Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Artemis, allow me to introduce you to my better half.”
“Melania, this is my darling, Lavender.”
It’s all very embarrassing and so over the top, but a tiny part of me loves the attention. His attention.
He escorts me to the dining room and pretends not to notice when I almost fall over my feet when I spot the photo of our wedding in a silver frame on the marble fire surround.
He pulls out my chair and kisses my cheek, the smile he sends me full of knowing. Like he felt what that did to me—internally, I mean. Not just shock but also the split second when I forgot this isn’t really my life.
As dinner progresses, Raif involves me in the conversation, whether or not I know what’s being spoken about. He coaxes me to taste the food from his plate—and again, there is just so much food—refreshes my drink and offers me wines with names I can’t even pronounce.
And Raif’s associates? Clients? Friends? They’re an odd bunch. It’s like he stuck his hand blindly into a bag of characters and pulled random ones out. Some of them seem like the kind of shady types you see on crime shows on TV, and others seem as though they’d be at home dining in Kensington Palace. Some drip obvious designer labels and diamonds, and others are classy and understated.
I’ve had people over for dinner before. I rustle up a mean paella, buy flowers, and fold pretty napkins. But my food is served around my tiny kitchen table, not a one set with Hermes tableware.
I’m seated next to the husband of a politician, who also happens also to be the daughter of one of Europe’s largest landowners. The couple are well into their sixties, well dressed and very pleasant. They tell me they don’t have children but dote on their three Siberian huskies. So much so that they’re currently having a house built at the end of their garden for those treasured pooches. Not a doghouse. A people house, complete with lounge, kitchen, dining room, and a bedroom each. Plus one extra in case a doggy friend sleeps over.
Mind-boggling. But they’ve promised to drop by the gallery next week. Apparently, Raif had suggested I’ve an eye for up-and-coming artists.
“Art is such a wonderful investment,” says the man, contemplating the wine in his glass.
“Same for freeport warehouses,” offers someone else from across the table. The man has teeth like piano keys and a silver-gray suit that looks like it’s been plucked straight out of the eighties. “Have you ever thought about holding an auction?” His tone is curiously mild for someone who reminds me of a shark.
“I don’t own an auction house. Or have the facilities. Or the experience. Or even {insert more waffle here}.” In other words, I supply him with at least eleven different ways to say no.
“I think he was trying to involve the gallery in money laundering,” I whisper incredulously to Raif when the conversation turns.
“Really?” His eyes seem all sparkle and dance.
“You!” I’d mutter, slapping his arm with my hand.
“I suppose I don’t need to tell you how freeport warehouses are a tax haven for the wealthy.”
“Are they really?”
I narrow my eyes when he adds, “Maybe you should explain it to me.”
“Something tells me you could probably explain the intricacies.”
He laughs, then steals a brief but entirely spontaneous kiss that makes my insides shimmer. His expression as he pulls away is not quite as buoyant. It’s like he’s engaged his poker face. But for what reason?
“Who is he, anyway?” I ask quickly. I don’t want the moment to end. I like being the center of his attention.
“Turkey Teef Keef,” he answers in an East End accent that would rival Albert’s, the old English bulldog.
“Turkey Teeth Keith.” I shake my head, reproach leaking from my tone. “What kind of friends do you keep?”
“Useful ones,” he answers with a grin.
“Well, he sounds just delightful.”
“If you get the opportunity to shake his hand, do yourself a favor and count your fingers afterward.”
“I’d rather eat my own feet than have any part of him touch any part of me,” I retort. And I get that shimmery feeling in my chest again when he laughs.
The evening goes by in the flash of an eye, and Raif is in excellent form. So charming and convivial and just downright handsome. He shines, and people just seem to gravitate toward him. It’s not hard to understand why.
He’s attentiveness personified as far as his wife is concerned. And when he isn’t directing the conversation my way, I feel the weight of his gaze on me. More than once this evening, I’ve caught him looking at me as though no one else in the room exists to him.
We’ve had a rough couple of weeks, understandably. And while Raif owes me nothing—promised me nothing, nothing real at least—I’ve missed him. But as we close the door to the last of the stragglers, I feel wonderful.