The Ruin (Convenience Book 3)

by Stella Gray

  Too bad she didn’t fall on her head. “She looked fine to me,” I offer.

  “She is fine,” he says.

  He trails one finger down my chest, drawing a line between my breasts and then down to my navel. My skin lights up at his touch. I watch him, aching for more. But before he can dip down between my legs, he brushes a quick kiss against my lips and heads to the bedroom. Was that an invitation or a dismissal?

  I follow him because I need to get dressed. On my way in, I let the robe slip down my shoulders, so my breasts are bared for him. He turns, his eyes going dark as he takes me in.

  “I would love nothing more,” he says, “than to ravish you on that king size bed right now, order up room service, and feed you strawberries and Chantilly cream while I eat you out.”

  I step closer. “Oh really…” Me likey.

  “However.” He sighs. “Guy arranged this dinner for everyone involved with the Maxilene shoot, and it won’t look good if I don’t make an appearance. Why don’t we show up on time so we can leave early and take the rest of the night off? Just you and me.”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll get dressed.”

  My voice is light and easygoing, but I’m still a little disappointed. It’s not like Luka has ever had any trouble fucking more than once in a night—and I’d be perfectly happy with a quickie. But if he wants to wait until later, we’ll wait. It’s just hard not to wonder if the waiting has something to do with Monica.

  Leaving Luka to change in the room, I head back into the bathroom to check my makeup one more time before we head out. I went for a glossy pink lip, smokey eyes, false lashes, the works. It’s full face, contour, and highlight heaven up in here, and I look ready for a photo shoot.

  Unzipping my garment bag, I take out the pale pink bandage dress I brought and slide into it. The fabric is shimmery and hugs every curve and dip of my body. The sweetheart neckline dips low, showing off my cleavage, and the tight, knee-length skirt keeps the dress more classy than clubby. Combined with gold hoop earrings and the strappy metallic gold heels I brought, my outfit screams Vegas. Luka won’t be able to keep his hands off me.

  I stride back into the room and find Luka lying on the bed, eyes closed, now in darker pants and a fresh shirt with the top buttons undone. I catch the familiar scent of his cologne.

  “Looks like somebody had a long day,” I tease.

  “Long few days,” he murmurs. “And you have no idea.”

  He sits up and his gaze sweeps over me with intense appreciation. I wasn’t sure about this dress at first but the hunger on his face makes me glad I brought it along.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you pass out like that before,” I tell him.

  “I was just resting up for later tonight.”

  With a smile he slips off the bed and lightly runs his hands over my curves, down and then up again while looking at the dress like he wants to lick it off.

  “This is a very nice dress,” he says, his voice a low growl.

  Take that, Monica Shore. “Thank you,” I purr in response.

  We take the elevator down to the lobby and the concierge points us in the direction of the elaborate dining room that they’ve set up for our private event.

  Stepping through the door, I see the warm glow of chandelier light reflecting off of decorative chrome columns with Corinthian capitals and crystal water goblets, dark wood tables set with gold silverware and gold-edged plates, tall potted palms. There’s some kind of huge Roman statue in the center of the room, and one wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, offering views of the darkening sky and the flashing lights of the Strip.

  The room is all ours, and between the statue and the windows is an extra-long table occupied by what I assume is the whole Maxilene crew. We’re the last ones to arrive, so of course the only two chairs left are next to Monica. I’ll just bet she planned that.

  “Luka!” she calls out, as if I’m invisible. “I saved you a seat.”

  She pats the chair next to her, and I force a fake smile through clenched teeth as Luka and I stride over to the group. Monica’s changed into a classic little black dress with a leopard shrug, her newly dark tresses pulled into a tight ponytail on the top of her head. The overall effect is a bit twee, but I tell her she looks great as Luka takes the chair between Monica and me.

  “Mm. Thanks,” Monica says, but I see her eyes narrow as she gives me a once-over.

  Once we’re seated, the waiter appears and asks for our drink orders, informing us that dinner is set up buffet-style along the edges of the room. Now that Luka and I are here, some of the others take their cue to get up and begin filling their plates. I don’t blame them. I’m starving, too. I can see a side bar and a few different food stations, one that’s exclusively seafood and sushi, one a rotisserie, and another that’s all salad greens and exotic fruit sculptures.

  As I take it all in, Luka leans in and kisses my cheek, whispering in my ear, “All this for dinner. And you for dessert. This turned out to be a very good day.”

  We go make the rounds and fill our plates, returning to find Monica ignoring the conversation around the table in favor of waiting for Luka to get back. I let him pull out my chair for me and slide it back in place as I lower myself down, shaking my napkin out across my lap.

  Monica leans in as he sits. “You’re very chivalrous. It’s nice to see a gentleman at work.”

  Luka just smiles as he dips a chunk of lobster tail in clarified butter and shoves it into his mouth. I know him well enough to gather that he’s trying to avoid further conversation with Monica. But she’s still watching him like a hawk, basically eye-fucking him right in front of me.

  Grabbing my champagne, I take a nice long gulp, needing to lubricate my vocal cords for the sass I intend to throw Monica’s way. She side-eyes me as she pokes at her salad greens.

  “That’s an interesting dress. So few people can actually pull off something like that.”

  If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I look banging tonight. I don’t take her bait.

  Instead I smile at Luka. “I’m sure Luka will do a fine job pulling it off later. Won’t you, honey?”

  He takes a sip of champagne. Monica laughs like I’m hilarious and puts her hand on Luka’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

  “We had a great shoot today, didn’t we? You have a really good eye for what lingerie looks best on me. That thong was definitely the right choice.” Then she giggles again. I fight back my nausea.

  “Wardrobe’s a talent of mine,” he says. “I’ve had a lot of practice at Brooklyn’s shoots.”

  “So true,” I say sweetly.

  Undeterred, Monica’s hand disappears under the table. Judging by the way he jumps a little, I’m certain she put it on Luka’s thigh. He clears his throat and drops his hand under the tablecloth, and I see her take her hand back with a pout.

  Luka and I make small talk while we eat, and I share a story about Mr. Kibbles getting into a twenty-four pack of toilet paper and ripping up the whole thing all over the living room.

  “And the second I walk in, he sits down and starts wagging his tail,” I go on, “with this one shred of paper still hanging out of his mouth.”

  The shoot’s crew members around us are laughing along with me, and Luka most of all—probably because he’s visualizing that look of innocent confusion that Kibby gives us whenever he’s in trouble. Monica laughs as if we’ve included her, her hand going back to Luka’s shoulder. Then she fiddles with his lapel.

  “You know,” she tells him, cutting in, “I was thinking you should arrange a nude shoot for me next. I’d really like your creative oversight on something like that.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he says noncommittally.

  She cocks her head playfully and toys with his hair, smoothing down a lock of it as if it were out of place. My anger is starting to bubble over, ruining my appetite.

  It’s so natural the way Monica touches him, like she’s totally comfortable do
ing so. And his brush-offs have been nothing but gentle, almost as if he’s reluctant to reject her advances. Instinctively I want to claw her eyes out for acting this way with my husband, but I can’t help wondering what all that casual touching means about the two of them. Are my jealousies founded? Is it proof they’re sleeping together?

  Finishing my drink, I signal the waiter for another one. By the time he brings it over, Monica has sashayed off to the dessert bar. It’s no wonder she’s still hungry—I’ve seen her eat about two whole lettuce leaves and a cherry tomato this whole time.

  I turn to Luka and say, “Monica certainly seems affectionate tonight.”

  He finishes chewing a bite of steak, then looks me in the eye and says, “You know Monica. She’s always like that, with everyone. You have nothing to worry about. Trust me.”

  Reaching for my hand, he raises it to his lips and brushes them softly against my knuckles, giving me the shivers. Then he pulls me in close, kissing my cheek, my jaw, the soft spot behind my ear.

  “I want to take you to bed,” he whispers.

  “Yes,” I murmur, feeling my core go hot and tight.

  “Should we skip the cake and get out of here?”

  “You read my mind,” I tell him.

  Luka pulls me up out of my chair and spins me so fast, my hair goes flying out behind me. As we practically bolt for the door, I don’t bother looking over my shoulder to see if Monica’s watching us, if she realizes she lost, that I’m about to go fuck the man she’s lusting after. To my satisfaction, Luka seems to have completely forgotten about her, too.

  Was I seriously worried about the two of them? It’s obvious by the way he’s been looking at me all night that he only has eyes for me. He’s hardly spared Monica a second glance.

  We hurry to the room, Luka pushing me against the wall of the foyer the second we’re inside so he can capture my lips. It’s a soul-deep kiss that I feel all the way down to my toes. I’m panting by the time he pulls away, exhilarated by how much I want him.

  Luka kisses me again, and we stumble our way to the bedroom. But when we get there and start kicking off our shoes, he says, “Just give me five minutes to shower. I didn’t have a chance earlier since you monopolized the bathroom.” He shrugs out of his jacket, kisses me some more, and then tosses it on the bed. “Five minutes,” he repeats.

  I let out a groan. “Fine,” I say.

  He grins and playfully pushes me onto the bed. “Relax. I’ll be out soon.”

  As he disappears into the bathroom, I roll onto my side with a huff. I’m horny. Maybe I should just join him in there. Hopping up, I grab his jacket to hang it up. But as I’m shaking it out on the hanger, something silky falls out of one of the pockets. A pocket square, maybe.

  I bend down to grab it and freeze, my entire body going cold. In my hand is a pair of very small thong panties. And they aren’t mine.

  The dinner conversation starts replaying in my mind, and suddenly my chest goes so tight, it’s hard to breathe. Lingerie. Thong. Monica.

  A few minutes later Luka gets out of the shower, his torso glistening as he comes toward me with a towel hanging low around his hips. I don’t give him a chance to say anything.

  “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

  Before he can respond, I push him out of the bedroom along with his suitcase and slam the door.

  Luka

  Chapter 13

  I have no idea what the hell just happened. One minute, I’m getting ready to spend all night worshipping my wife’s body and feeding her strawberries, and the next, she’s kicking me out of the bedroom without so much as an explanation.

  “Brooklyn! Open the door, please.” I wait a minute and try knocking again.

  Nothing.

  And still nothing when I call, text, and speak firmly but politely through the door.

  After about fifteen minutes of this, I’m all out of patience and done being ignored. I get dressed, head down to the lobby, and hit up the first bar I find on the casino floor. Now I’m sitting at a high-top table by myself, trying to figure out what I did wrong this time.

  I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Every time I think Brooklyn and I are back on track, something happens that derails us again. Is it me? Is it her? Maybe we’re just not compatible and we’re incapable of coexisting peacefully in the long run.

  No. That doesn’t feel right even as I think it. Something must have happened. Something triggered her while I was in the shower. I’d be a fool to ignore the fact that she probably resented being forced to have dinner with Monica, but I pulled out all the stops to focus my attention on my wife, not her nemesis. And every time Monica crossed the line, I firmly but gently rejected her advances. Maybe I wasn’t firm enough for Brooklyn’s liking, but after all, Monica is DRM’s biggest model. I’m trying to support her while maintaining a neutral but pleasant working relationship. Apparently that isn’t good enough for my wife.

  But what does she expect me to do? Fire Monica? Lose the agency the biggest campaign it’s ever seen, alienating Maxilene in the process? Stefan would shit a brick.

  Fuck it.

  I take a slug of my drink—a double whiskey neat—and survey the crowd. The bar is packed, but no one is paying attention to me. Good. Every woman in the room is wearing a skintight dress, yet all I can think of is Brooklyn in her pink sheath.

  A groan works out of my throat at what I’m missing out on right this minute. She looked so hot at dinner, I could barely stand the wait to get my hands on her. Now all I’ve got is blue balls, a headache, and no clear answers to any of this.

  Maybe it’s time to finally move on. Admit to myself that it’s just never going to work. Hell, maybe it is me. Did I really think I could just marry a stranger and live happily ever after?

  Yeah. I guess I did. And I’d really thought we were finally getting somewhere. Until I agreed to go on this godforsaken trip to Vegas, and now everything’s in shambles. Again.

  Slamming back the rest of my drink, I wave over the cocktail waitress—some young blonde in the hotel’s female uniform of three-inch heels, a one-shoulder white minidress that vaguely resembles a Roman toga, and a thick gold belt.

  “Another whiskey neat on your tab, Mr. Zoric?” she asks, batting her lashes at me.

  “You know what? Make it a double,” I say. “Please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  She flashes me a flirty grin and returns a minute later with the whiskey, setting it in front of me with a wink before walking away. That’s when I notice her name—Skylar—and number are scribbled on the bar napkin under the glass. I turn the napkin over with a scowl.

  Clearly I assumed too much from that first kiss Brooklyn planted on me after she rolled up on the photo shoot and overheard Monica asking me to take her out for the Maxilene dinner. It was probably just for show. In fact, Brooklyn had specifically mentioned flying out to save my reputation, hadn’t she? Something about a PR nightmare and social media gossip.

  God, I’m an idiot. Of course she didn’t come to Vegas to surprise me. She came to act as a buffer between me and Monica. And to protect our—and Danica Rose Management’s—image. Everything I thought was happening between us has all been in my head. Wishful thinking.

  My mind is made up now. I need to get over my wife.

  But that’s easier said than done.

  The drink is warming me from head to toe, so I try to take my time with it so I don’t get roaring drunk before I head back up to the room. The last thing I need is to fuel the fire by proving to Brooklyn that I’m the same exact hot mess I used to be.

  Checking my watch, I realize the night is still young—it’s not even ten yet. I should give my wife some more time to cool off. Maybe some space is all she really wanted. You never can tell with women.

  I guess I could hit the casino floor and try my luck at the tables, or have some fun with the new Star Wars slot machines I saw earlier. Just mentally check out for a few hours, give myself over to some
mindless entertainment. The noise and lights and music should do the trick. Maybe I’ll even blow a few thousand, just for the hell of it. If I get drunk enough, I won’t even remember any of this tomorrow.

  Yeah, my big plans for a night of gambling and drunken debauchery sound great…until I remember that I have another round of Monica’s photo shoot to supervise tomorrow. Being hungover, or worse, still drunk, won’t win me any favor with Guy.

  “What else can I get you?” a perky voice asks.

  I snap out of my brooding and see that Skylar has returned. She’s looking at me expectantly, eyes darting between the cocktail napkin she wrote her name on and my face.

  “I’m off work in a few minutes,” she adds.

  “Just a water, no ice. Thanks.”

  A furrow appears between her brows and she hesitates a second before nodding and swishing away in that semi-toga.

  “Water? Since when does Luka Zoric drink water?”

  Damn. I try to pretend I didn’t hear Monica just now, but the noxious cotton-candy scent of her perfume says she’s too close for me not to acknowledge her.

  “Monica. How are you?” I say, wishing I had a legitimate excuse to run.

  She slinks her way onto the leather stool across from mine, taking time to adjust the very short skirt of the fire-engine red dress she apparently changed into after dinner. It’s an off-the-shoulder number, her breasts practically spilling out. Not one for subtlety, that Monica.

  “You look like you could use some company,” she tells me.

  “I’m fine, actually,” I say. “Surprised you don’t have somewhere more exciting to be.”

  “Nothing’s more exciting to me than this table right now,” she purrs. “Unless you’re implying that I should be in bed with some hot, wealthy asshole who left his wife at home so he could have a little man-cation, find some arm candy, and gamble his money away.”

  Pretty accurate. “That sounds about right.”