Page 12 of Devious Truth (Vicious Sinners #3)

“ I t’s okay. I’m all right.” I’m quick to assure him because he has that look in his eyes again.

The one that means he’s about to smother me in a protective blanket.

“I haven’t spoken to her in years,” I continue. “She wasn’t really a part of our life.”

None of our parents were—by their decision, not ours—but I don’t go into those details.

“Who messaged you?”

We arrive at the museum where the charity event is being held, giving me a reprieve from going into any more details about Derek’s family.

“Vivienne.” He holds the door shut when I move to open it and pins me with a hard stare.

If this man can steal the air from a room with a simple look, what could he do to me if he truly wanted to hurt me?

So, no reprieve then.

“I don’t really want to talk about my in-laws, Ivan.” I leave it at that; let him make of it whatever he wants.

He releases his grip on the door and knocks on the window. Immediately, the door swings open, and he climbs out.

A flash of light blinds me as he helps me from the car. Ivan steps in front of me, glaring down a photographer until he backs away. But there are others, and he can’t stop all of them from taking photos of everyone arriving.

Ivan grips my hand and pulls me along.

“If the charity is for the children’s hospital, why are they having it at the art museum?” I ask as we move further into the museum.

“It makes the donors feel more evolved to be surrounded by priceless art. And the higher they hold their nose, the deeper they’ll dig into their pockets to beat out the other assholes in attendance.”

Ivan leads me to our table. Dressed in a floor-length ivory linen, it seats eight with cushioned chairs tied with soft green satin sashes.

In the center sits a low arrangement of zinnias.

There won’t be any trouble talking across the table, though I have doubts I’ll be able to contribute much to any conversation.

“Aren’t you technically one of the assholes?” I turn my question to the enemy I know. The one I’m confident I can go toe to toe with. At least on most topics.

He casually raises an eyebrow as he turns to me. “I suppose so.”

“Ah, so you agree you’re an asshole?”

His gaze heats, along with the grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“When the situation calls for it, yes.”

A waitress appears with a tray of champagne, offering the selection to Ivan. Her cheeks flush when she looks at him, but Ivan doesn’t seem to notice. He takes a glass and offers it to me, effectively dismissing her outright.

“I think she likes you.” I gesture toward the waitress who is still glancing in our direction while offering drinks to the other attendees.

“Who?”

“The waitress.” I tap my glass.

“Does it make you jealous?”

“Do you mean do I feel the need to threaten to cut off her hands if she so much as touches you?” I take a sip of the champagne. “No, not really.”

Though I would appreciate it if she’d keep her eyes on her work. For the rest of the guests, of course. It would be horrible if she were to walk into someone and spill champagne all over them because she couldn’t keep her attention where it belonged.

He takes the glass from me, sips it and hands it back.

“Can I ask you something?” I glance at the people mingling around us.

We’re not out of place; we’re dressed exactly as they are. High-priced, designer dresses for the women, and the men in tailored tuxedos. If someone on the outside were to see the lot of us, we’d blend right in, but still, there’s miles between us and them somehow.

“Anything.” He gives a curt nod.

“Why are we here? I mean, it seems odd, doesn’t it?”

“You mean because my family is a bunch of criminals?” A sparkle shines in his eyes with his question.

“I didn’t say that.” I pause, weighing the danger, and decide to go forward anyway. “But yeah.”

He laughs, and it’s hearty and deep, and so damn sexy my toes tingle.

“Some of our businesses are completely legitimate. For those businesses, we play the philanthrope card here and there. It gives us a positive public appearance, but it also gives us a chance to keep a tight leash on connections that sometimes feel they can wander.”

His eyes move over my shoulder. I turn to follow his stare and find a man standing in a small group a few tables over. He must feel Ivan staring because he glances our way, and when he does the color fades from his cheeks.

“Besides. The children’s hospital is a good cause,” he says, bringing his attention back to me.

“Aren’t you afraid the people you work with will turn on you? It has to be stressful not being sure who you can trust and who you can’t.”

“We have protections.” His gaze sweeps the area around us again.

“You mean blackmail. If they turn on you, you turn on them?”

“Having information is as profitable as having a high-end product.”

Moving to his side, I watch the people in the room. Mingling with each other, giving fake kisses of greeting with their joyless smiles planted on their over-botoxed faces. Nothing here feels real.

I exchange my empty champagne flute with a full glass as a waiter passes us.

“Last one.” Ivan gives a pointed look at the glass.

“Not likely,” I mutter, turning more toward the room.

He steps behind me, resting his hands on my hips and bringing me back to press against his chest.

His voice is low and growly when he says, “If you’re going to play the naughty girl tonight, I’ll throw you over my knee and spank the smartass right out of you.”

My brain blanks.

The words process, and somewhere, something inside me knows I should be repulsed by his threat. But the connection to the rational part of me has been flooded by arousal.

I pull away from him, spinning to face him. But when I do, he’s all dark eyes and firm jaw. Curiosity plays across his face. He’s waiting to see how I’ll react.

That makes two of us.

He runs the back of fingers across my cheekbone, leaving a trail of fire behind. “If I was a betting man, I’d bet everything your panties are soaked right now.”

“Too bad you’ll never know.” Finally, my brain turns back on.

He shakes his head, laughing softly. “I wouldn’t say never.”

“You’re awfully full of yourself.”

Leaning into me, the laughter fades from his eyes. “There’s a part of you that you’ve shut off. You’ve put a big wall around yourself, and I’m going to tear it down.”

“Oh yeah?” Great response. “How do you propose to do that?”

“I can be patient.” He leans in closer. “When it’s worthwhile.”

Before I can contradict him, a small group of men with their Barbie doll wives invade the space around our table. Ivan slides easily into philanthrope mode— all shaking hands and polite smiles.

He introduces me with his hand splayed on my back, an act of possession that heats me through to my core. The conversation dies during dinner as the speeches begin.

“You’d think for the amount of money these tickets cost, they’d serve something edible.” The man sitting to my right drops his fork on his plate with a clatter.

“It’s about raising money for the hospital, Harry, not filling your stomach.” His wife chides him.

“You haven’t eaten much.” Ivan places a hand on my knee, his fingers spreading slightly. Like he’s taking possession.

“I filled up on those little crab puff things they were walking around with before dinner.” The best way to keep from having to contribute to conversations you don’t know anything about is keeping your mouth full of the appetizers being served.

The last speaker steps up to the podium and begins talking about the pediatric trauma center at the hospital.

On the screen behind him, a slideshow of young children plays as he goes into detail about the surgical wing, the trauma specialists, and all the benefits of having such a center attached to the children’s hospital.

A photo of a pregnant woman freezes my attention. The next slide is of her unborn child being whisked away. Clearly, she’s been in an accident of some sort.

Flashes of sirens, lights, and screaming drown out the presenter, and for a moment I’m no longer in the museum. I’m stuck in the car. Blood runs down my cheek, and a pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt grips my stomach.

“Vivienne.”

Ivan’s hand moves up my thigh, and he squeezes. The memory cuts off, and I refocus. His brow knits together with concern.

“Did you want dessert?” He gestures to the waitstaff trying to put a plate with some delicious concoction of chocolate and cherries in front of me.

“No.” I clear my throat when the word gets caught. “No, thank you. Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”

The waiter jumps out of the way as I shove my chair back from the table. Several sets of eyes cut to me as I grab my clutch.

“I’ll be back.” I promise and hurry from the table.

I’m so lost in the panic clawing at my throat, I nearly fall down the steps on the way to the lower level. By the time I find the restrooms, breathing is almost impossible.

Thankfully the room is empty when I burst inside. Bending over the sink, I turn the cold water on, leaning as close to the coolness as I can.

Chiding myself for letting the panic get so out of control, I close my eyes and drag in a breath, but I can barely hold it before blowing it out and choking back a sob.

Buried beneath the weight of memories trying to crush me, I barely register the restroom door opening.

“Vivienne?” Ivan touches my back.

I spring back up, nearly knocking us both to the ground. He easily catches me and holds me until I’m settled.

He searches my face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Tears I thought I had under control build again.

“Nothing.”

Concern turns to annoyance. “Don’t lie to me. You can tell me you don’t want to tell me, but don’t lie and say it’s nothing. You went completely white and ran away from the table.”

Would giving life to the memory help either of us?