Page 3 of Always Been Mine (Always #2)

“Bitch whore!” Blondie repeated, her lips curling in a snarl .

“Is that right?” Beatrice said, wiping paint from her face. “I’m the bitch? I’m the whore? Didn’t you read the papers?”

Blondie’s eyes widened. “Well, yeah, Eric wants you back.”

“Not that part,” she said irritably. “You do know he cheated on me, right?”

“That was just a groupie . . .” Blondie’s voice faded. “He’s Eric Stone. Everyone wants to fuck him.”

“So that makes it okay?”

No answer from the three women.

“You think it’s okay for your man to step out on you when you’ve agreed to be exclusive?”

All three shook their head.

“I’ve made my point. You three are lucky I’m not about to press charges, because I’m so done with this fiasco, it’s not funny,” Beatrice snapped.

“Now get out of here before someone takes pictures and I find myself splashed all over the tabloids again. This is DC. I understand there’s no place more symbolic where freedom of expression is demonstrated every day, but dousing a person with red paint is not part of your first amendment rights. Do I make myself clear?”

The women just stared at her. The guards started sniggering but stopped when Beatrice glared at them.

“Go on before I change my mind.”

All three women slowly backed away before turning and running off.

“Beatrice,” Doug said. His eyes were sympathetic, but his lips were twitching.

“Don’t laugh,” she warned. “Damn Eric.” She whipped out her phone and called him. She got his voice mail. Just as well. She didn’t want to talk to him, just leave him a message. A warning.

“Eric. Beatrice. Call off your fans. You and I? Not happening again. Get that through your damn head. The next time I get attacked or harassed, you will not like what I’ll do to you. ”

She ended the call. Doug sighed.

“What?”

“You threatened your ex over the phone.”

Beatrice paused. Shit.

“That’s not the way to keep yourself out of the tabloids.”

“Damn it,” Beatrice hissed.

“Come on, Carrie , let’s get you cleaned up.”

Beatrice grunted.

“You’re lucky they didn’t use pig’s blood.”

She grunted again.

They were making their way up the steps when Beatrice felt a shiver go up her spine. She stopped and looked around.

“What’s wrong, honeybee?” Doug occasionally used that annoying endearment on her, but right now, Beatrice’s attention was riveted to her surroundings.

“I feel like . . . I feel like someone’s watching me.”

“You’re just spooked by the attack,” Doug reassured her. He was probably right. He put his arm around her and she leaned into its comfort as they walked into the lobby together.

The Mayflower Charity Ball was a black-tie affair, but Beatrice decided to forgo the formality of a limousine.

Too much fanfare to pull up at the entrance of the trendy Larkspur Manor in McLean.

At the moment, she preferred to remain inconspicuous, asking Doug to pick her up in his low-profile Toyota sedan.

Some part of her hated how she seemed to be hiding, but the ugly scene in front of her condo earlier only proved the prudence of her decision.

Pulling up by the valet, a doorman opened the passenger door and assisted her from the car.

Beatrice was wearing a simple satin sheath gown.

Its platinum color set off her creamy skin tone.

She set her hair in big curls and gathered them in a sophisticated off-center ponytail.

Doug offered his arm, and together, they walked the short distance to the main entrance.

They veered to the side walkway, which led to a discrete door that guests who preferred anonymity used during such events.

“Your hands are clammy,” Doug murmured. “Are you still shaken from this afternoon?”

“I wish I could blame the incident earlier,” Beatrice replied, “but that’s not it.”

“Don’t tell me fearless Beatrice Porter is afraid to face down this crowd?”

“Of course not.” Lie . But that wasn’t it either. The idea that she was being watched had been festering for weeks now. The mess with Eric Stone had thrown some white noise into her intuition, and she could not, for the life of her, determine what was causing her all this disquiet.

The door opened to reveal a brightly lit, opulent ballroom.

Showtime.

Beatrice excused herself from the huddle of diplomats and lawmakers to get another drink. She had sent Doug off to eavesdrop on another conversation of a rival security consultant.

A dark-haired woman with a pageboy bob, dressed in a tacky emerald-sequined gown, waylaid Beatrice on her way to the bar.

Kelly Winters. Her nemesis and the main society reporter for the DC Tattler.

“Beatrice.”

“Ms. Winters. I didn’t know they allowed barracudas in these functions.” Beatrice’s voice was glazed with saccharine sweetness.

Unfazed, the reporter shrugged. “You’re not the only one with political connections, Beatrice.”

“It’s Ms. Porter to you,” Beatrice responded. “Well, if you’re going to be mixing in these social circles, I suggest you fire your fashion consultant.”

The gloves came off. The reporter’s face turned ugly and she sneered, “You’d do best not to antagonize me. Your reputation is not exactly stellar at the moment.”

Beatrice gave a short burst of mirthless laughter. She shook her head. “Don’t threaten me, Ms. Winters. You print one lie, and you and your tabloid just bought yourselves a lawsuit.”

“Everything all right here?” a low baritone voice interjected.

Zach Jamison.

Kelly’s brow arched. “You’ve moved on pretty fast.”

“Come on, Beatrice,” Zach gently grasped her arm as he glared at the reporter. “Looks like you need a drink.”

When they reached the bar, Zach asked what she wanted and ordered their drinks. Giving her his full attention, he asked, “Was she a reporter?”

“Yes.”

“She the one who’s been printing all this garbage about you?”

Beatrice nodded.

“How did she manage to get into this exclusive event?”

“No idea,” Beatrice replied tersely and winced when she saw Zach’s face fall. “I’m sorry. I’m just not very good company at the moment. It’s been a weird day.”

He frowned and Beatrice realized how her statement came across. “Oh, no. No. Our lunch meeting was the most productive part of my day, actually.”

Zach grinned at her. “Okay. You got me worried there for a moment. We’re pretty set to work with you and whomever you choose for us.”

“Bee!” Doug reached them. He looked worried. “I saw Winters ambush you. I couldn’t get away from the French ambassador. ”

“No worries, man. I got her covered,” Zach replied.

Both men exchanged strange looks she couldn’t decipher. Beatrice suddenly felt suffocated. She needed a blast of November chill.

“Guys, do me a favor? Make sure Winters doesn’t leave the ballroom,” Beatrice said. “I’m stepping out for a bit.”

“It’s forty degrees out there,” Doug said. “I’ll come with you.”

“Doug,” Beatrice said sternly. “I’ll be fine. Keep an eye on things.”

“Well, at least put this on.” Her assistant removed his tuxedo jacket and draped it across her shoulders.

“Thanks,” Beatrice said, and then nodded to Zach. “Thanks for rescuing me from Winters.”

“Not a problem, lady.”

Afterward, Beatrice couldn’t walk fast enough to the French doors that opened to the balcony.

Because of the chilly weather, there wasn’t a soul outside.

She closed the embellished glass door behind her and took a couple of steps toward the marble balustrade.

Invigorating air refreshed her lungs. She had the odd desire to run.

“Beatrice.”

Whatever breath she took in was punched right out of her. She turned in the direction of the familiar voice and stilled.

Gabriel .