The Casanova (The Miles High Club #3)(12)

He’s right.

I smirk.

“And for free, I might add,” he says. “I’m very fucking expensive, you know?”

“Sorry.” I give him a lopsided smile. “I’m just . . .”

“Just what, darling?”

“I feel very . . .” My voice trails off.

He drops his phone as he looks over the top of it. “Very what?”

I gesture to my boobs and then down to my hips. “Exposed.”

Daniel smiles proudly as he holds his hands together. “Angel, if I had a figure like yours, I wouldn’t bother with clothes at all.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s because you’re a raving ho bag.”

Daniel chuckles with a cheeky shrug of his shoulders. “I am, aren’t I?”

“It’s not a compliment,” I reply as my attention turns back to the mirror.

My now shoulder-length hair is a honey blonde and set into big curls, my dress is strapless and gold—it fits like a glove and leaves nothing to the imagination. My makeup is smoky with big red lips. I don’t look like me. I look like someone you would see in a magazine and that makes me nervous as all hell. I put my hand on my stomach. “I’ve got butterflies,” I whisper.

Daniel holds his arm out and I link mine through it. “That’s the universe’s way of telling you that you look divine.” He smiles proudly.

“Thanks.” I look down at his black dinner suit. “You look pretty gorgeous yourself.”

“I know, right?” He winks and passes his phone to Rebecca. “One for the gram.”

Rebecca stands and takes a photo and Daniel’s phone beeps a message, which he checks. “Our car is here,” he announces.

He kisses Rebecca on the cheek. “Don’t wait up, sweets, we’ll be setting the town on fire all night long.”

Rebecca smirks and I chuckle. “You’re so dramatic.”

He whisks me out the door. “Always, angel, always.”

I link my arm through Daniel’s as we walk into the ballroom. “I’m so nervous I feel like I may throw up any minute,” I whisper as we walk through the beautiful-people crowd. Everyone is dressed to the nines in black tie; it really is spectacular.

“Why?” he whispers back. “Because you look hot for a change?”

He leads me through to the seating map and I glance over and see Elliot Miles. “Fuck,” I whisper as I turn my head away in disgust.

“What now?”

“My fucking boss is here.”

“So?”

“So . . . he’s a giant twat,” I whisper angrily. “I can’t see him, looking like this.”

Daniel looks over my shoulder in his direction. “Oh . . . hell,” he whispers. “That’s your . . . boss? Casanova Miles is your fucking boss . . . are you kidding me?”

“Why did you call him that?”

“That’s the press’s nickname for him. Well earned from what I hear.”

I glance over my shoulder at him: Elliot is talking to his three brothers. Oh no, they’re all here. “Don’t be fooled by his good looks, he’d cut your kidneys out with a blink of an eye,” I say.

“Baby . . . he could cut anything out and it would probably still feel good.”

I roll my eyes in disgust.

“Let’s go to the bar.” Daniel smiles as he pulls me along by the hand.

We get our champagne and his eyes go back to the corner where the Miles brothers are standing; he lifts his glass to his lips. “Well, well, well, he sure does have some powerful friends.”

“Who?”

“Your boss.”

“Oh, him.” I sip my champagne, wishing I could drain the entire glass. “Who cares?” I concentrate on sucking my stomach in. “This dress is suffocating me,” I whisper.

“Look who he’s talking to,” he replies, totally distracted.

“Did you hear me? I can’t breathe in these Spanx. Why did I need to wear this fucking ridiculous underwear?” I whisper.

“To hold your coochie in. He’s talking to Julian Masters and Spencer Jones.”

I laugh and snort my champagne up my nose. “Coochie?” I cough.

He slaps me on the back.

“What is a coochie?” I giggle.

His eyes stay fixed on the Miles brothers over my shoulder. “That hairy thing between your legs.”

I burst out laughing. “What the hell?” I continue to choke while I laugh.

“Julian Masters comes from one of the wealthiest families in the world, he’s a Supreme Court judge,” he continues.

I sip my drink, uninterested. “For your information, my coochie isn’t hairy and it most definitely doesn’t need to be held in.”

“Spencer Jones is a player, everything he does is across the tabloids.” He sips his champagne. “All coochies need to be held in. Unsightly things in evening wear.”

I giggle. “How many coochies have you seen through evening wear?”

“Too many to count, hideous mounds. Oh . . .” He lets out a low whistle. “And here comes Sebastian Garcia.”

I frown, and glance over. I definitely know the name of the prime minister of the United Kingdom. “Maybe they’re just seated together?”