Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Richard
Honestly, before I even got to this damn party, my mood was already in the gutter.
That afternoon meeting was a complete disaster. Their CEO spent forty minutes showing me a PowerPoint about his company's "innovation," and I tore his bullshit apart in three sentences. Watching the sweat roll down his forehead, all I could think was how he was wasting my time.
After the meeting wrapped, the bastard had the nerve to sidle up to me. "Mr. Winston, would you do us the honor of joining us for dinner tonight? There'll be quite a few girls there. I guarantee you'll be satisfied."
I looked at him.
He wanted to set me up with women? Did he think I was some kind of joke?
Some nouveau riche who needed cheap tricks and pretty faces to seal a deal?
This kind of bottom-feeding play wasn't just tacky—it was an insult to my taste.
If I wanted that kind of thing, women would line up around the globe. I didn't need him playing pimp.
"Spend your time figuring out how to make your company competitive," I said coldly. "If you don't bring something better to the table, I can pull my investment anytime. Calculate how many days you've got until bankruptcy without Winston backing you."
His smile froze. He started apologizing, but I was done listening. I got in the car and told the driver to head to the vineyard. At least the wine at tonight's event was supposed to be decent.
Ryan, the vineyard manager, looked surprised when he saw me. He walked over, handed me a glass of wine, and started his eager pitch. I gave him half my attention while my eyes were drawn to a woman across the room wearing a silver mask.
The mask caught the candlelight with a subtle gleam. Well-made, with a classical elegance. It covered most of her face, revealing only the line of her jaw and her golden curls.
My gaze lingered. My fingers tightened around the glass.
She looked too much like her.
But that was impossible.
Natalie was supposed to be in Las Vegas right now, holed up in some cheap rental, staring at an empty fridge and stacks of bills, getting her naive little singer dreams smashed to pieces.
These past two months, I hadn't kept detailed tabs on her—not because I couldn't, but because I wouldn't. I refused to let myself be dragged around by trivial details of what she ate or who she saw.
That would be pathetic. Beneath me. My energy needed to go to more valuable things. Even for Natalie.
But that didn't mean I was clueless about her situation. I understood how cruel this world was. A spoiled girl who'd lost her Mrs. Winston crown and her family's protection, what kind of life could she possibly have? Vegas would strip away her fantasies faster than anything.
All I had to do was wait. Wait for the right moment, wait for life to teach her enough lessons. Then I'd appear like a savior, extend my hand. She'd understand that only I could pull her out of the pit she'd jumped into. Only I could give her safety and dignity.
That was the logical script. That was how a man in control operated.
So this woman... couldn't be her.
Just as I was about to look away, she shifted. Her neckline slipped an inch. Candlelight fell on her right collarbone, and I saw it clearly—a small dark mole.
How many times had I kissed that mole? When she tilted her head back gasping, when she fell asleep against my chest, when I pinned her down and kissed her neck...
Blood rushed from my brain to my chest, then to my limbs, finally pooling south, making a certain part of me swell and throb in a way that had no business happening here.
It was her.
Not similar. That woman was Natalie.
How dare Natalie show up on my turf dressed like this two months after walking out? Stay calm, Richard. Now wasn't the time to drag her away. I had no interest in letting people watch my marriage become a joke.
I downed more wine and headed for the long table.
Ryan immediately rushed over, enthusiastically guiding me to the reserved seat by the head of the table. Natalie sat across and to the left—perfectly positioned in my peripheral vision. I could watch her every move without even turning my head. Good placement. Ryan finally did something right.
"Mr. Winston, we're honored you could make it." Ryan's voice buzzed in my ear. "This is Nightingale, our mystery guest for the music festival."
"Nightingale," I repeated the name, lifting my eyes to Natalie. "Interesting choice."
Behind the mask, Natalie's eyes widened. Despite her efforts to hide it, I caught the panic in her gaze.
Nervous, Natalie? Seeing me makes you that tense?
I wasn't going to expose her yet. On the contrary, I was curious to see how far my runaway wife could take this absurd charade.
"Which city do you mainly work in, Miss Nightingale?" I asked casually.
She stiffened. "Uh... Las Vegas."
"What a coincidence," I said, lips curving into a humorless smile. "I've been looking at some investment projects in Vegas recently."
"Really?" Her tone was strained. "Vegas is... good for investment."
What the hell kind of answer was that?
My gaze settled on the edge of her mask. I could imagine her face beneath it—biting her lip, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wet with nerves. "Are you from Vegas originally?"
"No, I'm from..." Natalie faltered. "The Midwest. A small town. You wouldn't know it."
I raised an eyebrow. "Try me."
Her eyes dodged mine again. "Really... It's tiny. Not famous."
An unknown small town.
I nearly laughed out loud.
God, Natalie had zero talent for lying. But it was so damn adorable. Made me want to grab her right now, kiss her hard until she couldn't spout any more ridiculous lies.
"Must be very small indeed," I said slowly.
Ryan jumped in, launching into an elaborate description of tonight's wine—vintage, terroir, craftsmanship. I nodded along absently, my attention entirely on the fidgeting figure across from me.
She barely touched her food. Her fingers unconsciously spun the silver fork. Her shoulders were locked tight, like she was ready to bolt any second. Just like that night at Mustang when she slapped me—that same defensive stance all over her body.
I didn't actually want to scare her—not now, not here. So for the rest of the evening, I just sipped my wine leisurely, chatted with Ryan about inconsequential business, pretending to be completely absorbed in this boring party, as if she didn't interest me at all.
But Natalie couldn't sit still. She stood up and addressed Ryan. "Sorry, I need to use the restroom."
She hurried toward the corridor by the courtyard side, her pale neck and that mole flashing before my eyes like the most tempting invitation.
I counted to ten.
Then I stood up too.
"Excuse me," I told Ryan.
Ryan blinked but didn't dare ask questions.
The corridor had a dark red carpet. The restroom was at the end of a relatively quiet hallway.
When I pushed the door open, Natalie was standing at the mirror, hands braced on the marble counter, head down, shoulders rising and falling as she tried to steady her breathing.
At the sound of the door, she looked up in alarm, saw me in the mirror, and spun around like a startled deer, back pressed against the cold counter.
"You..." Natalie's voice was tight. "This is the ladies' room!"
"I know." I reached back and locked the door with a deliberate click. I walked toward Natalie. She had nowhere to go, her gaze darting, could only stare at me helplessly.
I stopped in front of her, catching that familiar scent of warm orange blossom. The moment that fragrance hit my nostrils, my pants tightened.
Two months. I thought I'd forgotten her scent, but my body remembered ten thousand times better than my brain.
"Nightingale," I kept my voice low. "You remind me of someone I know."
Natalie looked up at me, blue eyes full of panic. The mask covered the upper half of her face but couldn't hide her bitten lip or her heaving chest. "Really? You've got the wrong person."
I didn't answer. My fingers traced the silver edge of the mask slowly, hooked a blonde curl that had escaped, and slid it toward her ear.
Natalie's ears were sensitive. Sure enough, her breathing went completely ragged, the velvet neckline rising and falling.
All I had to do was look down, and I could see the soft curves beneath.
My hands gripped Natalie's waist, and I lifted her onto the counter. She gasped, instinctively grabbing my shoulders. Her thighs hit the cold stone, and she shuddered, reflexively pressing half an inch closer into me.
Her chest pressed against my shirt.
God, I was about to explode.
"Richard..." Natalie's body trembled. Not from fear. Something else. I'd seen it too many times before. In bed. Beneath me when she came.
I'd bet anything she was already wet.
"You should call me Mr. Winston," I gripped her chin, tilting it up, forcing her face toward mine. My thumb moved from her chin to her lower lip, pressing that soft flesh. "After all, we just met."
She didn't speak. But her breath was hot against my fingers, making me want to replace my thumb with something else. So I pushed up Natalie's skirt hem, my palm sliding up her thigh.
That's when—
Ryan's voice came from outside the door, still distant.
"Have you seen Mr. Winston? I need to discuss some business with him."
The dark current in my eyes slowly receded. I couldn't take her here. Not only would we easily be discovered, but it would spook Natalie into running again. I stepped back, creating suffocating distance between us.
Natalie sat on the counter edge, still dazed from that charged moment, eyes unfocused.
"Nightingale. Pleasure meeting you."
I turned and walked out.
Ryan appeared from around the corner at the end of the hallway, all smiles as he approached.
I had zero interest in whatever he was saying. The fabric of my pants rubbing against that swollen place was torture with every step. I glanced down and swore silently.
When the party ended, Natalie and her manager Emma headed for the exit. The night air was cool. Natalie instinctively hugged her arms.
I stood up and strode after them. "I'll drive you back."
"No need," Natalie refused immediately. "We called a car."
"Cancel it." I wasn't negotiating. "My car's right here. Get in."
Natalie stood frozen, spine straight, lips pressed into a stubborn line. The night wind tousled her hair. Her mask gleamed cold under the porch light.
My gaze swept past her to Emma's face. This woman clearly knew better than my wife how to read a room. She didn't even need me to ask—she was already sliding into the back seat.
I walked to the passenger side and opened the door again, eyes on Natalie. "You sit up front."
She shook her head without thinking and reached for the other back door handle. "I'll sit with Emma..."
The instant her fingers were about to touch the handle, I grabbed her wrist. Not hard, but enough that she couldn't pull away.
"Then we'll just stand here!" Her voice finally rose, drawing glances from a couple of lingering guests.
A wave of frustrated irritation surged up. I hated this public tug-of-war, hated even more Natalie acting like I was a predator she had to escape from.
It made me feel suffocated.
After a few seconds of standoff, I took an almost inaudible breath and loosened my grip first.
The instant I relaxed, Natalie yanked her wrist from my hand with such force she stumbled.
She didn't look at me again. Instead, furious, she pulled open the other back door, ducked inside quickly, and slammed it shut.