I glare at him when he mumbles under his breath, “I can think of a few things.”
Only weeks ago, I would have shared his beliefs. Now, I’m subjected to taking matters into my own hands while praying like hell the farce will soon end.
Not even during my formative years did I masturbate as much as I have the past three months.
I blame Isabelle.
If the inspiration weren’t so compelling, I would have sought other means of relief weeks ago.
Once Hunter has his chuckles under control, he jerks his head to the monitor on our right. It shows a long-range shot of Isabelle’s apartment door. “What do you want to do, boss? I could try to get ears in there, but you build these things like a tank. Without a direct implant, we may not hear anything.”
“You arenotputting surveillance inside Isabelle’s apartment.” I value her safety over her privacy. It is solely my uncontrolled jealousy responsible for my decision not to wire her apartment up. I’ve never craved a bloodbath, but I’d consider more than one if any of my staff were to see Isabelle in a compromising position. “We need to approach this with maturity and understanding.”
Which I have absolutely none of when I spot Isabelle moseying down the corridor with her unnamed guest. His cheeks are flushed, and despite the generous width of the monitored corridor, he’s standing so close to Isabelle, their hands brush with every swinging step they take.
“Give me one of those bead devices you’ve been harping on about the past couple of months.”
Aware I’m no longer in the mood to compromise, Hunter hands me a bead-like listening device before announcing he can both hear and communicate with me. “I’ll tune out once you don’t need me anymore.”
I cut off a second bout of chuckles with a rueful glare before exiting his van and climbing the fire escape exit stairs weaving up the side of a recent build. With my body not exhausted from a seven-mile run this evening, I make it to Isabelle’s apartment before I break into a sweat.
As I slip through the open balcony doors, Hunter mutters down my ear, “I’ll have security send out a pamphlet about personal security. That should help.”
My mood nosedives even further when my eyes scan Isabelle’s apartment. It is evident that she was on a date. Several empty wine bottles cover the granite kitchen countertop, and dessert bowls are scattered on her dining table along with a beverage often consumed with a sticky, sweet substance.
“Oh… fuck.”
“What?” I ask, put off by the high squeak of Hunter’s usually burly tone.
“It’s… um… they’re… ah.”
“Words, Hunter.”
“He’s… ah.” I hear him scratch at his beard before a relieved swallow comes down the line. “Got burned.” He curses God’s name before advising that Isabelle is on her way back to her apartment. “And this is where I’ll leave you,” he notifies just as the creak of her front door being pushed open sounds into my ear.
Isabelle startles when she spots me. Then, not long later, the horrifying bitterness of rejection overwhelms her senses. “What are you doing in my apartment?” She hardens her stance before trying again, hopeful her voice will be less submissive this time around. “How did you get in?”
An animalistic urge to once again claim her as mine places a stranglehold on my astuteness when my eyes roam her outfit. She’s wearing a dress, and if the lack of a panty line is anything to go by, my invitation for her to attend our date sans underwear months ago was forwarded to another man.
The thought makes me furious.
“Who was the man in your apartment?” My question is separated by big, deliberate breaths. I’ve handled more than my share of controversy today, but this incident is by far the worst, and I’m done playing nice.
After taking on the stance of a scorned woman, Isabelle asks, “How do you know it was a man?”
I know what she’s doing. She’s announcing her annoyance about the many dates even a stuffy accountant would have heard circling the water cooler the past two weeks, but I’m too irate to comprehend how much that would have hurt her to hear.
Instead, I hook my thumb at the wine glasses on the dining room table, then say with a snarl, “Lipstick, no lipstick.”
The tick in my jaw turns dangerous when Isabelle replies, “He is afriend.”
My growl ends her fight for control in an instant. As her knees touch, her erotic scent filters in the stifling-with-tension air wafting between us. I’d act on the obvious needs of her body if my cell phone wasn’t vibrating in my pocket.
While pinning Isabelle in place with a feverish glare, I remove my phone from the breast pocket of my suit, groaning when the caller-ID shows it is a call from Hugo.
“Yes,” I snap down the phone.
“Blondie is on his way back to Isabelle’s apartment building. Even with Isabelle shutting down his advance, it appears as if he’s not ready to give in just yet.” Hugo’s tone is packed with humor, but it is the underlying message in his reply I pay the most attention to.
