the hurt of rejection, he would also be affected in some significant way. That he might even be missing her, or regretting leaving her without a word, without even a phone call—
Her jaw tightened. Of course, that presupposed that Ben had a heart.
Her gaze settled on the woman who was pulling him onto the dance floor. She looked young, barely out of her teens, with tawny blond hair piled in a messy knot, a short turquoise silk dress skimming her curves, a tattoo on one slim shoulder and outrageously high heels.
Sophie’s breath came in sharply. She was only twenty-seven, but looking at the young, vibrant thing in Ben’s arms, she suddenly felt as old as Methuselah and, with her simple white designer dress and low, strappy shoes, just a bit…boring.
However, if she was “old,” then Ben, who was thirty, was ancient and practically cradle snatching.
Though Sophie knew she should drag her gaze away, seeing Ben with the gorgeous blonde made the shock that he had found someone else burn deeper. Even worse, it successfully cheapened the one night they had shared. A night that, for Sophie, had been singularly intense and passionate and seemed to signal the beginning of the kind of deep, meaningful relationship she had thought she might never experience until Ben had strode into her life.
Blindly she turned back to the bar. She was aware of the barman asking her a question. Champagne? Drawing a breath that felt impeded because her throat seemed to have closed up, she dredged up a brilliant smile. “Yes.”
Her fingers closed on the chilled flute. The first sip helped relax her throat, the second made it possible to feel almost normal. Probably because she was focused on something other than the fact that Ben was not the honorable man and exciting dream lover—the dependable, prospective husband—she had foolishly imagined him to be. Instead, he was as shallow as a puddle and a rat to boot. He had utterly betrayed her trust, and the whole situation was made worse by the fact that she had naively given herself to him.
Not that he had noticed that she had been a virgin the night they had made love. That tiny fact had seemed to bypass him completely.
When she had realized he had no clue, she’d felt an odd moment of disconnect, which she should have realized was a sign. Then the warmth of the night and the heady excitement of lying in Ben’s arms had kicked in, and she had dismissed the impulse to tell him. She’d had too many years of warily skirting relationships to let her guard down so easily, and Ben had a formidable reputation with women.
Now she was glad she hadn’t told him the truth, because clearly Ben lacked even the most basic insight into the female psyche. Her virginity was not something she had bestowed lightly. It had been a gift of trust that she had not wanted to see trampled. Sophie had decided that, until they had established an actual relationship, telling Ben that she had been so picky that she had waited making love until him, had seemed too acutely revealing. It would have put her at a disadvantage, and given him entirely too much power.
Finally, she had so not saved herself for him. Sleeping with Ben had just…happened.
She took another sip and checked how much champagne was left in her glass. She hadn’t had that much, maybe a third, but she was already feeling the effects. Not a happy buzz exactly, but the tightness in her stomach had gone and she was definitely starting to feel more kick-ass and in control.
However, the champagne also seemed to be having another effect. Without the normal careful editing of her emotions, the memories were flooding back, bigger, brighter and more hurtful than ever, which was…disappointing. She had gone to a great deal of effort to bury them beneath long work hours and an extremely busy dating life with men who did not remind her of Ben. She took another sip.
Sophie glanced back at the dance floor, which was a mistake, because once she fixed on Ben she couldn’t look away. Now that the initial shock of seeing him with another woman had passed, a weird jagged emotion hit her square in the chest, making it hard to think, making it hard to breathe.
She knew Ben had been dating up a storm; that he had been running through women like a hot knife through butter, because one of the gorgeous blondes he had dated and who was now obviously obsessed with him kept posting photos of them together on a popular social media account. Whenever Sophie needed to remind herself just how big a rat Ben was, all she needed to do was check Buffy Holt’s feed.
But this was the first time she had seen him with a new lover in the flesh.
Another punch of raw emotion caught her, the fierceness of it making her go hot, then cold, then hot again. Her jaw clenched at the horrifying realization that she was jealous.
Her fingers tightened on the champagne flute. She didn’t think she had ever been jealous before. However, she had heard enough about the emotion to understand that the taut, burning anger and explosive desire to do something off-the-wall, like confront Ben and wrench the pretty blonde from his arms, were classic symptoms.
With careful control, she set the flute down on the bar, deciding that it wasn’t helpful to have any more alcohol. The few sips she’d swallowed had already flipped the lid on a Pandora’s box of thoughts and emotions.
Jealousy.
She needed to hit her head against the nearest wall because that meant that somehow, despite every effort, Ben was still important to her. Reaching for calm, she picked up her half-drunk glass of sparkling water and threaded her way to the dance floor. The pretty blonde was now nowhere to be seen, and Ben was standing alone on the edge of the dance floor.
He half turned as she approached, a sleek cell phone held to one ear. Dimly she noted that the call was probably the reason he had ditched his date. Because with Ben, business always came first.
His dark blue gaze connected with hers. His lack of surprise at seeing her informed her that he had known she would be here and he had come to the party, anyway, with another woman. She suddenly knew what the phrase “a woman scorned” meant, because that described exactly how she felt.
“Sophie.” He lifted the phone from his ear. “It’s good to see you—”
A sudden image of the brief note he’d left her after their one night together made her see red. “Don’t you mean nice?”
She’d had time to think as she approached him. She didn’t fling the water because chances were, she was so angry most of it would miss him. Instead, she stepped close and upended the glass over his head. Satisfyingly, water also cascaded over his phone, with any luck killing it.
“Just so you know,” she said crisply, “I’m not a glass half-empty kind of girl.”
Sophie registered the stunned silence punctuated by the motorized click and whir of a high-speed camera, and the flash of multiple cell phone cameras. All documenting the fact that she, a person who hated scenes, had just made a very public, very messy scene with the man she had slept with—and who she was supposed to have dumped—a year ago.
Face burning, feeling quietly horrified, she turned on her heel, walked back to the bar and returned the empty glass to the barman. She managed a cool smile, then made a quick exit out onto the terrace, which led down to a gleaming pool and beautiful gardens. Behind her, she was aware of the hubbub of noise as waiters scurried to clean up the water on the floor so that no one would slip. She
