of making him suffer with me.

Ah, love. Isn't it grand?

I finished my drink and tore my eyes from his, seeking my date for the night.

Justin was a screenwriter who had developed a pretty devoted crush on me when I'd first moved to town. He got me into all of the parties I hated to attend but could never say no to. In exchange I'd been stringing him along rather relentlessly.

I spotted him doing a line off the bar a scant ten feet away. He was still wiping his nose when I finally caught his eye. I called him over with a crook of my finger.

He blinked a few times, swallowed hard, and came to me looking hopeful enough to stir some pity in me.

Not enough. But some.

He was very cute, tallish and trim, but muscular, with nerdy glasses that only seemed to add to his boyish handsomeness.

"Darling, something's come up," I purred at him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and moving our faces close. "I've got to run."

He looked confused, but didn't ask questions and didn't try to stop me. He was my favorite kind of man, the kind that let me do whatever the hell I wanted without protesting. He was just happy to be along for the ride.

Until, of course, I left him on the side of the road, as I inevitably would.

I pressed my chest to his and gave him a brief, warm kiss. It stirred nothing in me.

Hardly anything did these days.

It was a show, no more, but I could tell as I pulled away that he'd taken something from it that he shouldn't have.

I'd given him hope.

"When will I see you again?" he asked me.

I wanted to pat him on the head, the poor guy, but I just pursed my lips and shrugged. "Who knows? I'll text you sometime. Or you can call me when there's another good party."

I walked away from him and headed straight for my real target.

It was pure misery to walk toward Dante, to make my body move closer to him instead of away, but at least there was some gratifying thrill to be had in the way he looked at me. That little kiss had done the trick, taken him from incensed ex-lover to enraged mess.

Perhaps I'd win this round after all.

His date had stepped away, to network no doubt, and so it was easy to move right up to him. I strutted close, not stopping until I was a mere foot away, going straight for the kill.

He was here to mess with me, so I'd mess right back.

And I happened to be better at making messes than he was, if I did say so myself.

I looked up into his face, letting every bit of the spite, the pure, concentrated hatred in my eyes pour out to him.