Tamed by Emma Chase Read Free Book Online Page B

choice.”
    Lexi takes a drink from her own glass. “Wine loosens lips . . . and wallets.”
    “And tequila makes the clothes fall off,” I offer with an eyebrow wiggle.
    Just then an extra-large woman with dark, beehive-styled hair and heavy makeup, wearing a pool-table-green gown, approaches us.
    Under his breath, Drew quips, “Let’s hope the tequila is locked up nice and tight.”
    “Alexandra, my dear,” she cackles. “You’ve outdone yourself! This soiree will be the talk of the town for days to come.”
    Lexi’s hand presses humbly against the chest of her white gown. “You’re too kind, Mrs. Sinclair.”
    Sinclair. I know that name. She’s old money—her grandfather made a fortune in steel during the turn of the century construction boon. And her nephew, the heir apparent, is a piss-poorCEO with a legendary coke habit. Here’s a lesson for you: Money can’t buy class, but it can buy a boatload of calamity.
    Alexandra turns Mrs. Sinclair’s attention to me. “You’re acquainted with our dear friend Matthew Fisher?”
    New York society is a lot like the mob—if you’re not a friend of ours or part of our thing, they want nothing to do with you.
    “Ah, yes,” she says, “you’re Estelle’s boy.”
    I nod my head respectfully. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Sinclair.”
    Alexandra continues with, “And have you met my brother, Andrew?”
    Drew, ever the gentleman, greets her with a smile. “It’s a pleasure.”
    Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes sparkle as she regards him. And she fans herself with one pudgy hand. “No, we haven’t met . . . but I’ve heard such stories about you.”
    “Vicious rumors.” Drew winks. “That just happen to be true.”
    Judging by her quick breaths and the flush of her cheeks, I’d say there’s a high probability Mrs. Sinclair may actually pass out. It’d certainly add some excitement to the evening. But—she doesn’t. An old friend that hasn’t seen her in years hobbles by and drags Mrs. Sinclair away.
    Alone once more, Drew tries again. “ Now, can I leave?”
    “Stop asking me that. We haven’t even sat down to dinner yet,” Alexandra hisses.
    Drew doesn’t whine . . . but he’s close. And he speaks for both of us as he says, “But I don’t want to be here. I came, I smiled, I wrote you a check. Unlike some people, I actually have better things to do with my time.”
    Before the squabble gets too heated, someone across the room catches Alexandra’s attention. Her eyes widen, but her facefalls . . . with disappointment. She ignores her brother and gawks. Drew and I follow her line of vision.
    And that’s when I see her.
    Almost every guy has a woman like her in his past. For some sad sons of bitches, there’s more than one. The girl who fucked him over, broke his heart, shattered his self respect. They say the first cut is the deepest . . . and she cut me straight to the bone.
    Shakespeare wrote, “O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face . . .” And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he composed it with Rosaline Nicolette Du Bois Carrington in mind.
    We met during our second year at Columbia, and we dated seriously for two years. Rosaline is intelligent, charming, an expert equestrian. She wasn’t interested in frat parties or the bar scene, preferring instead to spend her time engaging in highbrow discussions about art and travel. I thought she was perfect: the woman I’d marry, have children with—the girl I’d love when she was wrinkled and gray, and who would love me in return.
    Sally Jansen may have been the first girl I ever loved, but Rosaline . . . she was the last.
    I haven’t seen her since graduation. Six years. But she looks exactly the same—a heart-shaped face; classic but full cheekbones that make her appear both sophisticated and innocent; crystal blue eyes with an exotic slant; plump, smiling lips; thick, dark-brown tresses; and a long, lean body that would bring any man straight to his knees. I watch her move across the