Her gaffe appeared to go unnoticed. “Honey, you could steal a billion dollars and he’d still have billions to spare. I’m not worried about his money. I’m worried about his heart. He had a rough time last year with his ex. She was a money-grubbing ho and she moved on to the next model who had slightly more billions. It crushed him.”
Cherchez la f*ck
ing femme. This shouldn’t have surprised her. Beneath that controlled exterior, a man of inordinate passion reigned. The bitch he had the incompatibility issues with had left him broken.
“I’m not here to use him or take his money. He’s just”—saving my life one steamy moment at a time—“a fling.”
“A fling who’s made herself at home.” She waved a hand around the penthouse. “Why are you even here?”
“He wants me here.” Emma shot a blast of titanium into her spine. “While he works me out of his system. There’s no future for us, so don’t worry about Brody’s heart or his wallet. Both are very, very safe.”
She would make sure of it when she removed her toxic presence. She would do what she must to protect Brody from Ray.
Olivia inhaled a deep breath and waited an extra-charged beat, perhaps trying to decide if she should take what Emma said at face value. Then she burst into tears.
Oh. Shit.
Faster than greased lightning, Emma moved in and sat beside Olivia. “What’s wrong? Is it something I said?”
Muttering obscenities under her breath, Olivia fumbled for her purse and ransacked it, then finally upended its contents all over the white sofa. An open lipstick swiped a pink gash across the fabric. More tear-blurred fumbling ensued until she found her target: a tissue. She swiped at her tears.
“My fiancé doesn’t look at me like Brody looks at you. Within twenty seconds of walking into that kitchen I could tell my brother is crazy about you.”
Emma’s heart hitched, but she shut that dumbass piece of machinery down. “He just likes boobies, like all men. It’ll pass. It always does.”
Olivia snorted. “I’d like to have something passionate enough to be at risk of eventually fading. I’m not even sure he—” She blew hard into her tissue.
“Not even sure he what?”
“Well, he’s always so busy. That’s Peter, my fiancé, the congressman. He has to travel a lot to DC and he’s always tired. Hell, I’m tired. This wedding is driving me off a cliff. My parents are divorced and it’s hell on earth when they’re both trying to have it their way.”
Emma squeezed her arm. “It’s your big day, so it should be whatever you want. But maybe there shouldn’t be a big day if you’re having second thoughts. Maybe you should sit down with your fiancé and tell him how you’re feeling.”
Horror crossed her brow. “The Kanes do not tell anyone how they’re feeling, honey. If it’s not about football, big tits, or who’s boppin’ who, the conversation is just not worth having.” That little show of bravado seemed to cheer her up. Straightening, she sniffed, a sound that pronounced the emotional nonsense as behind her. “You know, you’re kind of sweet.”
“For a stripper,” Emma finished her thought.
“For a stripper,” Olivia repeated, just as deadpan as her brother. She winked, and Emma laughed, enjoying this sisterly moment. She really missed Daisy. Regret ached in her chest. Under better circumstances, she suspected she might have gotten along really well with Olivia.
Olivia blinked at the mess on the sofa. “Brody is not going to like that. He’s kind of anal about that kind of thing.” She made no move to clear it up, just continued to assess her handiwork, then turned to Emma, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “So, Char, whatcha doin’ Saturday afternoon?”
Chapter Sixteen
Brody stepped into the lounge area on the terrace, belly warm from a couple of scotches, a smile already building at the thought of seeing Emma. She stood at the balcony wall, her face tipped up to the night sky, her hand wrapped around Kevin’s leash. She’d expressed concern that the demon might take a leap over the side, so Brody had bought a leash and a jeweled harness to put her at ease. No doubt Kevin hated that girlie restraint, a notion that pleased Brody immensely.
He was playing mind games with a cat.
“The view of my ass is a lot better close up,” she called out without even looking at him.
“Oh, I dunno. Lookin’ mighty fine from here, Ms. Strickland.”
She turned, a move that took her mighty fine ass out of his vision field, but gave him a whole other vista of gorgeous to feast his eyes on. A light breeze whipped her hair, the city nightscape casting beams of twinkling light in it. She would look amazing on a yacht, in a convertible, on top of his body, milking him dry.
As he walked toward her, she said, “Your sister stopped by.”
“Did she bring a houseplant?”
“No, just a warning about my gold-digging ass.”
“Hell and damn—”