Sherrilyn Kenyon - Silent Truth

Long silky black hair fanned along bony shoulders of the woman she’d collided with. The scrawny twenty-something female spun to face Abbie. Her gasp of surprise exhaled on a huff of outrage as though she’d been assaulted. “Are you drunk?”

Was it Abbie’s imagination or had everyone within thirty feet heard that comment and gone silent? She felt a thick wall of eyes locked on her.

“No, I’m not drunk.” Abbie went for indignant, but the catch of worry in her voice might have ruined the affect. Clusters of curious faces popped into her peripheral vision. She tried to act as though her stomach wasn’t having a disco party at warp speed. “You backed into me.”

“I don’t think so.” The black-haired woman spit her words from perfectly shaped lips in plum-colored lipstick, adding plenty of how-dare-you-insult-me innuendo. The low V of her silky purple top split in a long cut to her waist, meeting the top of black bolero pants cinched with a braided gold and silver belt. She flexed her shoulders back and one of her surgically enhanced puppies came close to nosing its way out.

Abbie struggled between offering a polite apology and snapping at this witch for being so rude.

The woman sent a withering glance at the closest security guard… who took that as his cue to act.

Ah, crap. Abbie could stand her ground and risk a scene or walk away with her tail between her legs.

She’d never backed down from anyone.

The security guard quietly asked Abbie, “Can I be of assistance?”

That sounded like a cultured “We got a problem here, lady?”

Abbie opened her mouth to plead her case and felt someone’s large fingers close around her forearm.

Was someone trying to escort her out?

Of course they’d assume she was at fault.

One-tenth of a second before Abbie verbally scorched the muscle daring to touch her, a deep voice connected to that hand said, “Here you are, darling. Sorry I was detained.”

She turned to the man holding her arm and recognized him. The jaw-dropping blond male she’d stared at like a fool outside. He had bottomless green eyes, deep in color, as though stolen from the center of a mystical forest.

A forest that hid something dark and foreboding at the moment as his attention fixed on the woman in purple.

Abbie glanced back at Miss Uncongeniality.

Shock rode the woman’s face before her cornflower-blue eyes morphed into a bored look of amusement. Her plump lips curled with a malicious smile. When she spoke, intimate undertones smoked through her voice. “Surprised to see you here, Hunter, with-” She flicked a condescending glance at Abbie. “-her. I had no idea your taste ran so… pedestrian.”

Abbie’s face flamed hot enough for her skin to turn tomato red. What she wouldn’t give for a decent retort, anything that would extricate her from this situation with just a piece of her dignity.

Nothing popped into her mind.

She’d anticipated a potential disaster, just not this soon.

My taste-” Hunter chuckled, allowing a vicious undercurrent to play beneath his words “-has always run to natural rather than manmade, Lydia.”

Lydia Bertelli narrowed her unnaturally bright blue eyes to the point they turned into slits between thick eyelashes fanning her cheek. “Natural? Or dull and boring?”

The arm of the female he still held flexed at the insult.

If not for offering him an opening to meet the woman next to him, Hunter would curse his luck that Lydia was in attendance tonight. She’d normally be off on her father’s yacht cruising the Greek isles or working on a deeper tan to set off the sheet of black hair she wore like a queen’s mantle.

He did curse his stupidity for allowing his dick to convince him to let Lydia into his hotel room-once-a couple years ago.

In fairness to his libido, that had been before Lydia turned into a cosmetic surgeon’s wet dream, and she’d seemed like a perfect choice for one night. He hadn’t been with a woman in months and she showed up at his door wearing a fuck-me-where-I-stand dress.

He’d been on the receiving end of Lydia’s viper attitude since making it clear he wanted no repeat of their one night together.

Especially after he’d found out the next day that she leaked to the damned media that she’d spent the night with a Thornton-Payne. Lydia had used him to stir up jealousy in a rock star she hadn’t been able to close the deal with.

Women and their agendas.

“Is everything all right?” the security guard, Carlos Delgado, inquired in a firm voice.

Hunter had forgotten the BAD agent was present.

“Everything’s fine.” He shot a hard glance at Carlos.

“No harm, no foul,” the woman next to Hunter muttered, surprising him when she spoke. She drew her shoulders back and smiled with withering politeness. “Nice meeting you, Lydia. Gotta go.”

She had spirit, something Lydia and most of the women he encountered at these places lacked.

He met Lydia’s eyes and sharpened his with a warning that if she didn’t retract her claws she’d leave licking her wounds. When Curly Locks turned to walk away, he moved his hand to her back. “More champagne?”

“No, thanks.” She stepped up her pace, pulling away from his touch.

He lengthened his stride and caught up, placing his hand at the small of her back again.

She cocked her head, sending him a look that questioned his motives. “An old girlfriend?”

“Old nuisance.” He saw a pocket of space with a semblance of privacy. “Let’s step over there for a minute.”

“Why?”

“To talk.”

She slowed. “Look, thanks for your help, but you can go now.”

Her apologetic tone harbored an insinuation that she was inconveniencing him. He was stunned. Didn’t she realize half this room would notice if he walked away from her now?

And the other half would hear about it by the end of the night.

“Humor me for a few minutes.” Hunter continued guiding her through breaks in the crowd, lifting his chin at familiar faces and inclining his head at others.

A scent teased his nose. Something fresh and different that didn’t belong here among custom-blended perfumes.

He realized he was leaning closer to inhale a deeper breath and stopped himself before he gave anyone reason to think something really was going on between them.

Her curls bobbed with each step. Not professional hairstyling, but he liked the natural way she’d piled up the ringlets and used a sequined clasp to tame the rowdy mass.

She’d shown backbone, manners… and not a clue she’d been in danger of getting clawed. This one might have held her own under Lydia’s attack for a few more minutes, but she wouldn’t have for long.

Not a normal, everyday woman. A nice girl.

When he reached a giant bronze planter abutting a short wall that provided some privacy, Curly Locks took an extra step, then turned on him.

“Why did you do that? Act like you knew me?” she asked in a voice so loaded with suspicion he should be ducking for cover.

Of course, he’d be asking the same question in her shoes.

Hunter lifted a hand in dismissal. “Lydia lives for confrontation, regardless of collateral damage. She clearly stepped into your path. Once her head makes a full rotation she’s hard to bring back down to earth. Just figured I could defuse the situation before it got out of hand.”

“Why? You probably downgraded your social standing in the process.”

He’d have laughed if she had, but she’d thrown that out in honesty. He was used to getting the “you’re a snob” routine from BAD agents, but getting that attitude from a stranger-one he’d helped-pricked his temper. The point of this meeting was to get her to talk, which wouldn’t happen if he let her bait him.