I scanned the room for her, finding her next to the bar with a wax smile on her face, clipboard hooked in her elbow. And in front of her was Natasha in that ridiculous sparkly minidress, knife smile on her face as she fondled Brock’s tie. A cameraman flanked them silently.

I made a hard turn, weaving around tables with a single objective—save her from whatever torture Natasha had devised.

“And if the scallops are cold, I swear to God, I’m going to be pissed,” Natasha said as I approached. “Brock’s a vegetarian, and if his favorite food isn’t perfect, I’m holding you responsible.”

“I’ll double-check them myself,” was Lila’s answer.

Brock watched her with an intensity that had me fantasizing about how well my fist would fit into his eye socket.

“Good,” she snapped. “How many cars do you have coming after dinner?”

“Twenty, as requested.”

Her smile twisted. “Twenty? We’ll need at least thirty.”

Lila’s smile didn’t waver, but I saw the almost imperceptible tightening of her posture and eyes. “Are more guests coming to the club than originally planned?”

“I sent you a list,” Natasha said, her innocent tone more bait than concealment. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”

“It’s no problem,” Lila answered lightly. “I’ll have them waiting for you at ten.”

Natasha apparently didn’t possess much of a poker face. Or at least no ability to put it on when she was disappointed. “You’d better.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected, saying to Lila. “I need you to sign off on a few things, and I had a question for you.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling genuinely even if it was schooled for the sake of our audience. “If you’ll excuse me,” she addressed Natasha before turning without waiting for her response.

And together, we trucked away from them.

Once out of earshot, she let out a breath. “Thank you. I was imagining I was in Bora-Bora or London or Tokyo. Even an iron maiden. Honestly, I’d prefer an iron maiden to that, whatever it was.”

“Fuck them,” I said, gesturing to the service door in the same motion I laid a hand on the small of her back. “The sisters just admitted in front of me that Natasha’s trying to get you to break on camera. She said you were a … subplot?”

“Oh, I know.”

I frowned, reaching out to hold the swinging door open for her. “You do?”

“Of course I do,” she said as I followed. “You see, this is where my extraordinary stubbornness comes in handy. She wants me to cry and thrash and get mad, on camera if she can manage it. Or worse—she wants me to grovel. It’s driving her nuts that I won’t give her what she wants.”

“The audacity,” I said with a sideways smile touched with admiration.