In a clear show of possessiveness, Clara lifts my coffee mug from the table, spins it so her lips will press the same section of porcelain mine did only moments ago, then takes a dainty sip.
I’m already angered about the erroneous insinuation she’s endeavoring to display, so you can picture how woeful my mood becomes when Isabelle responds exactly how Clara hoped. “Excuse me,” she murmurs under her breath before leaping to her feet.
My hand shoots out to seize her wrist before she can get two steps away from me, then I yank her back into her seat a little more abruptly than intended. Acting ignorant to the disappointed sigh Clara couldn’t hold back and the one rumbling in my chest, I lock my eyes with Isabelle’s before saying, “Eat.”
A vein in her neck twangs while she returns my stare. After several long seconds of tension-filled silence, she sinks her teeth into a bagel with the tenacity my teeth have been dying to do to her bottom lip since the day she bumped into me at the airport. As the cream-cheese slathered product slides down her throat, I stand, dislodging Clara from my thigh in the process. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
When Isabelle nods, I snatch up Clara’s hand like she didn’t use it to soften her fall before marching her to the other side of the patio. I’m so angry, it takes everything I have not to grip her hand with enough strength to break bones. There’s only been one time I’ve had my feelings so flagrantly disregarded. Since it concurred with the death of my girlfriend only hours later, you can be assured I will not tolerate a second coming.
“What was that?”
Clara’s eyes rocket to mine like she’s blindsided by my anger, but her shock does little to smother the disdain in her voice when she murmurs, “She—”
“Her name is Isabelle. Either address her accordingly or not at all.”
When I fold my arms in front of my chest, Clara’s face goes deadpanned. “You can’t seriously be takingher…” she pauses, swallows, then starts again, “… Isabelle’s side over mine.” When I give her a look, one that announces my answer without a syllable escaping my lips, she shouts, “Why are you men so blind! I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, but because I’m not poor, you have no time for me.”
“Isabelle’s financial status isnotthe pretext of my contact.”
“Then maybe it should be,” she snaps out, her face reddening in anger. “Becausesheisn’t here for any other reason than your wealth.” She thrusts her hand at Isabelle during the ‘she’ part of her comment. “Nobody trusts her, but you’re so focused on ridding the world ofunfairness…” she air quotes her last word, “… you haven’t stopped to wonder why that is.” I attempt to scoff at her claims, but she continues talking before I can. “Even Cormack is weary. He had Maximus up until four this morning doing a background search on her, but here you are, schmoozing the enemy like her so-called beauty hides her hideous insides.”
Although her comment about Cormack ordering his head of security to run a background search on Isabelle pushes my focus a little off-center, I learned a long time ago the consequences of jumping the gun. “Who I interact with is no business of yours, Clara. It never has been, and it never will be.”
As I spin and my heels to head back Isabelle’s way, Clara mutters, “I’m trying to protect you, Isaac.” When her comment does nothing but spike my agitation to an unprecedented level, she releases her frustration with a breathy scream before she exits the patio area like she has a rocket strapped to her back.
Isabelle acknowledges my return with a subtle smile, but she remains quiet. It is as frustrating as Clara’s monotonous tone ringing on repeat in my ears. It could be a coincidence that Clara picked a time that directly corresponded with Cormack’s arrival at my room, but my intuition is cautioning me to seek further clarification. Cormack’s visit was odd. I’m just unaware if that is because he found out something about Isabelle he felt the need to share or if he was experiencing guilt about looking into her past.
It may have been a combination of both. Cormack isn’t a man who jumps first, then asks questions later. He researches every aspect of his life, both business and personal. I just wish he had brought his inquisitions to me instead of a man paid to turn over every stone. Isabelle’s rights were disregarded when she was a child. I won’t allow it to happen for a second time.
I stop running the conversation I plan to have with Cormack through my head when Isabelle faintly asks, “Have you slept with Clara?”
I freeze with my coffee mug halfway between the table and my mouth before slinging my eyes to Isabelle. I’m not shocked by her question. I’m fascinated by the sheer jealousy in her low tone.
While fighting the urge to run the back of my fingers down her bloomed cheek, I ask, “Are you jealous, Isabelle?”
“No,” she replies with a huff.
She’s worse at lying than she is at hiding her envy. “You have absolutely nothing to be jealous about.” I’m not lying. I was confident she couldn’t be more enthralling, but her dilated eyes and flushed cheeks have made a liar out of me.
My brow cocks when she snaps out, “Stop skirting and answer the question.” Her voice is tinged with amusement, but there’s also a slight snippet of worry hidden behind her playful tone.
The panic dampening her alluring eyes clears away when I shake my head. “No, Isabelle, I have not slept with Clara.”
As victory sparks through her eyes, she asks, “So, what was that about then? Because she was acting very much like she was your girlfriend.”
“Do I need to call a lawyer?” I ask, my tone playful. “Because this sounds a bit like an interrogation.”
She shrugs before murmuring, “Only people who have something to hide need to call a lawyer.”
“I have nothing to hide.” I mimic her nonchalant shrug before hitting her with a cocky wink. “Because I always ensure my hands are thoroughly clean.”
Clara’s comment about Isabelle not being trustworthy jumps back into the forefront of my mind when Isabelle replies, “Just because your hands are clean now doesn’t mean they weren’t stained previously.”
Testing a theory, I say, “Just because your hands are clean now doesn’t mean they won’t become stained. You don’t know what the future holds, Isabelle. Nobody does. So, until the day your body is laid into its final resting place, you can’t guarantee your hands will remain clean.”
“Yes, I can. Morally and ethically—”
“What about for someone you love?” I interrupt, confident her thought process will alter if she looks at both sides of the coin. “You wouldn’t get your hands a little bit dirty for someone you love?”
