Page 40 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“My sincerest apologies, Mrs. DeVille, but I do not know where your car is.”

I squint at the blond guy in a blue-gray suit. “You’re Tony, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, Tony…” I take a menacing step toward him. “My friend Jovan dropped my car off here last night. He said that he left it with a guy named… Can you guess?” I take another step. “Yup. Tony . Are there several Tonys around here?”

“Umm…” He throws a fleeting look toward the ground-level window. “I think you should ask Mr. DeVille.”

Figures. I grit my teeth and turn on my heel to march back inside the house. What the hell did that asshole husband of mine do with my car?

It’s been three days since that disastrous scene in DeVille’s bathroom.

And every damn day since then I’ve been trying to wipe it from my mind, to forget how easily and thoroughly he undid me, leaving me panting on his counter.

Every moan, every hitched breath, they all blare through my mind like an air siren.

My thoughts are riddled with how wantonly I behaved.

All because of Arturo DeVille. Because it was he who made me that way.

But I can’t. Can’t think about it anymore.

I refuse to acknowledge those earth-shattering minutes of my life. They never happened.

Too bad that my treacherous body can’t seem to forget them.

As soon as DeVille enters my field of vision, everything within me instantly vibrates.

Every cell, every nerve ending, rings with the echo of his touch.

My lower lip, which he so tantalizingly bit that night, immediately starts to tingle, as if it’s ready and waiting for yet another kiss.

The situation between my legs is even more drastic. My pussy weeps, craving his wicked caress. The muscles in my core clench each time a memory of his hands on me surfaces. The throbbing achiness is almost too much to bear. The need he stirred up is so overpowering, I can hardly sleep at night.

I hate myself for my body’s reaction. I’m pissed that I can’t erase Arturo from my thoughts.

But more than anything, I detest my stupid heart for its betrayal.

For every time that man steps into the room, each time my eyes find him anywhere, my treacherous heart takes flight.

As if it’s happy to see the bastard. As if it’s racing to get closer to him.

As if it thinks it’s somehow wanted. What a dumb, ignorant heart.

Thank fuck the gorgeous devil must agree with me that what happened between us in his bathroom was a massive mistake.

The following day, he wouldn’t even look at me.

I saw more of his back and heard more of his grunts than at any prior point of our acquaintance.

And he hasn’t tried to maneuver us into a similar circumstance again.

Not that I would allow that to happen! No, no way!

Lately, DeVille has been treating me almost like I don’t exist. He leaves the room as soon as he spots me in it. He says nothing at all when we happen to occupy the same space. Which has been very rare, actually. He’s been gone for long hours every day.

Most times, I get up in the morning, and he’s left the house already.

He returns, more often than not, after I’ve gone to bed.

But, somewhere between those times, he still makes the most scrumptious dishes for me, leaving them on the kitchen counter to drive me bonkers with their heavenly aroma.

Carbonara. Grilled sausages with stir-fried veggies on the side.

A delicious-looking veal dish in white sauce.

Even a homemade pizza! I’ve started dreaming about these blasted things, imagining scarfing them down.

That is, when I’m not dreaming about Arturo doing the eating. Of my pussy.

I don’t touch the food he prepares, of course, holding true to my convictions about that.

However, the past couple of days have been really trying, and my resolve is starting to crack.

There’s only so much temptation a person can withstand.

I’m also so sick of eating nothing but cheese, salads, and fruit.

I did order delivery once, and had Greta make me another of her tasteless meals, but that was as much as I was willing to risk.

I’m still determined to make sure DeVille doesn’t find out about my irrational fear.

I can’t give him more ammunition to use against me.

That’s why I got so excited when Jovan messaged me that my car had finally been fixed.

It needed a new fuel pump, which had to be sourced and specially ordered for Old Betsy, so it took a long time.

Jovan had my ride delivered to DeVille’s front gate, and I’m super pumped (pun intended) to get to use it right away.

Now I can head off to a bunch of places, get whatever food I like, and Satan will never know!

Except… my car is missing, apparently.

“Where’s my car, DeVille?” I snap as soon as I storm into the living room.

My husband is lazing on the couch, a laptop propped up against his knees. A steaming mug of tea and a bottle of ibuprofen are within arm’s reach on the coffee table, right next to his mouse.

He doesn’t even grace me with a look, just continues pounding on the keyboard. “Your car?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Jovan texted me that he dropped it off at the gate last night. Left it with a guy named Tony.”

“Oh, you mean that fifteen-year-old piece of junk with a crack across the windshield and rust all over the body and chassis?” He slams the laptop closed. “I had someone deliver it to one of the local charities. We even got a tax receipt.”

“You what ?”

“My wife won’t be seen driving that ancient heap, Tara. It’s disgraceful and humiliating. Riggo will take you to a dealership to pick out something new. Something more becoming of your new status. Here.”

Completely dumbfounded, I watch as he takes out his wallet and throws his Black Amex on the coffee table.

“You had no right!”

“I had every right. I’m your husband. My word is the law for the next year, or did you forget that?”

“As if I could.”

“Good.” He pops two painkillers. “I’m glad we’ve sorted that out.”

Dickhead.

“And what might be ‘more becoming of my new status,’ oh Your Snobbish Highness? A supercar? Gold-leafed, perhaps?”

“Whatever will make people turn their heads in awe.”

“Is that so?” I grin and snatch the credit card off the table. “See ya later.”

***

I tap my chin with my finger as I size up the shiny red Bentley in the middle of the dealership showroom. According to the little placard beside the vehicle, it comes fully stocked with all the gizmos and whatchamacallits, luxury knickknacks, and hand-stitched genuine leather seats.

“Nope,” I declare.

“But… this is the most high-end vehicle we have in stock, ma’am,” the salesman says. “And it’s a limited edition, to guarantee exclusivity. I can assure you, you will not find a better state-of-the-art car in New York.”

“The car isn’t the problem. It’s the price.”

“Oh. I understand. Well, how about we take a look at some of our more affordable—”

“It’s too cheap,” I add.

The sales guy’s eyes bug out. “It’s… It’s four hundred thousand, ma’am.”

“Exactly.” With my hands on my hips, I take a look around the showroom.

This is the third place I’ve visited, and none have had anything for over half a million available on the lot.

The most expensive cars are all custom orders, with months and months of waiting time.

I, however, want to make sure I follow my husband’s directions today, preferably by spending at least a million dollars of his money.

I’m pondering whether to just cut my losses and go with the red monstrosity on my right when my gaze catches on the billboard across the street. It’s an ad for a new blockbuster. But it’s not the dude in a spandex suit that snags my eye. It’s what’s in the sky above him.

My lips pull into a smile.

Bingo.

“I’m in a meeting, Tony,” I bark into the phone and then immediately start coughing. Fuck, it feels like I’m gonna spit up a lung. I rummage in my pocket, grabbing another lozenge and popping it into my mouth. “Unless it’s urgent, it can wait,” I finally manage to add.

“It’s not urgent, sir, but I thought you might wanna know that… um, your wife… the vehicle she purchased has arrived. It’s—”

“Tony, that’s definitely not anything I need to know right now.” I cut the call and toss the phone to the massive desktop. “Where was I?”

“Projected increase in revenue and other benefits of switching from our current provider to Adriano Ruffo’s freight company for distribution,” Ajello says from his executive chair behind his office desk. “Is he open to discussing a potential partnership on that front?”

“Yes. On our video call this morning, after we discussed the latest on the project in Manhattan, I brought up the idea again. Ruffo insisted that it should be discussed in person, so we didn’t get into the details.

But he’s undoubtedly interested.” I shift in my seat.

Despite the way I’ve been swallowing cough drops like fucking candy, the scratching in my throat persists.

“I’ve looked into the numbers a bit. Ruffo’s fleet consists of more than fifteen thousand trucks and nearly four times as many trailers.

They move freight for over fifty companies across the US, exclusively.

We’re talking big names here, multi-year contracts.

Everything from home furniture and appliances to refrigerated goods to construction materials. ”

“What’s their annual revenue?”

I look at my notes. “Financial reports put TTM at six point two billion. Mind you, that’s the trailing twelve months figures from his trucking side alone. That doesn’t include all the other stuff Ruffo is into, like the logistics services his company provides.”