“Ah! You’re so infuriating!” Shifting in my seat, I bang on the partition. Moments pass without answer, and I pound my fist on it again.

“You’re wasting your energy. Gerardo answers only to me.”

“So I’m your prisoner now? What do you think you’re going to do, Rebel? Drive around the city until Stockholm’s sets in?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he says casually, completely unaffected.

Outraged, I open my mouth and release a bloodcurdling scream that leaves my ears ringing. Yet, still, Rebel rests easy, staring at me through that eternally cool façade. “Fuck you, Rebel,” I snarl. “Just fuck you. Take me home, right fucking now, or I swear I’ll throw myself out of this car.”

Rebel is across the seat and has me in his arms before I can blink. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face him. “You listen to me, Josephine,” he growls. “As much as I enjoy it when you’re feisty, I’m finished with this stubborn, dramatic bullshit. So shut your mouth and listen up.

“I went to a lot of trouble setting this evening up, and I’ll be damned if it’s going to be ruined by baseless conjecture. I’m calling the shots tonight. You’ll do what I say and follow my lead. Whatever you want to fight about, save it for later. Are we clear?”

Admittedly, Rebel is a little scary when he gets like this. The unrelenting look in his eyes leaves no room for argument. He’s determined to get his way and he’s willing to hold me hostage to do it.

Knowing the only danger he poses is to my sanity, I decide it’s probably best to play along. Rebel wants me on his arm. He wants to show me off to a roomful of coworkers. Fine by me because, it occurs to me that in this instance, being complacent is working in my favor. I have a good feeling that a certain redhead will be in attendance and I intend to use this opportunity to my advantage.

Rebel’s taking me into the heart of the lion’s den, only I intend to be the lioness…and I’m out for blood.

Smoothing my features out, I meet his waiting gaze and tell him, “Crystal.”

FIFTEEN

“Thank you for the dress,” I mutter, reluctant to give him even that much.

The exclusive shop Rebel took me to wasn’t fancy in the way that I had expected for a man who hinted at being well-off. It was more of a well-kept secret that amounted to a hole in the wall and makes me wonder how he knew about it and how many women he brought here before me. Inside there was exposed brick and racks upon racks of high-end designer clothing that cost way too much.

Giving me free reign was his first mistake. Feeling vindictive, I told the sales lady I was looking for the most expensive piece she had that would fit my frame. That’s how I ended up wearing this overpriced, fire engine red pure silk gown with a bodice embellished with hundreds of tiny, glittering crystals.

Not only does it make me feel like a princess, I also feel like the sexiest bitch to walk into this stuffy, over decorated, pretentious party.

Yes, I am in a downright sassy, hellacious mood. Do I care? Hell no. Rebel dragged me here against my will and I plan on making this night very memorable for him.

We enter the ballroom through an ornately carved gilded set of doors bookended by two lean and good looking men dressed in their finest suits. Rebel gives them his name and one of them checks his list, then we set off into the main hall.

The place is gorgeous, of course—money buys nice things. Divided into three sections—a dining area, dance floor, and stage—the room is enormous. The tables are rounded, large enough to seat twelve, draped in rich gold fabric and topped with stunning bouquets of red roses. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, candles flicker from wall-mounted sconces, and a string band plays an endless symphony of music that is touchingly beautiful.

It reminds me of masquerade balls and lavish weddings. I love it. Every inch of the space is a feast for the senses. But I’ll never let Rebel know that.

Rebel’s jaw is set as he casts his gaze around the room. To me he says privately, “I saw that look in your eyes when we got out of the car. You’re on notice. Behave tonight, Josephine. Don’t make me regret this.”

I paste on a pretty smile that feels too tight and tuck my hand into the crook of his proffered arm. “I’m hurt,” I say with a pout. “Where’s the trust?”

His chest rises and falls heavily. Wordlessly pinning my arm to his side, Rebel guides us onto the floor, expertly weaving through the milling bodies.

Our first stop brings us to an older couple I peg to be in their early fifties. The man is portly with a double chin and ruddy cheeks. His balding head glistens in the low light, and a fine sheen of sweat dampens his brow. The woman at his side, however, is stately and beautiful. Her makeup is expertly done, her graying hair twisted up off her neck in a classic style, and her body is toned and slim beneath her knee-length Jackie Kennedy inspired sleeveless cream dress.

“Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly. How are you this evening?” Rebel’s charm is cranked up to high, his smile stretching across his handsome face as he extends his hand to shake with Mr. Donnelly.

“Mr. Scott,” Mr. Donnelly greets with a winning smile. “Good to see a familiar face. And this must be the lovely lady you’ve told me so much about,” he says, turning a set of amazing sky blue eyes on me.

Trying to mask the shock that Rebel has been talking about me, I smile dutifully, shaking hands with the man. It’s surprisingly firm, if not a touch sweaty.

“This is her,” Rebel says proudly. “Jack Donnelly, meet Miss Josephine Hart.”

“Josephine,” Mr. Donnelly says, trying my name on for size. He scans my body appreciatively, though not lasciviously as I’ve come to expect from the opposite sex. “It suits.” Releasing my hand, he places it on the small of his wife’s back, his smile expanding as he draws her forward. “Josephine, I’d like you to meet my lovely wife, Holly.”

“Nice to meet you both,” I say, clasping my hands in front of me and drawing closer to Rebel as my shyness kicks in. Without the familiarity of the stage behind me, I feel exposed. Nice as these people seem to be, I’m out of my element in a crowd. Hell, one-on-one is a serious stretch for me. Normally, I’d lean on my sarcasm to get me through the rough patches, but it doesn’t fit the occasion. I may want to embarrass the hell out of Rebel, to punish him for being such an ass, but my desire not to embarrass myself wins out.

What I wouldn’t give to have my phone right now so I could distract myself with mindless texts, or a game of Angry Birds, but Rebel relieved me of it before I set a foot out of the car.

“I believe we’ve been seated at the same table,” Mr. Donnelly informs Rebel. “And I’m certain I saw a platter of crab cakes headed that direction a moment ago. Care to join us? I have some things I’d like to run by you if you have a minute.”

“I’m sure I can spare one or two.” Rebel’s hand burns hot against my exposed back as we follow the older couple to one of the many tables set up just beyond the stage. I try to shake him off with a subtle jerk of my shoulder, but his touch only grows firmer.

His low chuckle of amusement should tick me off, but I find myself struggling not to smile instead. Pulling out a chair for me, Rebel tucks me gently beneath the table. His fingers trail across my naked shoulders as he maneuvers around to take the chair beside mine, sending a tiny shiver down my spine.

Mr. Donnelly was right. Plates have been set out, each containing a fat, perfectly round cake that is undoubtedly made with real crab. As the table begins to fill up with guests, a waiter comes around to fill our fluted glasses with bubbly champagne.

Rebel is already deep in talks with Mr. Donnelly and, although I’m right beside him, I feel strangely alone. I’ve never been to an event like this and I don’t know anyone else here. Unsure of what to do with myself, I eye the place settings. I seem to have too many utensils. After a moment, my Pretty Woman training kicks in and I try desperately to remember which fork is meant for what, but all that comes to mind is the scene where Julia Roberts sends a snail airborne.