Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Law Of Averages
Raf
As it turned out, AJ was out of the country on business and not responding to my messages, besides one solitary reply to say he was asking around.
We looped in Marco, who didn’t have any more intel than what Avery had found on his initial search.
Since returning from his work commitments with Chiara, he spent every waking hour fine-tuning the security being handled by his team for the Law Gala taking place tonight.
After what happened at Bella Donna, he was taking no chances—especially since uncovering more sordid details about his archnemesis and Sophia’s co-chair for tonight’s event, Arty.
Marco doubled his man count from last year and would be sitting at our table, not only to be close to my sister, but also to have eyes on Chiara.
Her safety is still his responsibility, and feeling somewhat in limbo not knowing more about the mystery man with many aliases, I felt it was a necessary precaution—though I’d never say as much.
For all intents and purposes, Chiara is my date tonight, the intent being to keep the speculation burning about our relationship status in order to keep that arranged marriage deal on ice for as long as possible—but in the days she had been back, our paths hadn’t crossed.
Moreover, when she texted me back the morning after her run in with mystery guy, it lacked her usual snark.
She simply gave me a day and time to meet with Evie for her fitting.
Then she changed it without telling me. When I got there, Evie informed me she visited her studio for a fitting the night before and assured Chiara loved the gown I had chosen.
The alarm bells tolling in my ears almost drowned out her gentle voice. Chiara was fucking avoiding me.
I’m a good read of people. Of her. With the details I’ve been able to piece together over the last few weeks, she chases the sunshine with demons at her back.
My guess for her reservedness is she’s been spooked—by what or who, I can only speculate, but I’d bet that Mr. Buzzcut had something to do with it.
I’m dressed in my tailor-made black tux, finished with all the perfect designer bells and whistles.
Evie has looked after all my event dressing and wardrobe needs since she opened her creative and styling agency just over a year ago.
Seb demanded we all sign up on a retainer, but added that she must never know it was him who suggested we do so.
If a guy like him can’t get lucky in love, what fucking hope do I have?
I look at my Rolex one more time. We’re only minutes away from Chiara’s pick-up location.
She could have come with her housemate, Arabella, who’s also attending tonight’s event, but walking the red carpet as a firm like my father insisted is the ideal photo opportunity that will perpetuate the rumors of what’s happening between us—even if the idea makes the bowtie around my neck feel like it’s choking me.
My father’s elation that his first-born and heir to the Princi empire would finally have someone on his arm for the prestigious event was short-lived when my date’s identity was revealed.
I didn’t have the bandwidth to care for his antics, all my energy consumed with replaying the moments I had Chiara in the palm of my hand and denied her.
Our heated moment of foreplay in my office to the bruising kiss I stole from her and the way she swayed like she was drunk on my affection, as fleeting as it was.
An automated message was sent to her to advise we would be arriving, so I banish the thought as quick as it enters to stop ungodly incidents from taking shape in my slacks—except when she steps out of the door and makes her way down the stairs at the precise time we said we’d be arriving, I feel that vital organ stutter.
She looks breathtaking. The gold of her dress offsets her dark hair and signature ruby-red lips.
Her emerald eyes are winged, making them look even bigger and more iridescent.
My driver holds open the door for her, and she slides into the backseat, her intoxicating smoky and spicy perfume enveloping me like a homecoming.
I hold my breath waiting for her to set the tone for the night.
My house of cards might have crumbled the moment I realized she was avoiding me, but I need to keep my poker face in play.
“Well, old man, you certainly scrub up well,” she says, putting her back to her now closed door so she can appraise me slowly.
I fist my hands resting on my knees tighter as I feign indifference, though all I want to do is drag her into my lap and spank her ass the same color as her lips in punishment for keeping me on read, figuratively and literally.
It’s exactly what I told her I wanted, the distance I demanded she keep from me.
Except when she showed me she can be obedient, I am consumed with thoughts of her, wishing for more of her sassiness so I have an excuse to fuck it out of her.
“And by the looks of you, I not only got your sizes right, but I also single-handedly upped your style cred,” I drawl, letting my eyes drift over her curves encased in the figure-hugging gown before meeting her heated gaze with my own.
The air is thick with tension, which she cuts with her sassiness I hate to love.
She has no idea how many sleepless nights I’ve spent trying to reconcile why she hasn’t made contact or seized the opportunity to be in the same room as me after succeeding to do what she loved most; getting under my skin and burrowing far too close to my vital organs.
“So what time do you need to be back at the nursing home?” she asks with a devilish grin, eyes twinkling with mirth.
“If I don’t die of boredom first, I’m curfew-free.”
“Well, stick with me, baby, and I’ll keep you young and your life exciting,” she says with a wink.
I breathe a silent sigh of relief. We both know how to play this game, the one where we avoid the dark truths lurking just under the surface of the charade.
The one where I pretend she’s the bane of my existence and I’m totally unbothered by the fact that she’s avoided me like the plague, and she pretends she’s the happy-go-lucky party girl.
“The story we’re going with is that you convinced me to take you as my date so you had an excuse to stay in New York longer while you finalize your visa details and break the news to your uncle,” I inform her to really hammer home the point this is all just part of the plan.
“I figured it would be wise to leave out the part where your family is trying to marry you off and you threatened to kill your cousin before brushing off drinks with the girls in favor of a visit to the cemetery.”
I know it’s a prick move given it seemed we both agreed on some unconscious level to keep it light and flirty.
But the proud part that’s aggravated at her keeping me at arm’s length sharpened my tongue.
She’s accused me of giving her whiplash once, so guess I’m going there again.
She bites her lip and averts her gaze out the window.
“Probably also wise to leave out the bit where you weaseled your way past Arabella’s security and accosted me in my room and stole a kiss from me,” she says, turning back to face me, a sweet smile on her face that is so at odds with the hellcat she is, all sharp claws and lightning quick tongue.
“We’ll just blame it on your old age, shall we? ”
I shake my head but let her see the merest of smiles ghost my lips. If her claws are out, it means her demons are firmly away.
Yep. Charades. It’s the safest game for us both.