18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Jarrett

T here he is. That fucker, Logan. He's smiling and laughing, thanking the server with a polite nod as he swipes two glasses of Champagne from the makeshift bar. The setting sun reflects off of his stupid, perfectly coiffed blonde hair, and I don't know what it is about him—okay, so I know exactly what it is about him, but I am trying desperately to not smash his fucking face in.

The only reason I'm watching him right now is because I haven't seen Ophelia yet, and I have no doubt he's heading in her direction with those drinks. He weaves through tables set out on the Tropez Lawn space, around a palm tree, then to a tall table beside the pool.

She's not there.

He hands one of the glasses to Ophelia's friend, Tabatha, and she accepts gracefully, her cheeks flushing a little pink when he smiles at her.

What the fuck is going on? What did I miss here?

And where is my fucking woman?

The space for this gala is huge, and with over eight-hundred guests, she could be anywhere. I should have come for the food portion of the evening, but I'd rather shit in my hands and clap than eat a three-course meal with a bunch of stuffy twats. Now, if I had Ophelia by my side, it would be a whole different ball game.

There's a ten-piece orchestra on the stage beside the pool area, their smooth tones echoing across the space via multiple speakers dotted around. They're playing chart music, but somehow their instrumental versions of popular songs are so much better than the originals.

A few couples are swaying in the dance area, which has been laid out with smooth white flooring…she's not here either. Heading back to one of the bars, I have to pause, quite literally stopping in my tracks when I see Rick the Prick walking towards me with a smug grin on his ugly mug.

I discreetly check the pocket of my trousers for my knuckle duster, sliding my fingers through the holes as Rick gets closer.

"You took too long, my friend." Winking, he raises his Champagne glass and carries on straight past me. Fucker is a dead man walking.

Silently seething, I continue to the bar and order a whiskey. I need something stronger than Champagne or I'll end up getting myself arrested for fucking Rick up in front of all these people.

Drink in hand, I turn and survey the area once more.

There she is.

She's fucking glorious, effortlessly exuding confidence and beauty in her understated purple floor-length gown. There are no fancy frills, no lacing or glitter, but there is a slit up one of her thighs. It showcases her sexy, tanned legs, and her sky-high heels that look like they could kill a man. To be fair, they probably could, easily, in her hands.

Her hair is swept up in a fancy twist, with wisps framing her delicately made-up face, and all I want to do is wipe it all off and mess her up.

The smile she gives the older lady she's talking to is as addictive as the rest of her. It's relaxed and real, like the times we had at the cabin when she let her guard down.

With Rick here, I'm not wasting any more time on watching her. She may be able to handle herself in a fight to the death, but that doesn't mean I'm going to allow her to get into that situation. The Firm wouldn't make their move at an event like this, but they're getting too fucking closer to her for my liking.

"Apologies for interrupting, but may I steal Miss Warren away for a dance?" I'm hoping my British charm will excuse my brashness, because whether this couple agrees or not, I'm taking Ophelia to the dance floor.

"Of course, young man." The older lady smiles sweetly, giving Ophelia a look that suggests she approves. The man beside her chuckles and begins to lead, who I'm assuming is his wife, away.

Ophelia…well, she looks murderous as I turn to face her, holding my palm out for her to take.

"That was rude." She slides her fingers across mine and allows me to lead her to where others are dancing.

"I asked nicely, she said yes. What was rude about that?" We reach the dance area and I pull her into me, splaying one hand across the bottom of her back and holding her close.

"I was in the middle of a conversation. They're great donors and we were…wait. What are you even doing here?" Her brow is furrowed, her lips pursed, until she remembers where she is and it's like a switch flips in her brain. The fake smile she wore at her meeting with fucking Dexter creeps across her face, but her eyes are still demanding answers.

The sun has almost set at this point, and the glittering lights twinkle across the whole space, lighting it up with deep golden hues. It's ruined by that fake smile of hers, but I'll bring her around. She'll be smiling for real and screaming my name in no time.

"You're in danger—"

"Well, thanks for that, Whoopi, but I can handle myself." She allows me to lead our dance, while she tries to lead the conversation. I spin her out then pull her in so her back is to my front and wrap one arm around her front, the other still holding her hand.

"Is that so, Kitten?" I speak into her ear, low and deep, so only she can hear. "I prefer to be the one handling you."

"I have a date tonight, you know." She spins beneath my raised arm, back to facing me, and rests her palm against my chest. Her other hand is still firmly in my grip.

"Oh yeah, where is he? Because Logan looked comfortable with Tabatha when I saw them earlier." If she's trying to make me growly, it's working.

"He's a donor I met with a few days ago." She's smug as fuck as she tells me, but she falters a little when I push my fingertips a little deeper into her hip.

"Do you know where that donor's money comes from, Ophelia?" I should have fucking killed him days ago when I saw him meeting with her at that restaurant.

Dexter is one of The Firm's members with a penchant for murder. I refused to send any more girls directly to him after the last three ended up in suspicious accidents…that were most definitely not accidents.

If we hadn't been interrupted in the bathroom at the restaurant the other day, I would have done more than grab his head and smash it against the door. But the fucker ran out of there as fast as he could and never came back. Coward.

"That's rich coming from you, and to be perfectly honest, Jarrett, I don't even know why you're here." She slips her hand from mine and smoothes her palms across and over to my shoulders as we continue to dance. "I didn't peg you for the jealous type, though." She chuckles, and we both know she's talking out of her arsehole.

"You haven't pegged me at all yet, Kitten. I might be willing to let you try if you come home with me tonight." I can't—okay, I can, more like I won't—ruin her night by telling her about Dexter now. It can wait until we're alone and not surrounded by hundreds of people.

"Not a chance."

I realize we've danced through a couple of songs already, and I know she has to do her mingling socialite thing, but I don't want to let her go.

I chuckle into her hair, her sass making my dick twitch again.

Someone clears their throat behind me and Ophelia stiffens before scrambling away from me. It makes my lip curl up in disgust, and when I see the person who interrupted us, I have to clench my fists to stop from starting an all-out brawl.

"May I have this dance, Ophelia?" Dexter holds out his palm for her to take, completely ignoring my presence beside her.

"Fuck off, cunt." I can't help the words as I grind them out, trying not to make a scene, but he used her name and I hate the sound of it from his lips.

He turns his head and grins, making my blood boil with how fucking smarmy he looks.

"Jarrett, don't you dare ruin my gala." Ophelia moves her attention to Dexter and takes his hand. "I need a drink first, I'm bored of dancing."

In aid of not being a complete dick, I remain in this spot for I don't know how long, taking deep breaths and trying to slow the adrenaline rushing through me. My eyes don't deviate from Ophelia and she fucking knows it.

They won't.

Ever.