LOVE AND HATE (A Billionaire Romance) by Mia Carson Page B

opened. Peter let us know the limo was waiting outside. “Not even close.”
    I was fine. It was Serena I was worried about. Once she burned through what she had, she’d start going after our parents. With the merger, I could funnel money to her and keep her from heading to Mom and Dad for handouts. Without the merger, someone was going to have to make some lifestyle changes.
    My chauffeur opened and closed the doors for us, and Mackenzie slid in, gawking at the plush, dove grey interior.
    “Drink?” I offered.
    “That would be nice. Gin and tonic?”
    I loved gin and tonics. A lot of people my age didn’t appreciate the drink nearly as much as I did. “Worried about malaria?”
    She laughed. “You can never be too safe.”
    I made the drink at the little bar as we crossed the city.
    “So who’s going to be there that I’m supposed to impress?”
    “Good question. Percival Hall. His daughter, Marguerite, is the artist.”
    Mackenzie laughed. “Is she any good?”
    “I’m not an artist, so I couldn’t say.”
    “Oh, come on. You have some sense of taste. I’m sure you can tell if something’s pleasing to the eye or not. Do you like it?”
    “I’m sure someone likes it.”
    “You’re really putting me through the paces, huh?”
    The comment ignited something deep and low in me. I’d love to put her through the paces, maybe like I had in the box at the club. I ran my gaze over her tits and thought about what I’d like to do to them.
    “What if I act like a total bitch and royally screw things up for you?”
    “You’re out over a hundred grand, and I don’t get my merger.”
    “You’re not worried about that?”
    “A hundred grand is a lot of money. Or so I hear. Are you going to screw me over?”
    “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
    She wouldn’t. I knew it. Our eyes locked, the gaze held, and I broke away first, not feeling great about how we’d gotten here. The idea had seemed like a good one at the time, something to impress Ryan. Something to get back at Mackenzie for trying to ruin me for a paycheck. She didn’t even know me. I could feel her stare on me for a few beats longer, and she turned out the window.
    “I always wonder who is in limos when I pass them. You can never see in the windows, though. It’s so mysterious.”
    “Mostly boring people with too much money to burn.”
    “Duly noted.”
    The driver stopped in front of the Coventry Gallery and let us out. Mackenzie paused, took a breath, and worked to compose herself. “Let’s go.” She took my arm with a light touch. I led her inside.

Mackenzie
     
    One thing was clear the moment we crossed the threshold into the gallery. Marguerite Hall was a terrible artist who never, in a million years, would have had her own show if her daddy wasn’t rich. She used bold, discordant colors and blocky, blunt strokes. If I squinted and thought my most generous thoughts, I could imagine what she was going for, but mostly her work was just bad. The opening painting struck me as blatant rip off of George Rodrigue’s Blue Dog series, though this dog was mottled-pink, orange and yellow, and looked rabid.
    I leaned close to Scott. “Are you punishing me?”
    He leaned in to me. “Yes, obviously. But not with the art. Is it bad?” His breath was hot in my ear.
    I stifled a laugh. “It’s abysmal. She’s got no eye for color, she’s—”
    “Marguerite!” Scott interrupted in a booming voice. “You get more and more talented every year.”
    The artist stood before us, waif-thin in a gown that accentuated her gauntness. Half her head was shaved, the other hung long beyond her shoulder, and she’d colored that half in streaks of purple and bleached blonde. Heavy eye make-up distracted from anything else about her face. She held a hand out for Scott to kiss, and I could see her fingernails were false, black talons. No wonder her art was so shitty; it had to be hard holding a paintbrush.
    “Congratulations, darling,” Scott