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Mad with lust, that is.
The most ridiculous thing about the day was that nothing had been accomplished. Nine hours of discussion and strategizing, and we were no closer to proving any of our innocence. We’d been questioned ad nauseum, but so far not one of us had been arrested. The cops were apparently strategizing as well. We weren’t yet considered suspects, other than Lacey. The rest of us were merely “persons of interest.” Reid and Rock both maintained that we needed to stay one step ahead of the police. If we didn’t, we’d all fall.
I agreed with them in theory. In practice? I wasn’t sure. Yeah, we had the money to hire the best people, but we weren’t our father. We wouldn’t use our money to “get rid” of damning evidence.
At least I wouldn’t.
I barely knew Rock.
But Reid had been under the tutelage of our father.
Our father had been a bad man.
A very bad man.
I knew something my siblings didn’t, something that needed to stay embedded in my mind forever. I couldn’t even let myself think about it, for fear it would come out. I’d buried it so deep, I wasn’t even sure what it was anymore. All I knew was that it had to stay fossilized in the rock of my brain.
Or my life would be over.
I began mixing oil paints on my palette, when—
I jumped.
My intercom had buzzed.
Strange.
My intercom never buzzed except on the rare occasions I had food delivered at odd hours. I usually went out to eat or fixed a sandwich at home.
I clicked the button. “Yeah?”
“Hi.”
The voice was familiar. My groin tightened. “Who is it?” Though I knew.
“Charlie Waters. May I…come up?”
“What for?”
A sigh. “Never mind. This was a mistake.”
Let her go, man. Just let her go.
Yeah, right.
“You can come up.” I pressed the button to open the main door.
The loft was a mess. I wasn’t the best housekeeper in the world, and I didn’t let anyone come in to clean. I was afraid they’d mess up my supplies. I was wearing old jeans and a T-shirt with my painting smock over it. My hair was up in a messy man bun.
Fuck. No time. This was me. The artist. She’d have to take me as I was.
A minute later, she knocked softly. I quickly put down my palette and walked to the door.
She stood, still in her work clothes, looking worn and tired but still delectable.
“Hi,” she said meekly.
I held the door open. “Come in.”
She stepped in slowly, saying nothing.
I said nothing.
When I finally decided to speak, she spoke at the same time.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“No, you go ahead. You came here, remember?”
“Yeah.” A pink blush crept into her cheeks. “I wanted to apologize.”
“For what? If you didn’t want to have dinner with me, there’s no need to apologize.”
She squeezed her hands into fists. “You’ve twisted everything around.”
“How?”
“I was worried. I just started a new job today at your company.”
“I told you, it’s not my com—”
Her silver eyes sparkled with fire. “That’s bullshit and you know it. It’s Wolfe Enterprises. You’re a Wolfe.”
I stayed silent.
What could I say to that? As many times as I’d wanted to renounce my birthright, I was indeed a Wolfe.
“I talked to Lacey.”
“About what?”
“Um…about whether having dinner with you was an issue. She said she didn’t think it would be a problem, so…”
“So what? You’re here to accept the invitation I made hours ago? Sorry. It’s been rescinded.”
Asshole move, totally. I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. I wasn’t an asshole. Either of my brothers might have made that move. Not me.
“Oh.” She looked away. “I guess I should go, then.”
“I suppose.” Another asshole move. What the hell was wrong with me?
“I’m sorry I bothered you.” She turned and walked out the door.
Was I really going to let that beautiful woman with silver eyes walk out of my loft?
Out of my life?
“Wait a minute, silver,” I said.
She turned, her eyes wide. “What?”
“The invitation was rescinded because it’s nine o’clock. I’ve already had dinner.”
“Oh.” Her eyes brightened. “Maybe another time, then.”
“You mean you haven’t eaten?”
She shook her head. “I just left the office.”
“They didn’t buy you dinner for staying late?”
“They didn’t know I stayed. I wanted to unpack my personals and learn where everything is.”
“You’re a workaholic like the rest of them, huh?”
She let out an adorable little huff. “I believe in doing the best job I can at all times, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s something we share, then.”
“I don’t mean to change the subject,” she said, “but you really are a brilliant artist.”
Warmth crept through me. I’d had my share of compliments from those in the cultural elite, but this endorsement from a woman I hardly knew suddenly became the most important review I’d ever received.
She looked around the mess in my living room. “You don’t have any of your work on your walls.”
