Page 178 of Ruthless Creatures

My heart in my throat and my soul flying, I whisper, “Ten carats? So tiny. God, you’re a cheapskate, gangster.”

He hugs me, hard, kissing the top of my head, my earlobe, my neck. Into my ear he says softly, “Marry me.”

Of course it had to be a command, not a question.

My voice cracks when I answer. “Let me get a look at this tiny ring first. I’ll let you know in a minute.”

“It’s a flawless cushion-cut diamond on a platinum band. Harry Winston.”

I press my cheek against his chest, listening to the comforting sound of his pounding heart. “Ugh. Sounds hideous.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” When I don’t answer, he prompts impatiently, “Use your colors, stubborn girl.”

A tear slipping down my cheek, I whisper, “Green, honey. All the green in the universe.”

EPILOGUE

SLOANE

When I disembark at the private jet terminal at La Guardia, it’s dark, forty degrees outside, and drizzling. It might as well be eighty degrees and sunny for how happy I am.

I stand at the top of the airstairs of Kage’s swanky jet and throw my arms wide, shouting, “Hellooo, Big Apple!”

The uniformed chauffer waiting with an umbrella at the bottom of the steps on the tarmac squints up at me like I’m nuts, but I ignore him. I’ve never been to New York, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and bump into a random billionaire I can get to work on.

If not, there’s always shopping. The Louis Vuitton boutique on Fifth Avenue has been calling my name all the way from Tahoe.

“C’mon, doggo. Time to go see Mommy.”

Mojo lifts his head from where he’s been sleeping the entire flight, on the first cream-colored leather seat in the cabin near the door. He glances at the door, looking dubious, then back at me.

I smile at him. “Move your butt or I’ll make a rug out of you, shaggy.”

Moving at the speed of a slug, he pours himself off the seat and onto the floor, yawns, scratches his ear with a hind paw, then blinks at me.

Shaking my head, I snort. “There’s no way you attacked anyone. It would take way too much energy.”

He yawns again, proving my point.

I head down the narrow metal airstairs, the dog following me. When I get to the bottom, the driver says solemnly, “Welcome to New York, miss. I’m Sergey, your driver.”

Sergey is young, green-eyed, and big enough to lift the car over his head if he wanted to.

Major big-dick energy. I like him already.

“Thank you, Sergey! I’m so happy to be here.”

“I’ll handle your luggage. Please, follow me.”

He gestures toward the sleek black Bentley parked on the tarmac a few yards away. I let him cover my head with the umbrella and follow him over to the car, feeling a slight twinge of guilt that there’s only one of him to handle my luggage, because I didn’t pack light.

Translation: I brought almost everything I own.

A girl can’t be expected to know what she’ll want to wear days in advance. It’s mood dependent.

Mojo and I get settled in the car while poor Sergey acts like my personal sherpa and loads all my bags into the trunk. When he finally gets into the driver’s seat and closes the door, he’s sweating.