Page 47 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

His eyes shoot to Tara’s hand, which is wrapped around my wrist. With my palm splayed across her stomach, her right hand and my left are nearly side-by-side. Our matching wedding bands glisten front and center. His gaze lingers on the rings for a brief second before sliding away.

“I see… Tara, we’ll catch up some other time, okay? I’ll call you—”

“No, you won’t.” I avoid another of Tara’s attempts to inflict bodily harm upon me. “Now, get lost.”

“And you called me a savage, DeVille?” Tara snaps while trying to wriggle free. “Where are those civilized manners of yours, that impeccable behavior you take so much pride in?”

“I’m wondering about that, too.” A glance down the hall confirms that the oil brat is out of sight, so I lower my wife to the ground.

“Get bent, DeVille!”

The moment her feet touch the marble tile, she dashes toward the exit as fast as her heels can carry her, furiously click-click-clacking through the vacant corridor.

The cakey-hair-tower on her head hasn’t held up to all the commotion, and it’s sagging, slightly askew.

One of the iridescent peacock feathers appears to have been lost somewhere along the way.

A doorman in a flashy uniform stands back as far as he can, holding the heavy door open and watching her march past him. I bet he’s seen a lot of furious women storm out of the venue before.

“Wishing you the best of luck, sir.” He tips his head at me with a look of solidarity in his eyes. A fellow sufferer, it seems.

I step out of the building just in time to see Tara with her hand on the door of a taxi, ready to slip into the car. The elegantly dressed couple who must have just arrived in that cab is already climbing the hotel stairs.

“Tara,” I warn her, allowing my voice to carry over the hum of the city and across the half a dozen or so yards separating us.

She lifts her free hand, offering me her perfectly manicured middle finger.

I rush down the stone steps as panic surges inside me.

We still don’t know who’s behind that attack on the road or the reason for it in the first place.

Even now, culprits could be lying in wait, waiting for another opportunity to strike.

And my wife is getting into an unknown fucking taxi!

I am less than ten feet from her when she slams the car door practically in my face.

The next second, the vehicle pulls away from the curb with a loud rumble.

“Tara!” I yell, but the taxi is already weaving through the New York traffic.

Damn that woman! I stand in the middle of the sidewalk, enraged and terrified all at the same time, glaring at the cab’s receding lights.

My car is parked in an underground garage, about a block from here.

By the time I get it, who knows where that hellion will be.

That’s also assuming the cab driver isn’t some psychotic killer. Fuck!

The blast of a horn behind me jars me from my spiraling thoughts. I look over, finding that another taxi has pulled up. That’ll do.

I sprint to the driver’s side and throw open the door. “Out!”

A man in his midfifties gapes at me as his hands tighten on the wheel. “What?”

Oh, for the love of God. I grab the front of his shirt and pull him out of the car. Buddy even proves himself helpful by unbuckling the seatbelt.

Damn, damn that woman.

As soon as I slide behind the wheel, I hit the gas.

I’m thankful the gala this year was held at a hotel in the Financial District and not in Midtown.

But even at this late hour, traffic is still a bitch.

I switch lanes, trying to close the gap with Tara’s taxi, but my efforts might be futile.

As the street light changes before me, I cut off a shiny town car to get ahead, and the driver lays on the horn before flipping me off.

That’s two tonight, but it’s not the birds I’m chasing. I need to catch up to my wildcat before she completely disappears from sight.

“Oh, dear. Did we miss the turn?” a high-pitched voice chirps behind me.

Slowly, I look into the rearview mirror. An elderly lady in a thick brown fur coat and with a dead fox wrapped around her neck stretches in the back seat.

“I must have dozed off. It’s so difficult to stay awake this late into the night at my age, you know?” She gives me a motherly smile. “But that’s alright, my boy, you can just go around the block.”

Fucking great. Not only did I steal a fucking cab, but apparently, I’ve also kidnapped someone’s grandma in the process.

“We’re taking a shortcut.” I step on the gas.

The taxi my wife used to make her escape is only a couple of vehicles ahead. I remember that big dent on the rear bumper.

“It must be stressful working as a cab driver here in New York,” the old lady continues. “Especially for a foreigner. Have you been here long, Bjorn?”

What?

“Is that a Danish name? Or Swedish? You don’t look very Swedish to me. Did you dye your hair black, maybe? It suits you much better. But you should update the photo on your driver’s license.”

I glance at the ID card pinned to the dashboard. The picture is of the fiftysomething blond guy I pulled out of the car. “Yeah. It also makes me look about twenty years younger. Could you please stop talking now?”

“How rude!”

I briefly shut my eyes and take a deep breath. The stabbing pain in my chest chooses that moment to reappear, along with a weird wheezing sound whenever I inhale.

The traffic seems to ease up a bit—thank fuck—so I press harder on the gas only to slam on the brake a second later. A flash mob has suddenly filled the street, blocking the intersection in every direction. Tara’s taxi managed to slip past them just in time.

Of course it did.

“Fuck!” I hit the steering wheel with my fist and lay on the horn.

“Thank you so much.” I hand the money to the taxi driver while one of Arturo’s security guys holds open the cab door. Just my luck. It’s that weasel, Tony.

“Mrs. DeVille.” He looks at me with confusion. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah. Your maniac boss happened,” I mumble as I get out and rush toward the front door.

Jackass. How dare he?

For a while there tonight, I actually had a good time with Arturo.

It was kinda fun mingling with some of those snooty people and seeing their reactions to my hair.

And Satan surprised the hell out of me when he stared down that aristocratic crone and called her out on her comments.

It was sweet of him to come to my rescue, even though I didn’t need his help.

I could have handled her on my own, but it was still a very gentlemanly move on his part. A pretty sexy one, too.

He spent the rest of the evening with his hand on my lower back or wrapped around my middle, guiding me to make certain no one bumped into me.

I pretended not to notice, of course, but I appreciated his thoughtfulness.

Not that I’d admit it to him. And I’d rather eat my own foot than acknowledge that I enjoyed Arturo DeVille’s company. But I did. I really did.

His touch also had a surprisingly calming effect on me, easing my anxiety about being among so many unfamiliar people to a manageable simmer.

I’m not sure if my husband has figured me out, or if his choosing to keep us mostly away from everyone was just a coincidence.

Either way, this was the first time I’ve ever felt comfortable in a crowd.

That stunt with Stavros’s old man was overkill, but I can’t be mad at Arturo for that.

The guy essentially called me his son’s leftovers, and it kind of hit the mark.

Not in the sense that he obviously meant it, but because I often felt worthless after my terrible relationships.

So, although I don’t like seeing anyone in pain, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that seeing Arturo lay him out to defend my honor, like a true knight from one of my books, was hot as hell.

Until Arturo turned irrational and possessive and ruined everything.

I’m just through the threshold when the roar of an approaching vehicle stops me. I glance over my shoulder to see another cab pulling up. When the driver’s door opens, my dear husband steps out, looking furious as fuck.

Why was he driving the taxi? Where’s the actual driver? And who in the lord’s name is the bewildered old woman in a fur coat who just got out of the back?

“Did you decide to change careers, darling?” I holler at him.

Arturo doesn’t seem to find my question funny, because he slams the vehicle door shut with enough force that it sounds like a gunshot in the dead of night. His focus is locked on me as he draws nearer with a homicidal expression on his face.

Time to flee.

“Okay then. I’ll see you in the morning.” I blow him a kiss and immediately run inside.

Sprinting in four-inch heels isn’t for the faint of heart, but I manage somehow. I cross the entry hall with lightning speed, then, hiking up my dress, climb the stairs two at a time. As soon as I reach the landing, I dash toward my room, not taking even a split second to look back.

I head straight for the en suite bathroom, taking off my clothes along the way and dropping them on the floor.

The space is enormous, easily the size of my entire bedroom back home.

The white marble vanity with its rectangular basin sink spans the length of a wall.

Across from it is the massive, glass-walled shower that could accommodate five people, at least. The cabinetry is wood, matching the tones in the bedroom, and there are peach accents everywhere.

I love it. Can practically feel my stress dissolve in the spa-like luxury.

I don’t even bother removing the hairpins before entering the shower and turning the water on.

With all the hair spray Sienna doused me with, my hair will need to be soaked before I can even attempt to remove them.

I tilt my face toward the ceiling-mounted rainfall shower head, closing my eyes while I let the warm water soothe me. Damn, this feels good.