Loving War(44)
Crap.
“How mad is he?” I ask quietly, still unable to find the blonde hair of the devil himself.
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him since the rumor mill went wild inside the party. But he has had some fairly attractive offers. I know that much. Jamie gave him his number.”
Laughter escapes me before I can help it. Jamie Burton is one of the most gorgeous men in Sterling Shore, but he’s also very much dedicated to men.
“Tria,” Olivia Preston says, an odd look in her eyes that seems like concern, or disappointment, maybe. Does she know, too?
“Mrs. Preston,” I say with my ingrained greeting manners.
Why are so many older socialites here?
“I’m not usually so forward, and I know it’s not any of my business, but after all your poor mother went through with Edward, I expected so much better from you.”
The blood drains from my face. What has he told them?
“I feel as though I should apologize, but I have no idea as to why, Mrs. Preston. Could you explain exactly what I’ve done to encourage you to be so forward?”
Forced eloquence is my specialty. Years of training have me resisting the urge to shake her and make her spit it out when she takes much too long to answer. Finally, she sighs and spikes my blood with ice.
“Rygan Clanton is a good man. He has horrible choices in women, but I would have assumed you’d treat him better than the others.”
Corbin chokes on a laugh, but quickly clears his throat to recover. His eyes look anywhere but at me, as though he has caught on. But I’m lost.
Rygan is Rye’s father—a hermit who rarely leaves his home since his wife’s death years and years ago. Somehow he manages to snag very young women—usually younger than his son—but they always cheat on him, and they often do it without discretion. Most of them openly chase after Rye, but he never messes with them. That would be so gross.
But what the hell does it have to do with me?
“Um… I’m sorry, Mrs. Preston, but what’s going on?”
She tsks me as though she’s disappointed in my denial. “Sweetie, Rygan has had numerous women go after the younger version of himself. Most of them are gold-diggers, but you… Why on earth would you be so cruel to such a gentle man?”
It’s then the dots connect, and my anger slowly begins to boil. That bastard!
I’ve been following Rye around the party, playing directly into Kode’s hand, underestimating the evil genius he is. Now I look like all the opportunists who go after the senior Clanton and then try to take on the sexier junior Clanton.
In my moment of silent outrage, I’m left open to another attack from her. “Rye never sleeps with the women who chase him and bed his father. He has too much self-respect and class for that. I realize he looks like a rough brute, but he’s a very attractive man with plenty of untainted offers.”
Sickness roils in my stomach. This is crossing a line.
Corbin is doing all he can not to burst out in a fit of laughter, while steam figuratively rolls out of my ears.
“Mrs. Preston, I’ve never dated Rygan Clanton. In fact, I’ve never dated a man my father’s age or older. Ever. Not that I’m opposed to age gaps in relationships, but only if they are truly in that said relationship for the right reasons—unlike you. I don’t need to climb the social ladder by marrying a man twice my age just because of his wallet size. And I don’t screw the gardener behind his back, either, like you and every cliché there is,” I bite out, earning a shocked and indignant gasp from her.
She rattles something off while I stalk away, ignoring Corbin’s eruption of laughter that he can no longer contain. Then I see the devil.
Most people envision a pitchfork, pointy ears, black eyes, and a wicked tail. No. The devil wears a designer suit, sexy blonde hair that always looks purposely bedroom-messy, eyes that are almost silver, and a grin that could slay multitudes.
He stares at me from across the pool, that grin only growing as I glare at him. He winks at me and raises his glass in a silent toast, mocking my victorious actions from earlier.
He’s fighting dirty. Well, that’s just fine. He’ll tell everyone the truth or he’ll never get me again.
Charging through the crowd and ignoring the judgmental eyes on my back, I make it to the bar that has been set up outside. I don’t let the bartender ask for my order. Instead, I grab the bottle of chilled vodka and pour it directly into a glass.
He doesn’t stop me, but merely watches with amusement as I turn the glass up and chug the contents without any regard for my churning stomach. It almost comes back up, but I manage to keep it down by sheer willpower alone.