Page 118 of Dance of Devils

My face burns. “I havenotbeen doing that.”

“Agree to disagree. But as well…” He lets his eyes slide over me before leaning close. “Look, I know how you are about…you know…” He shrugs. “C’mon, like I don’t feel it too? Most of our friends here at work grew up heirs and heiresses to mafia kingdoms with Amex Black Cards and personal bodyguards. You and I fought off sex pests in the foster system.” He gives me a hard look. “Dude, Iknowyou have to be careful with money?—”

I start to protest, but Val puts his hands on my shoulders.

“No shame. I do, too. Even if Vaughn is apparently some sort of professional Bond villain now.”

I smirk. “Howarethings going with reconnecting?”

Val rolls his eyes. “Up and down. I mean, it’s cool to have family for the first time. It’s just a little weird when he turns outto be the head of an international crime syndicate.” He shakes his head, smirking. “Get this: we had dinner the other night—motherfucker booked outallof Eleven Madison. Like, the whole fucking restaurant.”

I whistle. “Holy shit.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Val mutters. “At one point between course eleven million and course twelve-million-and-seven?—”

I giggle.

“This fucking guy’shenchmenshow up, whisper in his ear?—”

“Wait, what do they call him again?” I grin.

Val rolls his eyes. “The Marquis. It’s the title they give to whoever's head of the Obsidian Syndicate.”

“How dramatic.”

Val snorts. “Right? AndI’mthe one who dances ballet and fucks men. But I digress. Anyway, Vaughn just ups and leaves for an entire course, and then comes back with fuckingflecks of bloodon his collar and an ice pack on his knuckles.” He shakes his head. “I mean, what sort of gangster-ass shit isthat?”

I laugh.

“So…” Val sighs, leaning against the wall. “For real. Who’s the dude you’re banging?”

Notbanging, but whatever.

“He’s…” I shrug. “Older?”

Val arches a brow. “Ooh, howmucholder?”

I smile weakly. “Enough that I’m not going to give you a number.”

He hoots. “Fuckin’juicy. I love it. So, sugar daddy?”

“No! Fuck!” I glare at him. “Just because he’s older, he’s a sugar daddy?”

“Nah, just because he’s older andbuying you fancy shit,” Val corrects, eying my clothes. I look down.

Shit.

I’ve been trying to downplay my outfits ever since Kir’s personal shopper filled my walk-in closet withinsanelygorgeous designer clothes. Not because I don’t like them—Ilovethem. But I’ve been trying to avoid conversations exactly like this one with anyone who knows me and might be confused because I’m suddenly wearing D&G instead of Target or Salvation Army.

I exhale. “He likes buying me stuff,” I say slowly. “But he'snota sugar daddy.”

Val holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay.”

My mouth twists. “It’s just clothes, Val.”

“Well, yeah, and the Range Rover.” Val winks at me. “I’ve seen you getting out of one a few blocks from here before rehearsal a couple of times this week.” He grins. “Hey, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. You deserve to be pampered, B.”

I smile. “Thanks, dude.”