The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,18

body.

His gaze flits over me. “No question. You’re a knockout. But, if you’re looking for something more than a weekend, I’d suggest you invest in your look. Off-the-rack dresses aren’t going to cut it with this crowd. Dress for the job you want, and all that,” he says and falls back in his chair.

Each insult and insinuation is barbed with contempt. They flay old wounds wide open.

“You jerk,” I spit and lean forward so I can look him in the eye when I tell him to fuck off.

They’re cold, dark, and shuttered. He looks like a completely different person than the one I met on the elevator. I wonder who put that look in his eye. I know it’s not me. The disillusionment I see is deep-seated. Despite the warm May sea breeze passing through the tent, goose bumps replace my tingles.

“Do better research on your next target. Approaching me at an event like this was a dead giveaway about your motives. You should have bumped into me at the airport or something less obvious.” His voice is devoid of any emotion, his gaze moves to the dance floor. His gaze is observant but detached. “Hmm … it’s a shame, I think we would’ve had a great time together,” he says while he looks at me like I’m a car he’s thinking about buying.

I wonder for a minute if I’m being punked. I glance around the room. The music, the tinkle of silverware scraping plates, people shouting to be heard over the noise are still there. No camera crew is rolling in to surprise me.

Nothing changed. No one’s watching us. I look back at him.

“Are you serious?” I ask him. I look closely at him for a sign that maybe he’s kidding.

Nope, that disdain is real. He frowns and adjusts the cuffs of his jacket before he leans forward. “Let me spell it out.” His eyes skim over me again. “Based on your lack of … polish,” his eyes roam my body, from head to toe and a flush burns over my skin in their wake. “I’m assuming you’re new to this scene. All the regulars know better than to try a trick like this. This place is littered with rich men. I’m sure you’ll find one. You can thank me by calling out my name when you pretend he made you come,” he says without a hint of humor and adjusts his cuff links.

I clasp my purse to my chest in shock.

He looks back at me with complete disinterest.

“You’re the one who claimed to be the expert at landing rich men. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t look like a fool in front of your friends.” He leans his head in close like he’s sharing a secret. “Just a heads-up, they don’t seem to really like you very much,” he says.

My heart plummets to my toes.

“Were you listening to us?” I gasp in horror. We thought we heard a phone ring, but one of Cass’s debutante friends said it came from the terrace.

“It was hard not to when you were speaking at the top of your lungs,” he says.

I stare unseeingly at the room full of revelers who have no clue that this man is taking a pickaxe to my pride. I shake my head. He’s taken my words, spoken in a moment of pure self-preservation, out of context. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to explain myself to him.

“Don’t look so down in the mouth. You’ve been spared a night of pretending that you’re turned on by anything more than the diamonds in my watch.”

And just like that, he turns away and faces the front of the room again.

I don’t know whether to be angry, offended, sad, or ashamed. I settle on all of the above and they move through me like lava pushes its way past the earth’s crust. I stand up, step right in front of his face, and let them spill.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I snarl.

He has the nerve to look surprised that I’m still there.

“What?” I widen my eyes in an exaggeration of his own expression. “Did you think I was just going to slink away in shame?” I glare down at him. “I’m not the one who should feel ashamed. You are a pig.” I spit the word at him. He looks back at the dance floor.

“You don’t get to accuse me of being some sort of gold digger and then turn back to your entertainment like it’s not a