Getting Even. Avril Tremayne
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oh God, her entire traitorous body was in eruption mode. She wanted to stab him and...and kiss him, damn it! Taste him once more. Touch him. Feel something.
So much for closure, then!
Third husband? Where was she going to get one of those? Out of her ass?
She’d just have to hope there was a single man at the reception she could attach herself to. A single man who wasn’t going to trip over his tongue when Veronica dragged him into Felicity’s orbit.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” she muttered as she tramped through gardens and across more lawns en route to what was known as Tremenhill Hall but was really a repurposed mansion.
Okay, time to dust off the catastrophe scale. She needed something brutally dystopian if she was to emerge from her next encounter with Rafael with any dignity. Too bad nothing sprang readily to mind.
She should have gone for the damn knife, screw the DNA evidence! Her mother could have shipped her off to a country that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States. Like...she didn’t know...did India have one? She could go and live on an ashram. Now there was a catastrophe she could get behind! Telling her mother she was gifting her trust fund to an ashram in India.
“Yeah, no thanks,” she said, and giggled suddenly as the marquee set up for welcome drinks outside the hall came into view. Like...giggled! Well, who knew? The catastrophe scale actually worked!
She whooshed out what felt like her first normal breath of the day as she crossed yet another lawn toward what was a very bridal confection. Garlands of white blooms not only festooned the marquee’s upper edge but also anchored billowing swathes of silky white fabric around the support poles. She looked down at her hot-pink dress, feeling every bit as conspicuous as she had during that “Oh fuck” moment in the chapel. But after her dare-you encounter with Rafael at the mausoleum, she was okay with that.
Or she would be, just as soon as she made sure she wasn’t on Table Two with Rafael and Felicity, because that would be taking the whole zero fucks mantra too far. Not that she really believed Romy and Matt would put her in that awkward position, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. And if she was on Table Two? Well, the bride and groom would be the first victims of the ensuing bloodbath, that’s all. It would be her Carrie moment!
She’d been to enough gala events to predict the seating plans would be at the hall entrance, so she walked straight through the marquee—and bingo! Two gold easels were set up alongside potted plants on either side of a center set of double doors. She headed for one of the easels and scanned the list for Table Two.
Brief close of her eyes—relief!—to find Rafael and Felicity listed but not her, before locating her name on Table Seven.
The room layout pinned below the table lists showed Tables Two and Seven were on opposite sides of the dance floor, but she decided she’d feel more confident of her ability to keep it together if she went inside and got the picture in 3D.
Through the full-height Palladian windows on either side of the entrance, she could see staff tweaking table settings. She hoped they wouldn’t shoo her out when she barged in early or she might lose her shit, but figured if she walked in like she owned the place—channeling her smiling-assassin mother and crossing that with the intimidating countenance so often worn by the headmistress of the Koller Finishing School in Switzerland—nobody would dare.
“Don’t fuck with me, people,” she said under her breath, stepping up and over the stoop to swing open the heavy double doors.
Within seconds she was threading her hot-pink, unchallenged way to Table Two. She sat in the spot reserved for Rafael Velez, then in the one for Felicity, and checked their line of sight to all the other tables before making her way to Table Seven. There she found that although she wouldn’t be facing them, she’d definitely be visible to them in profile.
That was going to have to change. Depositing her purse on her seat, she walked slowly around her table, stopping at each seat for a fresh assessment.
And then she heard her name. “Veronica Johnson.”
Male. British accent.
“‘Oh fuck’ from the chapel,” he added.
“I wonder how many times people are going to mention that to me tonight,” she said...and turned...and yes! Early thirties. Handsome. Impeccably suited—with tie, unlike Rafael Velez.
“I’ll be your knight in shining armor and defend you from attack,” he said.
“Hey, I didn’t say it, all I did was laugh.”
“And how could you not?”
“Exactly!” she said, and smiled her best smile at him. “But I’m in the market for a Sir Galahad tonight, as it turns out.”
“Ah! Well, in that case, let’s put you—” picking up her place card and bringing it to where she was standing “—here—” putting it down at the seat to her left “—next to me!”
She laughed as she squinted at his place card. “Why thank you, Phillip Castle.” She nodded at the extra card jostling for space beside her own. “But what will Sally Paulson say about it?”
“Ah, well, as to that...” He plucked Sally off the table and carried it around the table to put it where Veronica used to be. “I happen to know Sally Paulson fancies Romy’s cousin, Lloyd Allen—your erstwhile dining companion. So we’re sorted.”
A lightning-fast look across to Table Two told her she’d now be showing Rafael her back. “Seems we are,” she said, and decided to test the water vis-à-vis his susceptibility to Felicity. “You’re not disappointed you won’t be gazing across at the famous Felicity all night?”
He looked around as though Felicity had just materialized. Bad sign. “How do you know that?”
“I had a quick look around all the tables and found her on Table Two.”
“Ah! Maybe we need to do a few more place card swaps in that case—trade Sally and Lloyd for her and Rafael Velez.”
“A fan, are you?” Veronica said, abandoning hope of using him as her Husband No. 3 masquerader.
“Of hers? No. Of his? Most definitely.”
Damn, definitely no use to me, she thought, then wondered if she’d said those words out loud because Phillip laughed. “No, I’m not gay,” he said. “I just want his next book, Stomp.”
“His next...? Ah! You’re in publishing!”
“I am! Smythe & Lowe.”
“Me, too—Johnson/Charles. That explains why Romy has us on the same table.”
He looked her up and down, plucked her card back up off the table and read the name. “You’re that Veronica Johnson?”
“If you mean Veronica Johnson, editor, then yes.”
“More than an editor with that surname.”
“The name doesn’t carry as much weight as you’d think—and definitely not since the merger.”
“Do I scent dissatisfaction? If you’re contemplating a move, we’re looking for a Publishing Director for our new romance imprint.”
“That’s two moves—presuming it’s in London?”
“You’d love London.”
“I do love London.” Veronica laughed. “So thank you—I’ll take that under advisement.”
“I mean it!”
“So do I.”
“No you don’t—you New Yorkers are bloody hard to extract—but I’m a firm believer in the old adage ‘there’s