Page 23 of Break My Rules

I nod. “What about you?” I ask curiously. Imogen hasn’t mentioned any partner or romantic life. “Is amergeron the cards for you?”

She smirks. “I prefer to build my own empire.”

“The party-planning business.”

“Right. Immersive event staging,” she explains, and a flash of intrigue crosses her face. Then, just as fast, it’s gone. “You know, tea parties and galas, terribly dull,” she adds quickly. “Nothing new there.”

Something tells me, a woman as smart as Imogen wouldn’t be spending her time on anything that boring, but she’s already steered the conversation onwards. “I think we have time for a couple more outfits,” she says brightly, shoving a fancy blouse into my arms. “Then I better get you back to Saint in time for dinner.”

“Right. That.” I follow her orders back into the dressing room, but I’m already thinking ahead, to meeting Sebastian Wolfe tonight. I feel a shiver of nerves, wondering just what this man is like. Everything I’ve read says that he’s a force to be reckoned with. Powerful. Cold.

Heartless.

But Saint swears he’s his closest friend, and can’t believe he’s the one behind the attack.

Who is this man? And is he the one who hurt Wren?

Chapter7

Tessa

“If I’d know you were going to look like that, I would have insisted we stay home,” Saint murmurs, sliding a hand to the small of my back as we arrive at the restaurant that evening.

I flush, unable to deny the rush of heat that comes simply from the feel of his palm caressing my bare skin. “You’re a fan of my shopping expedition, then?” I ask, flirty.

He chuckles. “A very big fan.”

“And you haven’t even seen the lingerie I picked out,” I whisper, making him exhale fast.

“Now you tell me…” Saint’s eyes rove over me, as if he’s trying to see through the blue silk dress I wound up choosing for dinner, paired with some strappy sandals. My hair is down in loose waves, and the whole effect is casually elegant. At least, I hope it is. Saint definitely seems to appreciate the outfit, as he leans in to whisper in my ear. “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s cruel to tease?”

“Think of it as an exercise in patience,” I reply, smiling.

He holds open the door, and we step inside. It’s a buzzy, high-fashion Japanese place, with low neon lighting and sleek counters. The other guests are all young, and impossibly glamorous, and I send silent thanks to Imogen for making sure I was styled right for the evening.

“Mr. St. Clair,” the hostess materializes, and greets him by name. “Please, this way. You’re the first of your party to arrive.”

I exhale. Good. My nerves about this dinner have been bubbling under all afternoon, but now that we’re here, they’re wound tighter than ever.

How the hell am I going to do this? I wonder, as I follow them to the table, which is set back in a private corner, clearly the VIP seats. I wanted to look the man in the eye, but what am I supposed to say?

“By the way, you didn’t kidnap and assault my sister last year, did you?”

I don’t think that would go down too well.

Saint holds my chair out for me, then places his hand comfortingly on my shoulder as I sit. “Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s just dinner.”

Except it’s not. Not to me. The stakes keep rising higher, and the more I discover, the more I wonder who could have been capable of such a cruel, premeditated attack.

The person I’m looking for is a monster. And he’s hiding in plain sight.

“Here he is,” a voice comes from behind us, and then Sebastian arrives, tall and impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit. “The sinner himself.” He draws Saint into a back-slapping hug, and the men laugh, clearly old friends. Then he turns to me. “And this must be the famous Tessa,” his eyes sweep over me, ice-blue and cool. He has similar coloring to Saint—all dark hair, and aristocratic chiseled features—but everything about Sebastian seems sharper. Sterner. Carved from stone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “Saint has told me very little about you, but the fact we’re meeting at all, here, means a great deal.”

“It’s good to meet you, too,” I say, shaking his hand. I’m curious why meeting here is so special—where else was he expecting to be introduced? But I don’t have time to dwell on it before Sebastian is introducing his wife, Avery. She’s a few years younger than me, but seriously intimidating, in black jeans and chunky boots, with smudgy dark eyeliner and a tough-girl vibe. But it’s clear, the pair of them are head-over-heels, from the way Sebastian keeps one hand touching her—resting on her shoulder, taking her hand—even as they sit.

“Fair warning, I’m not sure how long we’ll last,” Seb says. “We came from Miami last night.”

“He’s fine,” Avery adds, with a knowing smirk. “I’m the one who’s not used to all the jet-setting, time-zones.”