"Carlton." I stopped. "If this is about the proposal, talk to David. I'm busy."
"Not the proposal. You." He reached me, deep lines creasing his face. "You and that Green girl. You're divorced?"
"Yes." I wasn't discussing this.
"Richard, you're thirty-five. Your grandfather, your father—they both had children by your age." He lowered his voice with that self-important concern. "I know several well-bred young women. Good families, smart, refined. One's a Merlin, studies art—"
"Carlton," I interrupted, tone flat, "who I marry, when I marry, whether I have children—that's my business. I don't need anyone's input." I stepped closer, using my height advantage. "And if you try meddling in my personal life again, I'll reassess the necessity of that do-nothing position your son holds. His annual salary could hire three executives who actually work. Clear?"
Carlton's mouth opened, his face flushing red, then white. His throat worked, but nothing came out.
I patted his shoulder. "Enjoy retirement. Family matters—I've got them covered."
Walking away, that fire in my chest hadn't cooled.
An heir? Of course there'd be one. The Winston family needed continuity. My empire needed a successor.
But that child would be mine and Natalie's.
No question.
I droveto Natalie's hotel.
This five-star establishment might look respectable to most people. But standing in that lobby, scanning the space, I could tell it was cheaper than the worst place I'd ever stayed. The mattresses probably ran under two grand each—inadequate support, guaranteed backache after one night. Natalie used to sleep on a custom orthopedic mattress. For someone her size, she was pickier about that than I was.
I approached the front desk. The young man recognized me immediately. After I asked about Nightingale, he checked the system quickly and told me, "Mr. Winston, Nightingale checked out this morning."
"When?"
"This morning."
So Natalie saw me at the gala last night and couldn't wait to bolt? Why? Just because I'd driven her back? She was that desperate to get away from me?
Damn it.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Natalie's number. Four tries, straight to voicemail every time.
Swallowing my anger, I dialed another number.
Second ring, he picked up.
"Mr. Winston! Wow, didn't expect to hear from you!" Ryan's voice bubbled with excitement. I could picture him practically bouncing. "Is this about future collaborations? We're ready whenever—"
"Where's Nightingale?"
"Huh? Nightingale? She... isn't she back in Vegas?" Ryan sounded confused. "Afternoon flight. Her manager Emma notified us this morning—said Nightingale had a sudden medical emergency, had to cancel all California appearances... God, the penalties aren't cheap, but Emma insisted on paying them, said the artist's health came first..."
I nearly laughed.
Natalie, your lying skills are still pathetic.
"How serious is her condition?" My voice was eerily calm.
"Details were vague. Emma didn't elaborate, but she was adamant. We offered support, medical care arrangements, but they insisted on leaving immediately..." Ryan paused, probing carefully. "Mr. Winston, you seem very concerned about Nightingale. Do you have a... particular interest in her? If you'd like, I could try contacting Emma again, arrange—"
"Don't bother." I hung up.
I'd given Natalie time. Thought she'd come around, realize how stupid leaving me was. I'd even tolerated her little games these past months—the divorce, running away, singing in thosedive bars. Figured it was her way of venting. That she'd get bored eventually.
