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More and more, he worried she hadn’t been real, just a dream. They shared none of the same friends or daily routines. There wasn’t anywhere on his way to work where he’d stop and remember a moment they’d had. Had she been an illusion, a sleek magic trick? His last moments with her, he’d been dumb with lust, two fingers inside her sweet pussy silk.
Beau laced his hands in his hair, suddenly aware of how long it was, and that he’d forgotten to style it that morning. He stood. “I need some fresh air.”
“Yeah, fine, just don’t come back today,” Larry said dismissively. “Go home or something.”
Beau didn’t go home, and he didn’t get air. He went to his office and looked out his window with a drink in his hand.
Orange skyscrapers reflected the late afternoon. Where was she, his beautiful kitten, that sly minx? All by herself, no trail left behind? Was she wearing her skintight leather pants and asking for trouble? Was she flirting with men who could hurt her far worse than Beau had?
Beau unbuttoned his collar. He couldn’t get his breathing under control. Work was supposed to be where he found balance. He would’ve slammed his fist into the window except that he’d hit a few things over the last few days, and it never seemed to do any good. The leather pants bothered him. He couldn’t stop picturing her in them.
He’d lost track of how many times he’d listed in his head all the things he knew about Lola. The food she ate. The drinks she drank. Any mentions she’d made of places she’d wanted to see or things she’d wanted to buy. He didn’t think it’d be as easy as showing up at the world’s largest ball of twine and finding her there, but he’d called the box office anyway. They didn’t attach names to cash transactions, and why would they?
Lola had more money now than she must’ve ever dreamed. When Beau had sold his company, he’d signed on the dotted line and gone from thousands in debt to a multi-millionaire. Sex had been suddenly and oppressively on his mind. He’d wanted to fuck with all the power he’d finally had. Lola had taken that
away from him—that little cat, with big blue eyes and black, furry triangle ears, had captivated him from the moment he’d walked into Cat Shoppe. It was as if she’d called his eyes right to her. He’d just been handed the key to his kingdom, and he could’ve had anything he’d wanted—and what he’d wanted stood underneath a white spotlight, dressed in nothing but a diamond bikini and cat ears. She became the one thing he needed that night and the one thing he couldn’t have. With four words—“I’m not for sale”—he wasn’t enough again, not even as a man with something to offer.
Lola would know that same power now—because of him. Because of him, she was out there in her leather pants—fucking, drinking, spending cash, laughing at him. Beau’d thought he was the one in charge, but just the sway of her hips had disarmed him long enough to steal his power a second time. He was halfway between wanting to worship her and wring her neck for pulling this off. His heart pounded at the thought of holding that slender column under his fingers as she begged his forgiveness.
His phone beeped, and he jumped. His hands were curled into two tight fists.
“Mr. Olivier?” came his assistant’s voice.
“What?” he snapped. “What the fuck is it?”
It was a moment before she continued. “I-I’m sorry. You said—you were very clear that I should interrupt you any time Detective Bragg called.”
Beau turned from the window. He leaned his knuckles on his desk and spoke directly into the phone, as if that would get him answers faster. “He called?”
“Just now.”
“Why didn’t he try my cell?”
“He said he did.”
Beau took out his phone to see he had a missed call. “Piece of shit,” he muttered, tossing it aside. “Get Bragg for me. Now.”
“He’s already on the line,” she said. “And he says he’s got something for you.”
9
Beau came home to a light on in the kitchen. His heart in his throat, he hung his coat on the hook by the door. Nobody’d been home to greet him since Lola’d left eight days ago. The housekeeper had been there that day, but she didn’t leave lights on. Beau’d explained to her how that was a waste of money. And she didn’t cook him dinner. He followed the smell of food and the clinking of dishware.
The weight that already sat on his shoulders grew heavier with each step. A few nights before Lola had left, she’d made pulled pork tacos in a “Kiss the Cook” apron she’d bought herself. She’d kept his food at the perfect temperature until he’d walked through the door, and it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen—Lola, in a red-and-white gingham apron, making him dinner with barbeque sauce on her cheek. He’d kissed her, cleaning her face with a restrained lick of his tongue.
Beau held as breath as he entered the kitchen. Despite his conversation with Bragg an hour earlier, he half expected to find the same thing in the kitchen he had two weeks ago.
And that was exactly what he found—except that it was Brigitte wearing the apron, and she had something in the oven instead of the slow cooker.
Her face lit up as she raised a glass of red wine. “Welcome home. I thought you could use a homemade meal.”
Beau clamped his mouth shut as his stomach turned, his eyes glued to that kitschy fucking apron and the barbeque sauce stain near the hem. “Where’d you find that?”
“What?” Brigitte followed his gaze down. “The apron? Hanging in the pantry. Honestly, I was surprised you even owned—”
“It was Lola’s.” Sweat formed on his hairline. Of course he wasn’t going to find Lola in his kitchen. If she had any sense, she’d be terrified to ever face him again. He unknotted his tie and slid it off. “I told you to get rid of her shit.”
Brigitte shrugged and grinned blue, her mouth tinted from the wine. “It’s just an apron. Don’t erupt, Mt. Olivier.” She walked over and gave him her glass. “Drink this. It’ll calm you.”
Beau took the wine and set it on the counter. “I don’t need to calm down. Your car isn’t in the driveway.”
“Warner brought me. He’s the only person who ever checks on me.” She blew out a heavy sigh, heaving her chest and shoulders. “I hadn’t seen a soul in two whole days, and I couldn’t get you on the phone. What, did you smash it again? Anyway, I absolutely couldn’t take another minute. I had to come over.”
