In reality, Sloane had been bankrolling our happy hours for the past six months. She put theworkin workaholic.
"Although I disagree with Isabella's advice seventy-eight percent of the time, she's right. You have to talk to him before you move in." An elegant shrug. "There's an art exhibition at Dante's house tonight. You should attend."
Dante owned a notoriously impressive art collection rumored to be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. His annual private exhibition showcasing his latest acquisitions was one of the most coveted invites in Manhattan.
We were technically engaged, and my lack of an invitation would've been embarrassing had I not been so relieved.
After I move in, I'd have to spendeverynight with him, so I was clinging to my freedom while it lasted. The prospect of sharing a room, abedwith Dante Russo was…unnerving.
An image rose in my mind of him sitting behind my father's desk, eyes dark and posture arrogant, with tendrils of smoke curling around that boldly charismatic face.
An unexpected heat ran between my legs.
The press of his thumb against my lip, the smoky glint in his eyes when he'd looked at me…there'd been a moment, just one, when I thought he would kiss me. Not to show affection, but to dirty me up. To dominate and corrupt.
The warmth curled low until the heavy expectancy of my friends' gazes pulled me back to the present.
I wasn't in my father's office. I was in a bar, and they were waiting for an answer.
The exhibition. Right.
A cold rush of reality doused the heat.
"I can't show up uninvited," I said, hoping they couldn't see me blush beneath my alcohol-induced redness. "It's rude."
"You're not a random party crasher. You're hisfiancée, even if you don't have a ring yet," Isabella countered. "Plus, you're moving in soon, anyway. Consider it a preview of your new home—which you can't move into unless youtalkto him."
I sighed, wishing I could rewind time by a month so I could mentally prepare myself for what was coming.
"I hate it when you make sense."
Isabella's cheeks dimpled. "Most people do. I would go with you because I love a good party crash—er, house tour, but I have a shift tonight."
By day, she was an aspiring erotic thriller author. By night, she served overpriced drinks to overgrown frat boy types at a dive bar in the East Village.
She hated the bar, its clientele, and its creepy manager and was actively looking for another job, but until she found one, she was stuck.
"Sloane?" I asked hopefully.
If I were to confront Dante tonight, I'd need backup.
"I can't. Asher Donovan crashed his Ferrari in London. He's fine," Sloane said when Isabella and I gasped. Neither of us cared about sports, but the famous soccer star was too pretty to die. "But I have to put out the media fire. This is the second car he's crashed in as many months."
Sloane ran a boutique public relations firm with a small but high-powered client roster. She wasalwaysputting out fires.
She motioned our server for the check, paid the tab, and made me promise to call her if I needed anything before she disappeared out the door in a cloud of Jo Malone perfume and platinum blonde hair.
Isabella left soon after for her shift, but I lingered in the booth, debating what to do next.
If I were smart, I'd go home and finish packing for my move. Nothing good would come of crashing Dante's party, and I could call him tomorrow if I really wanted.
Pack, shower, and sleep,I decided.
That was my plan, and I was going to stick to it.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you're not on the list. It doesn't matter whether you're Mr. Russo's mother, sister, orfiancée…" The hostess raised a brow at my bare ring finger. "I can't let you in without an invitation."
My smile didn't falter. "If you call Dante, he'll confirm my identity," I said, even though I wasn't sure he would. I'd deal with that bridge when we got there. "This is simply an oversight."