22. Renee

Weston Scott is determined.

Well, that’s the nice word for it. I could probably call it “low-grade stalking,” too, and that wouldn’t be so far off.

He’s sending gifts, bombarding me with in-house massages and boxes of truffles. Worse yet, he’s been showing up at every public appearance Deacon and I make to drape very expensive jewelry around my neck.

I was at a fundraiser for victims of domestic violence, minding my own business, when Deacon excused himself to the restroom. That left me standing all by myself at the edge of the crowd—when a hand grazed sensually against my shoulder.

I recognized that touch, because duh. I’d recognize it through ten layers of clothes with a parka on top.

I turned to gawk dumbfounded at Weston, who promptly popped open a box from Cartier without a word. The diamonds inside looked like they could sink the Titanic. He ripped the necklace Deacon made me wear right off my neck, replaced it with his, and then disappeared.

That was merely the beginning.

At the Sunshine for Children event, he waltzed in while Deacon and I were speaking to some clients of his. Deacon’s eyes widened even as his smile remained solidly in place. He leaned in to hiss near my ear, “What the hell is he doing here?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“If he comes near you, I swear to God…” My fiancé’s fist clenched at the back of my dress, pulling it tighter against my skin as Weston looked at me and winked.

Then, like he heard the words and took them as a dare, Weston sauntered straight towards us. The photographers noticed right around the same time everyone else did.

Los Angeles Firebirds star Weston Scott cares about sunshine for children? This moment simply must be documented!

And sure enough, that’s exactly what they did. I tried to bite back an embarrassed laugh as Weston turned this way and that to pose for the paparazzi. For an athlete, the man sure knows his good angles. He stood long enough for fourteen photos to appear in the paper, online, and on national morning news shows.

Of course, those fourteen photos paled in comparison to when he brushed by me and “accidentally” knocked my clutch out of my hand. He immediately swooped down to scoop it up and offer it to me graciously. The fact that he stayed on bended knee like he was proposing just made the photo op that much juicier—and it made Deacon that much more furious.

His fury continues the next morning, when twenty-seven photos of the moment splash across the front page of TMZ.

“It’s fucking humiliating, Renee. You’re my fiancée. Can you possibly try to control your playtoy long enough for us to get married? Or is he planning to come to the wedding and kiss the bride himself?” He’s been shouting at me for twenty minutes over a fresh batch of donuts and freshly squeezed orange juice.

“I don’t know his plans. I don’t even know what he wants.”

“Bullshit. I know he’s just biding his time, trying to find a way back in.”

With exquisite timing, one of the housemaids knocks on the door of the pool house. She’s holding a bouquet of flowers large enough I could hide in the stems. “For Miss DuBois,” she explains with a red face.

Deacon goes ballistic. “And now, he sends you fucking flowers?”

Worse still, there’s no disguising the card that says Love, Weston in his pointed, blocky handwriting.

Deacon snatches the card and shreds it into pieces like he’s trying to tear a hole in the space-time continuum. He drops the ragged scraps at the housekeeper’s feet and sneers through clenched veneers, “Get rid of it.”

Then he spins to skewer me with a slit-eyed glare. He storms toward me so fiercely that I bounce out of my seat and retreat backward until my ass hits the wall.

“Stop, Deacon. You?—”

“Control your boyfriend or I’m going to make life very fucking difficult for you.” He jabs an enraged finger in my face. “Are we clear?”

I nod frantically. He’s standing close enough to hurt me, should he lose his mind and give it a try. Until this moment, I’ve never been afraid that Deacon would put his hands on me, that he would do something so ludicrous and ridiculous as hitting me.

But for a moment after the flowers come, it feels possible.

“I’ll handle it,” I croak. Although I have no idea how. Or why he would expect, especially after having met the man, that I would be able to control Weston Scott. That anyone would be able to control Weston Scott.

“Make a call, Renee. I mean it.” He slams the door on his way out. And then he walks back in. “Be ready for dinner at seven.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes. Wear the blue Chanel.”

Then he’s gone again. I sigh and slump back onto my barstool. The blue Chanel means another red carpet event. Another big night in the Look Who I’m Forcing To Marry Me Tour.

Can’t freaking wait.

At dinner before the gala, I’m on the edge of my seat. I keep checking the entrance again and again. I’m waiting for Weston to arrive, to make a scene, to sashay into the event with an engagement ring or a pet peacock or something equally ridiculous.

But he doesn’t show through salads and soups. He doesn’t show through entrees. Dessert hits the table and mercifully, there’s still no Weston Scott.

I breathe a sigh of relief as we step out into the night. Deacon has plans to go smoke cigars and plot world domination with his equally pretentious friends, so we drove separately. His car pulls up and I unclench the way I always do when I’m finally about to get rid of him for a few blissful hours.

But then the valet arrives with a car that isn’t mine. It’s the cute version of a sporty little race car. The prominent Ferrari horse badge on the front is hard to miss. If it was a lipstick, the color would be called Super Slut Red or something like that.

I grimace. My feet hurt badly and all I want is to be alone in my bed, the Deacon-free zone.

I look at the car and frown. “That isn’t mine.”

The valet walks to his station and picks up an envelope. When he gets closer, I see what’s written on it—my name, in Weston Scott’s handwriting. He offers it to me. “Mr. Scott said that ‘his future wife was inside’ and that he wanted to ‘surprise her with a new ride.’” This guy leans in like we’re best friends sharing a secret. “He had the old one towed for your convenience.”

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to laugh out loud. On the other side of me Deacon’s head spins around in some sort of Exorcist remake. “He bought you a fucking car?”

I sigh. “No. He’s trying to buy me a car.”

“Well, you’re not taking it.”

“No, I’m not. But he had my old ride towed, so I’m going to need a ride home.”

Deacon glances at the valet. “Call her a town car and put her in it. She goes nowhere near the red death trap.”

It is beautifully red. Not much good for a baby’s car seat. But it roars like a lion when the valet starts the engine again. “And what should I do with this?”

“You can shove it up your fucking ass, for all I care. But she doesn’t get near it.” He hands a couple hundred dollar bills to the valet nearest us to deal with the mess. Then he sinks a claw into my arm and drags me around the side of the valet station so he can scream at me out of sight of passersby.

His breath is sour with priceless whiskey as he leans in close. “I’m going to say this for the very last time: I’m tired of your boyfriend trying to humiliate me. He’s done it in front of friends. My family. My fucking clients.” His fingers dig in deeper and there’s no doubt that, come tomorrow, there will be little fingertip-sized bruises in my biceps. “If you can’t get this prick under control, maybe we don’t have an arrangement any longer. And maybe I will ruin you in ways he never thought of.”

“Deacon, I will handle it. I promise.” The last thing I need is him taking his aggressions out on me or the baby in my belly. When he shoots me a deeper glare, I swallow hard. “You have my word, Deacon. This ends tonight.”

I only hope that’s true. But when Weston Scott is involved, there’s no real telling what promises can be kept.